Archive of Our Own ^beta

For all the things that Spencer remembers so vividly about those two days, the one that keeps coming back to him over and over again is the crack his glasses made as he hit the ground. The arm had snapped as the left side of his face crashed into the hard earth. The broken end dug into his temple, raw edges of the plastic slicing open his skin. The corresponding lense had cracked from the outside edge, fractures spreading across his vision.

As he'd looked up at Hankel, his left eye distorting him into multiple facets through the spider web of broken glass - a twisted, poetic facsimile of reality that was not lost on Spencer in hindsight - a gun pointed at his head, blood dripping down his face, entirely unarmed and defenceless, the voice that piped up inside his head was almost comical. You're going to have to buy new glasses now. What a nuisance. If he hadn't been potentially about to die, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it all.

His glasses had given up entirely when Hankel had pistol whipped him, knocking him unconscious and knocking what remained of his glasses clean off his face.

Which is why Spencer found himself here, spending a mercifully - currently - free weekend in a LensCrafters inside a busy Macy's store, on a Saturday Morning in late February. If given the choice, there's no way in hell he would have opted to be here at this time or place.

The store was packed, the queue of people waiting to be seen felt endless. Not to mention the sheer number of children that were about, most of them bored and restless as they were forced to wait, standing about or sitting on parents laps in some of the few, hard, plastic backed chairs. Their wines and cries echoed off the glass windows and plastic displays, the store lacking any soft furnishings that could help dampen the noise.

The strip lights above flickered at a frequency that was just low enough to be noticeable. Spencer could already feel it starting to induce a headache in his somewhat fragile and light sensitive state. The AC was blisteringly chilly. Even dressed as he was for late February, he still felt the cold seeping into his bones as arctic air was pumped into the shop from a vent directly above his head.

The whole experience was a sensory nightmare. If he hadn't made a promise to Hotch that he'd get this sorted this weekend, he would have given up the endeavour there and then and continued to suck it up for a few more weeks at the very least. However, his unit chief had insisted that he couldn't continue using his old, incorrect prescription that had him noticeably squinting at the display in the conference room every day. Logically, Spencer agreed, but the prospect of getting new glasses, for some reason, seemed incredibly daunting.

He felt he owed it to Hotch. The man was already putting up with a lot of Spencer's crap. He was not coping well in the aftermath of his time in that cabin, and he knew he was making it everyone else's problem as well. It was as though his time there had left him with a wound that refused to heal. An infection that had set in, and festered beneath his skin, leeching into his bloodstream, changing how his mind and body worked from the inside, gnawing away at him piece by piece.

An infection you could have prevented if you just hadn't stolen those vials, a nasty internal voice piped up in an obnoxiously sing-song manner. He metaphorically shoved it away to the back of his mind as an audible voice called his name through the busy waiting area.

He scrambled into motion, legs propelling himself forward as he raised his hand to greet the store clerk. She smiled back kindly.

"If you'd like to follow me sir."

37 minutes later, Spencer was finally out in the open air, a brand new pair of glasses tucked into a case in his messenger bag. They had him feeling apprehensive. He'd wanted to be able to obtain an entirely identical pair to those he'd had before, however, the manufacturer of that particular set of frames had subsequently gone out of business not long after he'd purchased the originals. So now he had a pair that were dark blue and square framed, with a fixed nose piece - he had a tendency to snap the adjustable ones due to his own clumsiness. They'd felt comfortable enough on his face in the store. He just had to hope they continued to do so throughout the day.

They did not.

Spencer had avoided wearing his new glasses for the entirety of the rest of his weekend, but when Monday rolled around, he couldn't avoid them any longer. He'd promised Hotch and he needed to show he'd followed through. Even so, he staved off putting them on until he stepped into the elevator on the way up to the office; finally digging them out of his bag where they'd been since Saturday, popping open the case with a snap and putting them onto his face. He adjusted them a few times, trying to get past how alien they felt against his skin.

He stopped fiddling, dropping his hands and shoving them into his pockets, only once the elevator arrived and the doors opened to the bullpen. He walked in with his head down, wanting to avoid discussion about his new addition as much as possible. Or, at the very least, put it off until they had to congregate in the briefing room and he could do it all in one fell swoop. He had no such luck, however.

Morgan was perched on the edge of Prentiss' desk, the two chatting amicably before getting stuck into the days workload. Spencer had to pass directly by them to get to his own desk. There was no hope of them not seeing him coming and attempting to engage him in conversation. He almost considered just taking his glasses off so as to avoid any unsolicited comments. He told himself a moment later that such behaviour was ridiculous, they're only glasses, it didn't mean anything. This did little to calm the swirling anxiety in his gut.

Morgan looked up as he approached, immediately clocking the change and engaging him in conversation.

"Finally took Hotch's advice I see?" he remarked loudly, causing Prentiss to look his way as well.

"They look great Reid," she exclaimed, "and I'm guessing it's good to see properly again too?" She finished with a chuckle.

He dragged a small, obligated smile to his face to send back her way.

"Yeah," he agreed, then searched around for a moment for something else innocuous to add to get them off his trail. "I, uh. I hadn't realised, uh, just how bad my uh-my old prescription was."

"They're quite different," Morgan noted. "Nice, don't get me wrong, but I figured you'd have just gone for the same again."

"They, uh... they don't make them anymore, uh, unfortunately," he replied, trying to keep the level of disappointment in his tone at an acceptable level, rather than the degree to which he actually felt. Which was clearly a wild overreaction to something as basic as a pair of glasses.

"Oh, that's a shame. But these one's suit you as well," Prentiss offered as an encouragement. Spencer supposed that he was glad to know they went well with his face, but he didn't really care much for the aesthetics of it all. He would take comfort over style any day.

"Thanks." He forced a small smile before ducking his head again and continuing on to his desk without making further eye contact or small talk. The others seemed content that they'd interrogated him enough for now and went back to chatting between the two of them, leaving him to arrive and prepare himself and his desk for the day ahead.

There was a second round of interrogation as Garcia walked by his desk on her way through the office about half an hour later. He was bent over a file, a coffee steaming pleasantly to his right. The glasses still felt a little odd, but he was glad he didn't have to hunker down quite so close to the pages to make them legible anymore. His back and neck were definitely thanking him and he was trying to focus on this as a positive outcome to endear him to the glasses.

In a world of his own, entirely focused on the case in front of him, he missed Garcia's approach until she stood directly beside his desk.

"Loving the new specs boy genius," she piped up in her usual chipper tone. "Although I still think you could have pulled off something more like this."

Her arrival took him entirely by surprise, causing him to startle quite violently. His knee, that had been tucked up onto the seat of his chair jerked, jolting the desk and slopping the still rather full coffee over the rim of the mug. He rapidly scooted the file to the left to rescue it from the dark, sticky substance spreading it's way across his desk. It was mostly successful, save for a single page of handwritten notes he'd added the day before. The coffee caught the edge and bloomed across the page, washing out the ink into black, illegible streaks.

"Oh my god, boy wonder I'm so sorry," Garcia apologised, immediately jumping into action to grab a few tissues from a box on an adjacent desk and blotting at the page. Her actions succeeded in preventing further damage, but the page that had taken the direct hit was unsalvageable.

"It's fine," he replied automatically, closing the file and moving it to the furthest edge of his desk before taking over the mopping from Garcia.

"I didn't realise you were quite so in the zone, I'm sorry."

"Really Garcia, it's fine." He realised how short he sounded only after the words had left his mouth. How to alienate your co-workers and offend people, the new bestseller by Dr Spencer Reid. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

He needed to get a better handle on his temper if he wanted to retain any of his friendships. He was pretty sure he'd already burnt that bridge with Prentiss. The rest of the team were starting to pick up on his obnoxious nature as well. Garcia at least usually had one degree of separation from him that allowed him to reign it in a little. Yet at the first in person interaction they'd had in a while, he was already flipping his lid. He had to try harder, he couldn't loose her too.

"It's, uh, it's not like I don't remember what I wrote," he added, trying to lighten the mood after his curt response. He looked up at her, forcing a smile onto his face. His glasses shifted as his cheeks rose, causing him to wrinkle his nose and blink a few times, before pushing them back up into place. It seemed his face scrunching was endearing enough to get back into her good graces.

"Taking some getting used to?" she asked sympathetically, as she grabbed him a final tissue to wipe the last of the spillage from the bottom of his mug.

"Yeah," he nodded, latching onto the glasses as a lifeline to explain his shitty behaviour. "It's just not quite right." He adjusted them again to punctuate his point.

"Well, they look nice, but change sucks. I hope they feel more comfortable for you soon." She patted his shoulder affectionately before continuing on her way through the office.

He turned back to the ruined page and his still slightly sticky desk. Damn glasses, bringing more unwanted attention, causing coffee mishaps and generally making life more difficult. Any positives he'd been beginning to feel towards them had evaporated once more.

Thankfully, all of the remaining interactions with his team came together as they were called into the briefing room. Spencer had been half way through rewriting the ruined page when they'd been called through. He threw down his pen, drained the last, tepid dregs of his coffee and made his way up the stairs.

JJ and Hotch were there already, JJ glancing up as he entered.

"Nice glasses, Spence," she said with a smile as she laid the case files around the table.

Hotch looked up at this and nodded at Spencer.

"Glad to see you've sorted things."

"Yes sir," he agreed as he took his seat. Gideon entered at that moment, the last team member he hadn't yet seen today. He glanced at Reid, then away, making absolutely no comment. He felt himself breathe a small sigh of relief. Finally, everyone had seen, said their piece, now they could just move forward. He blamed the headache that had started to form at his temples on the stress of the morning so far, hoping now he was past it all, it might show some improvement.

***

They were on the plane less than 45 minutes later. West coast, so it was going to be a while. He wasn't sure that the changing pressure was going to help the headache but he was just going to have to suck it up. You know what would help, piped up the nasty internal monologue that had taken up residence in his brain since the cabin. He shoved it to the back of his mind, willing it to be quiet and stop offering awful suggestions. There was no way in hell he was going to get high on the plane. Not even a pill to take the edge off. It would be akin to signing his own dismissal papers.

They'd all opted to have a look over the case details individually for an hour or so before feeding back as they had the time to spare. Spencer had the file laid out on the small table, pouring over the autopsy reports. His head was really starting to ache. He slid his glasses from his face and massaged at his temples where it seemed worst.

Putting his glasses on the table for a moment he leant over the file, head resting in his hands as they continued to work the side of his head. Lost in the report, he failed to notice what he'd done until JJ's worried cry of his name ​had his head snapping up.

"Spence! You're bleeding." She pointed at his left hand. Dark red flecks lined the crescent moons of his fingernails. A much brighter crimson was smeared over his fingertips. He could suddenly feel the warmth seeping down the side of his face.

He ​blinked.

For a moment the world went dark around him. The background hum of the plane was replaced by the crackling of flames. His wrists ached and the blood on the side of his face was tacky and itchy and tasted like iron in his mouth and nose. The most prevalent, overwhelming smell however, was fish livers.

He blinked again.

JJ's concerned face stared back at him, her hand still raised, pointing at his head. He put his hand to his temple, where he knew the scab from his glasses had finally been starting to heal. It had taken far longer than it should have on account of his continued picking at it over the past few weeks. Just as the scab became fully solid it would feel unbearably itchy. So much that he couldn't just leave it be. Often his hand found it's way there before he even realised and with a few good scratches it was open all over again.

He'd never absentmindedly done it at work yet though. It often occurred during the time he spent sat on his bathroom floor, pretending to be trying to convince himself to not stick a needle in his arm yet again. His hand would find the scab and the bleeding would start afresh. This wasn't the first time he'd been back in that cabin at the sensation of blood running down his face. This was the first time he hadn't been able to immediately shoot up afterwards.

As expected, his hand came away with fresh redness. He scrambled to his feet, thankful he'd been sat in the isle seat.

"Uh, sorry. Thanks, I'll just-" he cut himself off, as he gestured towards the small plane bathroom, already hurrying away before the rest of the team could even begin to register what had happened.

He darted into the small toilet and slammed the lock closed. The light came on as it slid home. He looked up at himself in the small plastic mirror over the sink. He was suddenly both here and in the hospital, the harsh overhead lighting, the constant background noise, the same scared face staring back at him from a mirror, with hollow eyes, surrounded by dark circles and blood caked into his hair.

You're not there. You're on the plane, at work. The rest of the team is just outside that door, he forced himself to remember, head bowed, hands gripping the sink so tightly his knuckles were white. He took a few, forceful, measured breaths before meeting his own gaze again. This time he managed to stay grounded. Although he could see why his mind had taken him back there. He really didn't look much better a few weeks on than he had in that hospital bathroom right after his two day stint in the cabin.

Shaking his head slightly in an attempt to dispel the chance of falling back again, he leant closer and inspected the cut. As he'd suspected, he'd taken the head off the scab and the joy of it being a head wound meant that it blead, a lot. He tugged some of the flimsy toilet paper sheets from the dispenser and mopped at the trail that was meandering it's way down the side of his face towards his chin. He mostly succeeded in smearing it about rather than removing it, the dry scratchy paper rasping uncomfortably against his skin.

He turned on the tap and dabbed some of the paper into the sink to collect a little but of moisture before trying again. This proved more successful. Managing to wipe away most of the blood with a few rounds of attack, depositing the used tissues into the toilet bowl as he went, he finally reached the actual cut at his temple. Mercifully, by this point, it had stopped actively bleeding. He knew if he wiped away the blood around it, it would start up again. He opted instead to just lay a damp tissue over it, attempting to soak away the remaining residue without rubbing at it and making it worse.

After a good minute, he removed the paper to observe his handiwork. The mess surrounding the cut had leeched nicely into the tissue. A tiny bead of blood formed at the epicentre. Before it could spill over, he clutched a dry piece of tissue to it. Just as he was debating how to proceed, a knock at the door made him jump.

"Spence?" came JJ's tentative voice through the partition. "Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah, ye-yes," he stammered back. "I, uh. I just caught the scab, it's nothing. I'm fine."

"Do you need the first aid kit?" she asked.

"Uh, just a-a band aid would um, would be great. Thanks," he replied through the still closed door.

He heard her move away as he pealed back the dry tissue to see if it had finally stopped leaking. The material stuck as he drew it away and it began to ooze again. He covered it again as JJ returned, knocking for a second time. This time he opened the door.

She stood on the other side, eyes wide with concern, holding a box of band aids in her hand.

"What sort of size do you need?" she asked as she dragged her gaze from his face to the box.

"Something small is fine," he shrugged.

She dug around and produced a small, circular band aid and held it up for him to inspect.

"That's fine, thanks." He took it from her and peeled the toilet tissue away again, carefully. It seemed to have stopped, but covering it was still a good idea, even if it would be rather conspicuous. He pealed the wrapper off and then the backing and pressed the small circle over the gash. He ran his fingers around the edge to ensure a good seal, reveling slightly in the dull ache it produced.

It was a welcome change from the other ache in his head that had plagued him since the conference room. Although, now he thought about it, that also seemed to have improved somewhat despite him having torn a hole in his head. He found himself dwelling on the idea of trepanning, wondering if he'd managed to release his own demons, at least for a while, by digging into his scalp.

He let out a huff of laughter at the concept, forgetting entirely that JJ was still stood next to him, watching his every move. He glanced over to her, tucking his hair behind his ear before awkwardly dropping his hands. She looked at him with a face full of concern and a significant amount of confusion as well, brows drawn together, forming a little crease of worry between them.

"You sure you're okay, Spence?" she asked again.

"I'm fine," he returned, trying to sound reassuring. "I'll just... clean up here." He gestured to the bloody remains still in the toilet and sink. "I'll be out in a moment."

JJ reluctantly accepted his dismissal, moving away from the door and back to her seat. He let the door slide shut again, but didn't bother with the bolt. Bracing his hands against the sink once more, he took some more measured breaths. He needed to be better at holding it together, at least here, at work. He could - and did - fall apart all he wished in the comfort of his own home, but here, here he needed to not lose his head. If the rest of the team found out about the flashbacks, the dissociation, the Dilaudid, he would be out of a job faster than he could stammer an apology.

Looking up at his reflection again for a few long seconds, haunted eyes staring back at him, he murmured to himself, "get a grip." Then he deposited the rest of the debris from his cleanup into the toilet, hit the flush, washed his hands thoroughly, and exited the toilet, to face the rest of the team once more.

Hotch saved him from an interrogation, whether on purpose or simply because this is when he'd planned to start the briefing anyway, Spencer didn't know. He was thankful all the same. The case was complicated but Garcia had a far more extensive list of suspects than they usually did at this point in the investigation, so there was plenty to discuss. They were still going over details when the captain informed them they were beginning their decent.

He purposefully buckled himself into a seat at the far end and buried his nose in the file, resolutely not meeting anyones eye. The file also needed to be about 6 inches from his face anyway, as he'd left his glasses on the table he'd been sat at previously. He'd just grab them as they made to leave. At least it seemed that, other than the dull throb from behind the band aid, the ache in his head had subsided for now.

***

It seemed that the Macy's LensCrafters and the precinct they found themselves in were supplied by the same cheap, low frequency strip light distributer. It was as though the resonance had situated itself behind his eyes, bouncing around his skull, leaving little nodes of pain pockmarked all over. He squinted at the display board, despite wearing his glasses, in an attempt to block out some of the light that was making his head pound.

Hotch was the only other person in the room, the rest of the team having headed off to various locations around town to try to cover their long list of suspects. Spencer was working on the geographical profile, while Hotch was coordinating efforts from here with the LEO's. He'd almost forgotten Hotch was there at all actually. Other than the occasional scratch of his pen, he was mostly silent and motionless.

So when he spoke, Spencer jumped about a foot in the air, nearly tripping over a chair as he stumbled with surprise.

"Reid?"

Spencer clung to the back of the chair for support, trying to pass off his flighty reaction as somehow intentional as he whipped around to face Hotch.

"These are a new set of glasses? Not just another older pair?" he questioned with a frown.

"No, no, they're new. This is my current prescription," he replied, unsure what Hotch was getting at with his questioning.

"Then why are you still squinting at the display board?"

"Oh." He dithered, unsure how much to divulge about the state of his health right now. Although the headaches seemed new and unrelated, there was a chance it could have been some fresh symptom associated with his continued drug use. If he told Hotch this, and the man put two and two together, he could just be confirming Hotch's suspicions and handing him a concrete reason to fire him. But then, if he didn't tell him, and they got significantly worse, it could start to impact his ability in the field. So far, he'd not crossed the line of putting his team in danger due to his addiction. He wasn't about to start now.

"It's uh, the-the lights," he explained, turning his head down and screwing up his eyes, rubbing at the corners of them below his glasses with his forefinger and thumb. He hoped he wasn't hamming it up too much. Yes the lights certainly weren't helping, but they obviously weren't the soul cause of his splitting head. "The-the flickering. It's, uh, it's starting to make my head ache."

"Why haven't you said anything until now?" Hotch asked, getting to his feet.

Spencer was stumped by that for a second. "I suppose I, uh, I didn't think there was an alternative."

Hotch moved toward the door where the light switch was. He flicked one of the switches and the lights in the far third of the room went out. He flicked them back on, then tried the switch at the other end of the panel. At this, the lights directly above the display board cut out. There was still more than enough ambient light from the rest of the room to see by, but the stark, flickering bulbs that had been directly overhead were now gone. It seemed to help ever so slightly.

"Better?" Hotch asked.

"I think so. Thanks, Hotch, I didn't even think of this as an option." He gestured at the overhead lights to illustrate his point. He took off his glasses and placed them on the desk for a moment, rubbing at his eyes, trying to will away some of the discomfort and tiredness. Realising quite how tired he was he asked of Hotch, "I'm getting more coffee, do you want more coffee?"

"It's 8 pm Reid," Hotch replied.

"So... no to the coffee?" Spencer inferred.

Hotch sighed, a slight note of exasperation in his tone. "No thank you. Make sure you drink some water as well Reid, it'll most likely help the headache."

"Right. Coffee and water." He scooted out of the room, glasses forgotten on the table behind him as he ventured out for caffeine.

He managed to then leave them there overnight as well, the rest of the team having arrived back as he returned with his heavily sweetened drink. They'd discussed findings before Hotch ordered them to their hotel for the night. In all the commotion, he'd forgotten to pick them up - having an eidetic memory meant he knew exactly where they were, but it didn't prevent him from getting distracted and leaving things behind.

When he realised this the following morning, he opted to just make today a contacts day. He always brought a few pairs with him for the days they might be more out in the field to prevent him being hindered by damage to his glasses. He'll probably always regret not having chosen contacts the day they'd gone to interview Hankel. He didn't like to use them every day, they did make his eyes dry and itchy after a while, but they were worth not having to risk his glasses - and significantly cheaper than buying a replacement pair every time they broke.

His head felt a lot better after some - albeit meagre and broken - sleep.

And the pill you took last night, that probably helped too. Right?

"Fuck off," he muttered under his breath before registering that he was talking out loud to his own mind and forcing himself to stop. Before he could get into any more heated discussions with his own internal critic, he grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder and headed out.

***

The case took far longer than expected. They were still on the west coast five days later and everyone was feeling the strain. Tensions were running high, bodies were still piling up, and despite the named list of suspects they'd had to begin with, they'd had very little luck whittling it down to anything meaningful. Spencer had burnt through all his pairs of disposable contacts, and was becoming mildly concerned about how many pills he had left. There was no way he could go out and score while here, but if the case didn't wrap up soon he was going to be considerably less useful than just working through a headache.

He was starting to wonder if they were somehow stress related, as by about midday on day six, the pain had started up again. They were on a call with Garcia as they tried to narrow down their parameters once again. He couldn't hold back his wince as a loud clatter from the bullpen on the other side of the wall sliced through the air. They all looked over at him as his pen slipped from his hand.

"Everything okay?" Garcia asked at the loud noise followed by the sudden silence.

"Reid, do you have another headache?" Hotch asked. Spencer knew he wouldn't usually call him out in front of the whole team like this, but he'd rather blew his cover by reacting so obviously.

"Hmm," he acknowledged, removing his glasses and rubbing at his eyes.

"Oh boy genius, is it your new glasses?" Garcia piped up from the phone.

Spencer frowned. "Why would it be my glasses?" he asked, genuinely puzzled by her suggestion.

"Well, the arms might need adjusting to fit at the side of your head. I've had a few pairs that grip far too tight and I can't wear them for more than a few hours without it aching around my ears," she explained, as though this was entirely common knowledge. Perhaps it was, and Spencer had just missed the 'everyone just understands this' cue. It seemed to happen to him with a lot of things in life.

Spencer picked up his glasses from the table. He placed the arms at his temples, then slid them, slowly, back towards his ears. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was clearly evident that the arms pressed far too tightly all the way from his temples to behind his ears. He could feel the pressure as he pushed them back, not enough to be immediately uncomfortable, but more than enough to build over a few hours. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry at how simple a solution it was.

He held the frames in his hands, looking down at them and contemplating the worry and distress they'd caused him over the past few days just by being marginally too tight. He still needed to find some way to wear them, he had no alternatives anymore. The plastic seemed fairly flexible, he wondered if he couldn't ease them out slightly, even if only for the time being, before getting them properly adjusted when he got back.

"Spence," JJ's voice warned, "I don't think-"

But whatever JJ didn't think vanished into oblivion as the frames in his hands gave a crack.

Spencer was plunged into darkness.

The ground beneath him was freezing, and damp. An earthy smell permeated around him, cut through by the coppery tang of blood. Small stones and broken stalks littered the ground, digging into him through the thin layer of his pants and against the exposed patches of skin at his hands and head. The side of his face hurt. He could already feel the blood dribbling down his cheek towards his chin.

Despite the discomfort of laying on the ground, he knew, if he could, he would stay there forever. But as this always played out, he had no control about the sequence of events. It proceeded, just as it had that night, just as it did every single night he relived it through the nightmares, just as it did every time he was transported back there in his waking hours. He rolled, hands raised as much as he could while still supine on the earth, staring through a broken lense at Tobias' face. He pleaded for his life, staring down the barrel of a gun.

Then came the pain. The flash of movement as Tobias lunged towards him was followed by such agony that he wanted to vomit. A true darkness enveloped him and his other senses came to him as though he were submerged in a deep, dark pool of water. A sense of terror swept through him, that had his heart racing in his chest, because although these always started the same, it was this point the storyline diverged. He never knew which terrible part of his ordeal would be coming next.

Tobias' face swam into view, carrying in both arms a large, bloodied carcass of some kind of animal.

"No, no, not this one, please not this one."

He tried to scream, to move, to fight. Anything but watching the scene continue, his body nothing but wood and strings, his mouth no more than pivots, springs and elastic as he performed his role. A puppet without agency, manipulated into submission by the ventriloquist of his traumatised mind to relive the worst moments of his life over and over and over again.

"What are you doing?"

Horror flooded through him in those few seconds as Tobias' face had morphed from remorseful and apologetic to something far more determined and he reached for his belt. The soft clink of the buckle in the muffled silence of the cabin felt louder than any of the harsh snaps of empty revolver chambers. Followed by the hiss of leather sliding cleanly through the loops of his pants as Tobias approached him. His eyes were fixated on Spencer's body, analysing, refusing to look into his face, detaching himself from the reality of what he was going to do.

They'd not profiled him as a sexual sadist, but he'd also never taken a captive before. However, with an opportunity now presented, out from under the threat of his father - whether he realised this fully or not - Tobias could now act on impulses he'd been hiding beneath the surface his entire life. To take back a control he had been denied for so long while under his fathers brutal religious regime.

"No, no. Don't. Please, don't."

He'd actually been relieved when the man had knelt down beside him and wrapped the belt around his upper arm, just above the cuff of his shirt. Despite all that Dilaudid had taken from him since that moment, he would take the drugs a hundred times over than have to endure the alternative reality his mind had jumped to in those moments. Even the prospect of this was enough to fuel the occasional horrific nightmare, his mind attempting to process the trauma of what might have happened. He wasn't sure he'd ever dare to close his eyes again if a true memory of this was burned into his brain.

It helps.

In a way he was correct. It had helped. It had dulled the pain from the torture Charles inflicted on him. It had allowed him some rest even as his aching body rejected sleep in the hard-backed wooden chair. It had blunted the guilt he felt in the wake of choosing who lived and who died.

Now, it allowed him to sleep for a few mercifully quiet hours before the nightmares. It allowed him to escape from the trauma. It allowed him access to an off switch for a mind that had never before been silent, a peace unlike anything he had ever known.

"Please. I-I don't want it. I don't want it. Please."

How he wished he could say that now. Tobias' brand of mercy had still left him with a burden he had no expertise in carrying. The closest thing he'd known to addiction were his regular sugary coffees. He'd barely even indulged in alcohol before this. Even the hours he'd spent at poker tables and casinos had not drawn him in.

He'd wondered, from the hours spent contemplating his existence on his bathroom floor, whether any other substance would hold the same appeal. Would he have been hooked so easily on cocaine? Methamphetamines? Benzodiazepines? Even a less potent opiate such as oxycodone or morphine? He'd even take his risk with heroine if he'd been given the choice, knowing what he did now. Was it just his seemingly awful luck that the UnSub who captured him, used something as destructive as Dilaudid. Out of the multitudes of possibilities, Tobias' drug of choice just had to be one that worked so harmoniously with his brain chemistry, creating a high he would crave for the rest of his life.

"Please, don't."

Please, please don't put me through this again. Please don't make me relive these moments anymore. Please don't. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep living like this. Please. Don't. I can't anymore.

Please.

"Spencer."

He could hear his father's voice as the cabin faded around him, the Dilaudid-LSD combo dredging up memories he'd long buried that he'd wished he could forget. Forced to watch a hyperrealistic film reel of his childhood pain while trapped in a body that was nodding and unresponsive.

His fathers face swam in to view, shoulder length dark hair, backlit by the sunlight streaming through the window in his parents bedroom.

"Spencer!"

That wasn't right. His father's voice hadn't been concerned or urgent. He'd simply asked him to leave the room.

He blinked. The face above him sharpened.

That wasn't right either. The hair was too short, the face more angular, brows more heavy set. The light behind was wrong as well. Not the natural blaze of Nevada sunlight, rather an artificial yellow glow that almost seemed to flicker. The strip light running at a frequency just low enough to be perceptible. It made his eyes ache to look at it.

He came back to himself all at once in that instant. The sudden, sharp return to awareness dragged a gasp from his lips. He stared up at Hotch's face, hovering over him, haloed by the shitty precinct lighting as he lay on the floor. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up on the floor, but judging by the lack of acute pain in any of his limbs or back that would've accompanied a fall, he assumed he'd been placed there. He locked eyes with Hotch and watched the mans expression change as he saw recognition in Spencer's gaze. The tightness in his brows and jaw lessened ever so slightly, as a look of relief joined the myriad of emotions displayed there, concern for Spencer breaking down his usually impeccable mask.

"Hotch?" he murmured, asking a multitude of unspoken questions in the single utterance of his name.

"Spencer," he breathed, answering none of them in the face of his relief.

Spencer made to push himself up on his elbows. A large, steady hand on his shoulder had other ideas, keeping him pinned.

"Give it a minute, Spencer," Hotch ordered. "Emily, could you get him some water?" he requested from someone stood above his head, just beyond his eyeline.

"Sure," Emily's voice replied. He heard her footsteps receding, then the open and shut of the door.

He looked around at the other members of his team currently in view. JJ's face was a picture of worry as she knelt beside him, on the opposite side to Hotch. Her hands rested on her thighs as though she wanted to reach out and touch him but wasn't sure if it would be welcome or helpful. Morgan stood near his feet, crouched down. As Spencer's gaze flicked to his, he had no such qualms about reaching out; laying a hand on Spencer's ankle where his sock met the top of his converse and squeezing it gently. Although unusual, the gesture was comforting. Gideon was noticeably absent.

"He's back with us, baby girl," Morgan reported into the phone he had to his ear. He chuckled at the response from the other end. "Garcia's threatening bodily harm at you for scaring her like that, pretty boy," he said, affectionately, giving his ankle another squeeze. He could tell Morgan was trying to lighten the tone that had fell over the room, even as tension still hung around his shoulders like a cloak.

"Sorry Pen," he mumbled, not sure if she could hear his attempt at an apology, but feeling it was important to voice all the same.

He heard Emily return and Hotch finally released the grip on his shoulder. As Spencer got his hands under him, Hotch helped him upright with a hand at his back. JJ, reassured that touch wasn't about to make things worse, jumped in to help too. The addition of her hand on his shoulder didn't make much of a difference to the physical effort of sitting up. Emotionally however, it was like a balm.

To be handled so carefully and gently by his team, a clear display of how much they cared, soothed an anxiety that had been growing ever larger since Georgia. It also struck him, like a sucker punch to the gut, with a realisation of just how touch starved he had become. When was the last time someone had touched him for more than just a pat on the shoulder or a tightening of vest straps? Since their return, he'd simultaneously pulled back physically while shoving them away verbally. Shrinking into himself as he destroyed his body and mind with drugs and letting the repercussions of that spill out of his lips in harsh words and vitriol.

He had to suppress a sob as the memories of his last meaningful human contact finally came to him. Each was saturated with blood, sweat and tears, mostly his own, still caked into his hair and clinging to his shirt in the aftermath of digging his own grave. The tears were theirs as they hugged him close, their fears relieved once they held him in their arms again, battered and bruised but alive.

He'd clutched back at them in those moments, thankful they had found him, believing that his ordeal was finished. Then he'd made that fateful decision to ransack the pockets of a dead man. That defining moment had placed a veil between him and them. One that, until now, had kept each of them at arms length.

He caught, out of the corner of his eye, the look shared between Hotch and JJ as the judder of the sob still tugged at his chest, even if he'd suppressed it coming out of his mouth. A chest they still had a hand each against. He avoided both of their eyes, watching instead as Emily passed Hotch the glass of water and leant up against the edge of the conference table. He took the cool drink willingly, thankful to have something else to focus on than the worried faces of his team.

As he looked down he noticed, on the floor, tucked just underneath the table where he'd been sat were his new glasses. The left arm sat at an unnatural angle to the rest of the frame, hanging on with one final fleck of plastic. The pieces of what had happened started to fall into place. It had all started with those dam glasses.

That, and the crack.

That was always the definitive starting moment. The inconsequential crack of his glasses as he'd hit the ground in that cornfield became the prelude to every one of the nightmares he'd had since that fateful few days. The macabre fanfare that echoed out every night, heralding in whatever fresh horror his drug addled, sleep deprived mind decided to torment him with this time.

Even remembering the sound as they'd given way beneath his hands, was almost enough to pull him under again. He forced himself to take even, measured breaths, running through a 5,4,3,2,1 grounding exercise as he clutched at the glass between his hands. It was some time later, although he couldn't say how long, that he became vaguely aware of his name being called.

"Spencer." The voice was deep and calm, steadying in a way little else around him had managed to be so far.

He raised his head.

Hotch still sat beside him, a hand resting on his shoulder, leaning back against a table leg. The rest of the room was empty.

"Where-" he croaked, his words getting caught in his dry throat, causing him to cough. He took a few more sips of the water that now seemed far more tepid than it had the last time.

"I sent them out," Hotch replied, answering his unfinished question.

"But the case-" he began.

"They can work on the case out there for a while. It was agreed you needed the space more," Hotch cut across his protests. "Spencer," he said, in a voice he often only heard him use with victims - and on occasion Garcia. "What happened?"

"I feel like I should be asking you," he murmured. They both knew he was deflecting, but Hotch let him have it for the time being. He listened as Hotch laid it out all in his slightly clinical tone, but that retained an edge of softness.

The glasses braking in Spencer's hands. His eyes glazing over, unseeing, unreachable despite their efforts. How he'd lurched from his chair, head snapping to the right. That's when they'd decided to move him to the floor. The knowledge that he hadn't recalled any of that scared him afresh; the thought of being so disconnected from his body that he could be physically manoeuvred without issue. It left him with a sick knot of anxiety in his gut.

"We were concerned you were perhaps having some kind of seizure." He saw a flash of anguish flit across Hotch's face and was reminded that his team had seen his most recent experience with seizures first hand. That one had resulted in him being dead for two minutes and 28 seconds.

Then Spencer had started to speak. He knew exactly the pleading, broken words that had slipped forth. He didn't need an eidetic memory when they played out on a vivid loop on the nights that his dreams cycled back to this particular aspect of his time in that cabin. Hotch relayed them anyway.

"It was as though you were begging, for someone or something to stop. You clearly said, 'what are you doing?' and 'I don't want it'." The retelling of this seemed to visibly shake Hotch. Spencer, who was so used to seeing the man so composed and together, was shaken in turn.

All because of that crack.

There was no getting around this one. No way he couldn't be completely and fully honest with Hotch now. Not just because he'd seen it laid out, clear as day. There was no way he could keep Hotch in the dark with the evidence of his emotional distress playing out across his usually composed and stoic face.

He took a moment to consider his response as Hotch finished his retelling and fell silent. The ticking of the clock above the door felt incredibly loud in the still room. Spencer tried to banish the thought of it counting down to the inevitable end of his life as he currently knew it. There was no escaping the fact that divulging this secret would most likely be the beginning of the end of his career at the FBI.

Technically he could hide the drug use. Much of his behaviour over the past month could probably be excused as a trauma response. He could play it all off under the guise of the flashbacks and dissociation. The sleep deprivation, the irritability, the lack of focus on cases. Even the weight loss, vomiting, lack of basic self care, he could pass all of these off so easily as a side effect of the trauma.

He'd most likely be coerced into some kind of therapy, be given some mandatory, non-negotiable medical leave, but there would be scope to return. His job would most likely still be there in the aftermath, because no one would blame him for struggling with what had happened in Georgia. If anything, they'd feel guilty, blaming themselves for his capture as his superiors and colleagues, bending over backwards to accommodate him back to health.

He could have had all of this. If it hadn't been for the drugs.

There was no escaping the choices he'd made. They couldn't excuse his addiction. They couldn't excuse that he had illegally purchased prescription grade heroine. They couldn't excuse that he had gotten high in hotel room bathrooms paid for by the FBI. They couldn't excuse the liability that this made him, not just to his team but to everyone he interacted with as part of his incredibly high risk job. They couldn't excuse him and he found himself almost glad that he would be absolved of the guilt he felt every time they put their misplaced trust in his shaking, treacherous hands.

He wondered idly if the fact of his inevitable dismissal should worry him more than it did at this moment. It was probably a concerning sign of just how emotionally wrung out, mentally checked out and physically exhausted he really was, that he was struggling to care at all. Of one thing he was sure. He owed Hotch - the man who had saved his life - the truth, even if it was the last thing he did as his subordinate. He would take whatever repercussions came his way.

He took a deep breath and adjusted himself into a marginally more comfortable position for what was going to be an entirely uncomfortable conversation. He took another sip of water, before placing the glass down beside him and drawing his knees upward to rest his elbows against them, laying his arms on top. His hands wrapped around his upper arms didn't feel quite as obvious a protective stance as crossing ones arms over their chest, but it was still unmistakably a defensive position. One that he knew Hotch wouldn't miss. He couldn't meet Hotch's eyes, opting instead to let his gaze rest in the unfocused middle distance slightly off to his left.

"I've been having-" he had to swallow, his throat dry despite the extra sip of water. He forced the words through cracked lips. "I've been having flashbacks."

This seemed to just confirm Hotch's suspicions as he didn't seem surprised by this information.

"What about?" he asked softly.

"Georgia."

He dropped his head again, unable to look Hotch in the eyes as he explained.

"You know that I broke my last pair of glasses in that corn field." He knew that Hotch knew this because they'd been entered into evidence, they had been one of the only traces left behind after Tobias had knocked him out and dragged him into the car. That and a small pool of blood.

"It's..." He took a breath, trying to work out how to even begin explaining why something that felt so small and meaningless had begun to haunt his sleep, now spilling out into his waking hours as well. "When they broke, it was when I fell after he hit me that first time. I landed on my left side and the arm broke. It's what caused this," he indicated the band aid that he'd been replacing every day since they'd arrived in an attempt to finally heal the wound, and to prevent a repeat of what had happened on the plane. He'd told himself the last thing he needed was to start dissociating in the middle of the case.

"It made... it made this sound. This... this crack," his voice broke on the word. He felt his breathing quicken and his heart rate spike as anxiety pooled in his gut. Nevertheless, he needed to explain, needed Hotch to understand. He found himself glad that Hotch was the one here with him as the man put the pieces together in an instant. He rescued him from having to explain further.

"And the sound your new glasses made brought you back to that moment?" he asked, but it was almost more of a statement.

Spencer nodded. "It's...," he had to take another breath. "It's the sound that starts... that starts every single nightmare. They al-they always start with, uh... with that-that same, that same sound-that same... crack."

"Spencer. Spencer? Spencer!"

He blinked, head whipping up, swivelling in Hotch's direction. The man was suddenly much closer, a hand hovering near his shoulder, but reluctant to make contact. The concern swirling behind his eyes told Spencer he'd likely checked out again without realising.

"Sorry," he mumbled, meeting Hotch's eyes for a moment before dropping his head, turning away to try to hide his guilt and shame.

"Is it going to be a problem if I touch you Spencer? Yes or no?" Hotch asked in a low voice.

Spencer shook his head minutely. "No, tis fine," he murmured.

Hotch's hand came down onto his shoulder, enveloping the joint that had become far too angled and boney. He could feel Hotch's thumb against his jutting clavicle. Still, the weight was firm and grounding. It offered a point outside of himself to focus on as his mind threatened to slide away.

"Was that another flashback?" Hotch probed gently.

He shook his head again. "Keep dissociating too," he replied, his brain beginning to struggle under the strain of everything to form fully coherent sentences. God he was spent. He was finding it difficult to know if the fog clouding his mind was a symptom of the ongoing dissociation or just a side effect of sheer and utter exhaustion.

"How often is this happening Spencer?"

"A... a lot. I don't...," he took a deep breath. "I don't know." He could probably count on one hand the number of times he had said that phrase. Genius' with an eidetic memory didn't just 'not know', especially when related to specific details about one's own life. "It makes it hard to... to keep track of time."

Hotch sighed. "Spencer," he rumbled, his voice low.

He risked a glance over to Hotch's face again. The concern evident in the crease between his brows and tightness in his jaw dragged another apology through his fumbling lips.

This didn't seem to help. Instead the crease deepened and Hotch sighed again.

"You don't need to apologise for struggling, Spencer." He squeezed Spencer's shoulder, a reassuring comfort he didn't feel he deserved in light of what he had to now confess.

He looked down again, knowing it was cowardly, yet he knew he couldn't bring himself to watch Hotch's shock, disappointment, disgust, anger play out across his face in real time at his next words.

"There's more," he breathed. "You saw the... the hospital report from, from after?"

"I did."

Spencer was glad he'd caught on quickly at his vague words. He knew what the report had said from stealing a glance at his chart in the few moments of privacy he'd been offered to get changed before his discharge. The presence of opioids hadn't surprised him, from what he did know of drug use it was obvious Tobias was giving him some form of depressant. The presence of LSD had. It explained the vivid, technicolour memories he had moved through while under the influence.

He'd pulled the stolen vials from his pocket at that moment, holding them close to his face to read the small print of the labels without his glasses. Dilaudid neatly printed on the side. Had Tobias already cut this with his additional drug of choice, or was this pure? He found himself holding it up to the light, as though he had any idea what he was looking at, as though he had any way to compare. He'd never even come close to a drug like this before and now he was trying to inspect the colouring or viscosity as though he could tell the difference between LSD laced or not. A knock from the door had him frantically squirrelling them away into an inside pocket of his jacket, ironically wrapped in the spare cloth he kept there for his now useless glasses.

"Tobias, he... I... after I... when you...," he stammered, failing to actually start a sentence at all. How did he even begin to explain this?

"The opiate," he finally settled on, "it was Dilaudid."

"I know, Franks told us."

"Did you know that Dilaudid, or more commonly known off brand as hydromorphone, is two to eight times more potent than morphine and about five times more potent that heroine on a milligram by milligram basis. The only opiate considered more potent is fentanyl, which is approximately ten times the potency of hydromorphone. The two also differ in that hydromorphone is derived from morphine whereas fentanyl is a synthetic opioid. Dilaudid-"

"Spencer, why are you telling me all this?" Hotch interjected in the usual manor he did when he needed to redirect Spencer from a tangential monologue.

"Because that's what I've been using," the words slipped out, barely more than a whisper. "Ever since then. I stole what was left from Tobias' body and when that ran out I bought more. I can't get through the day without something anymore. I'm an addict, Hotch." His voice cracked on the man's name.

The quiet admission hung in the air in the deserted conference room.

The silence stretched between them as he waited for Hotch to say something, anything. Eventually, unable to bare not knowing what was going through his head, he forced his eyes back to Hotch's face. The emotions he had expected to find there were conspicuously absent. Instead, Hotch's face seemed contorted into something that looked suspiciously like compassion. Spencer felt his own face screw up in confusion.

"You don't...," he sighed, licking his lips and chewing at his bottom lip as a nervous gesture. "You don't seem surprised, or angry."

"Spencer," Hotch breathed, in a tone unlike any he'd heard from the man before. "You've merely confirmed a suspicion that I've had for a while."

Spencer blinked, trying to process Hotch's words. He played them back in his mind a few times just to be sure he'd heard correctly.

"You... You knew?" he asked finally, needing to hear it confirmed again before he could believe it.

"Not for definite," he replied in a tone that Spencer thought was an attempt at reassuring. "But as one of the few people privy to the full medical report from the hospital, I considered it as a possibility. I resolved to keep an eye on you in light of that information. When I knew what to look out for, I could see the signs."

Hotch had known.

Hotch had known since Georgia. He'd known that Spencer had been using. Known that he'd been putting himself and the team at risk. He must have figured that Spencer was buying drugs as well, which was certainly a criminal offence, even if there was legal ambiguity about possession and usage. Did he know about his methods? The decimation of the crooks of his elbows to the point of having to resort to alternative sites, purple bruising now littering his feet as well. Although he knew this was a path he had chosen to take, that the blame for his decisions lay on his shoulders, he couldn't help the little voice in his mind that told him that Hotch had seen him struggling and chosen to do nothing.

"Why didn't you confront me?"

Hotch sighed. It sounded alien coming from him. Hotch was usually so sure of himself. He thought through his decisions. He was rarely impulsive or reckless. He saw things through to the end and rarely wavered in his resolve. His sigh, laced with regret, unsettled Spencer.

"I considered it, but I didn't know how to do so without risking your job. I also, perhaps naively, thought that Jason might be checking in with you. I know he met with you after the arrest in New Orleans."

He paused, taking a measured breath.

"I'll admit," he began, in a quieter voice than usual, "until today, I didn't realise quite how much you were struggling." He purposefully met Spencer's gaze. "I accounted for the drugs, but I failed to realise the extent of how much damage the trauma of that event had left you with. If anything, I'm amazed at how well you've been coping."

"Coping," Spencer choked out. He'd been drowning. Nothing of the past month could even be considered coping, he was just trying not to sink too far below the surface that he couldn't take the occasional gasping breath as the waves ebbed and swirled around him.

The stress of the past five days, almost a month's worth of sleep deprivation, a fully immersive flashback and a few brief flirtations with dissociation was clearly starting to get to him. He felt his emotional resolve wavering dangerously close to tears. A lump was forming in his throat, his breaths catching in his chest.

"I have-I haven't...," he just shook his head with a wet exhale that was somehow both a laugh and a sob.

"Spencer," Hotch's voice was a gentle sigh.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, pulling his knees tighter to his chest, wrapping his arms around them more thoroughly. He resisted the urge to tuck his forehead against his knees, but only just. A wave of vulnerability had barrelled into him in the wake of Hotch's words and his unusually emotional response. It was hitting hard the instinctual need to protect, to curl up into a ball and hide away from the world. "I don't... I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Spencer, will you forgive me a moment of inter-team profiling?"

He gave a huff of humourless laughter that again straddled the line between buoyant and distraught. He looked into Hotch's eyes. There was nothing there that even hinted at malicious intent or ulterior motives. Hotch was asking permission to voice his findings all in the pursuit of helping him. He took a steeling breath.

"Go ahead."

"I think you're exhausted, overwhelmed and still dealing with the fallout from an incredibly intense flashback. I can't imagine you've slept more than a few hours a night since we've been here right?"

Spencer dithered in his response.

"Spencer. You told me yourself you can't get through a day without something. So I know you've been using while we've been here. However, I also know you've not shown up here high at any point, as far as I'm aware?"

Spencer nodded, glad that he could at least confirm that truth. He hadn't yet turned up to work high. Hung over, most definitely, but he'd so far managed to get through the days without needing a hit in the middle.

"So you're most likely taking just enough to stave off the withdrawal."
He nodded again.
"But this isn't enough to actually tip you over into sleep," Hotch continued, outlining his behaviours so easily that Spencer felt a little like a frog on a dissection table, flayed open, gory innards visible for all to see. "Therefore the nightmares are occurring earlier in the night and with greater intensity. It's probably also why you had quite such a visceral reaction today, because the triggers are sitting far closer to the surface than usual. How am I doing so far?"

"Uh... um, yes," Spencer mumbled in assent.

"I can't continue to ignore this, Spencer. Particularly alongside the symptoms of PTSD you're clearly exhibiting that I'll admit I missed until now."

This was it, the moment Hotch would kindly but firmly tell him he was fired. Hold out his hands for his gun and badge, taking them reluctantly but knowing he was doing the right thing. Clap a hand on Spencer's shoulder and tell him that his secret was safe with him, to find himself a rehab and wish him all the best. He found himself wishing that he could have done this when they were a little closer to home; sourcing a flight back for this evening could be difficult. Was it too much to ask for another night in their current hotel?

"For the time being, I'd like for your permission to bring another member of the team in on this. Ideally someone other than Jason but if you choose him then we'll manage. Whoever it is, I'll brief them here and they can then drive you back to the hotel to collect your belongings. I'll book you both the first flight back to DC and you can decide with them whether you return to your apartment or theirs. I'm afraid I can't let you continue your drug use, but I can ensure you don't have to go through the withdrawal alone. We'll finish up here and I will sign you off on medical leave for at least the next week. When you feel well enough, you can come into the office, we can discuss next steps."

Spencer sat in stunned silence for at least a minute.

"I...," he began, his throat dry, voice rasping. "I'm not... I'm not fired?"

"Spencer." Hotch gave his shoulder another reassuring squeeze as he spoke softly, "you are in this position because of a case. You were injured in the line of duty, while under my care no less. This is the fallout from that case. I don't believe you ever would have made the decisions you have if this hadn't been the situation."

"But... but I'm... I'm an addict," he stammered, still reeling in the wake of Hotch's plan that was the polar opposite of losing his job and being packed off to rehab. "I took those vials from Tobias' pockets. I've bought drugs in back alleys. I shoot up between cases. I'm unstable, volatile, untrustworthy. I've been lying to you all by not saying anything for weeks. I just-"

Hotch cut across his spiralling with a blunt question. "Spencer, do you want to be fired?"

"No, no no, of course not," he blurted, rapidly back-peddling. "I just...," he took a steadying breath. "I just never even considered this as a possible outcome."

"Why would you inform me of this if you believed you'd be fired as a result?" Spencer could hear the frown in the man's tone, even though his eyes were still averted away.

He half shrugged with the opposite shoulder to the one still covered by Hotch's hand. "I owed you the truth. You saved my life out there Hotch. If you hadn't found me..." he trailed off and shrugged again.

"Spencer, can you look at me for a moment?" Hotch asked.

Spencer acquiesced, turning to meet Hotch's gaze.

"Spencer, you saved your own life," Hotch said earnestly, ensuring Spencer could see the truth of his words clearly displayed across his face. "You'd already shot Hankel. You gave us every clue we needed to find you. We followed your breadcrumbs. All we really did was give you a ride to the ER and get you home."

Spencer was already shaking his head before Hotch had finished. "No, no. You gave me so much more than that. Knowing that you were out there looking for me, it was what kept me going. I wouldn't have kept it together or been able to make the deductions I did if I hadn't believed you were doing all you could to find me. You gave me hope that I'd make it through."

"Then let me help you find that hope again, to find you again, because we will get you through this Spencer. Do you trust me?" Hotch looked at him with an intensity he rarely showed in his day-to-day. An intensity that spoke of his determination to go above and beyond to see him well again, to stick his neck out and put himself in the line of fire. An intensity that mirrored an outstretched hand, that all Spencer needed was a willingness to take hold. An intensity that had Spencer believing that just maybe, he was something worth saving.

"I trust you Hotch," he nodded, with a small, slightly sad smile, but a smile all the same. "I trust you with my life."

"Thank you, Spencer." Hotch returned the smile with a similar one of his own and another, comforting squeeze on his shoulder. "So, who do you want to come with you?"

***

He chose Morgan. His easygoing response on the phone to Garcia was enough to assure him that although the man would likely be rightfully concerned, he would still find time to lighten the mood. Spencer decided he needed that kind of energy around him. Although he cared deeply for the rest of the team, JJ would be far too on edge, Emily he owed a number of apologies before dragging her into this, and Gideon seemed to be in some form of denial about the whole situation.

The conversation between him, Hotch and Morgan had been difficult, naturally, but Morgan had taken it in his stride. He seemed almost more relieved to know, finally, what was going on with him, than any kind of negative emotional response to the situation itself. He'd been distressed, but on Spencer's behalf, rather than because of him and his actions. Upon finishing their explanation, Morgan had pulled him - after checking it wasn't going to be a trigger which Spencer felt immensely grateful for - into a bone crushing hug. Spencer made a mental note to request these on a more frequent basis.

Mercifully they'd been able to get a flight for that afternoon. Spencer had been dreading the idea of being mid-withdrawal while trying to sit through a five hour flight. He'd already been planning his case to Hotch to convince him to allow one final pill to get him through the evening. Now it seemed it wouldn't be necessary.

He couldn't shake the disappointment he felt that his last dose was a crappy 4mg pill taken the previous evening just to stave off withdrawal. It barely felt like a high, wasn't even always enough to send him nodding. Sure it mellowed him out, but it wasn't the rush of blissful peace he got from a needle. A peace he would never feel again - unless you relapse the nasty voice in his head trilled at him.

By the time they arrived at Spencer's apartment, he was starting to feel the effects of it being almost 24 hours since his last dose. Morgan had confiscated the rest of the dwindling supply he'd had while on the case and left it in Hotch's room. He'd promised to dispose of it discretely. Immediately upon arrival Spencer forced himself to hand over everything he had stored in the apartment. He knew if they put off clearing things out, his desire to be completely honest would falter. He could already feel the panic at the oncoming ordeal starting to set in. Any temptations needed to be gone lest he put himself back at square one in a moment of unsupervised weakness.

Spencer allowed Morgan to change the combination to his gun safe. The collection of vials, pills and needles were bundled into a plastic bag and stored, along with both their guns in the safe that Spencer now had no hope of accessing. Morgan arranged for Hotch to come and collect this remaining haul when he returned from the case.

Then they waited.

It didn't take long.

Within a few hours Spencer was curled around the toilet bowl evacuating mostly water and coffee along with the few snacks he'd been cajoled by Morgan into consuming on the flight back, despite his worsening sickness from the anxiety swirling in his gut. At least having something in his stomach was better than throwing up bile, he reminded himself.

Curled up in the bathroom was how he spent the majority of the next few days. He slept occasionally, but mostly on the bathroom floor, not wanting to be too far from the toilet at any moment. Morgan had tried to get him up and into his bed, but after the first round of vomit on the carpet, he'd given in and let Spencer set up a makeshift pallet on the tiled floor.

Not that he got much sleep anyway. The nightmares were worse in his weakened, pained state, less vivid but more distressing. Morgan had been dragged into the bathroom far more times than he liked by Spencer's anguished moans, cries, or just another round of intense vomiting that had nothing to do with withdrawal and everything to do with the horrors his mind played out for him in his sleep.

The whole process was brutal. The physical symptoms alone would have been enough, however, these were child's play in comparison to the cravings. He'd hit a real low half way through the second day where he'd resorted to begging Morgan for something, anything, just to take the edge off. Morgan had tried to pull him in for a hug but Spencer had raged against him, turning all of his intellect - which was still considerable even in withdrawals - to flay Morgan alive with cutting words. Ten minutes later he was sobbing apologies into his shoulder.

Yet thankfully, mercifully, by the third day the tide seemed to change. He'd finally managed to grab a few hours of unbroken, nightmare free sleep, having succumbed, he suspected, to sheer exhaustion. He was roused by a knock at his front door and Morgan's low, rumbly reply. He considered briefly just rolling over and attempting to get a few more hours of rest, but the gurgling in his stomach had put paid to that. He couldn't begrudge it's insistence too much though, he hadn't kept much more than water down for the last few days. It was nice to actually feel hungry for a change.

Deciding to drag himself out in search of sustenance, he got up and wondered out into the living room.

"Who was that?" he asked in a voice that was both scratchy from disuse and raw from days of throwing up.

"Hey pretty boy," Morgan greeted him with a grin from the couch, seeming genuinely happy to see him up and venturing forth from his self-imposed seclusion in the bathroom. He closed the lid of the laptop he'd been working on and put it to one side.

"It was Garcia actually, I told her you weren't feeling so hot though and weren't really up for company right now. She dropped these off though and told me to give you a 'chocolate thunder hug' on her behalf." Morgan chuckled as he quoted Garcia's request. It tugged at the corner of Spencer's mouth as well.

He wondered over to the couch to see what offerings Garcia had provided. On the coffee table was a tupperware box of homemade cookies. Next to it was a square, oblong package wrapped in bright pink tissue paper and wrapped in a bow. The glittery purple tag attached to it read:

To my favourite genius, You can thank Hotch for the idea, and me for making it happen. We love you and miss you, the office is not the same without you. I hope you feel better soon so you can get back to being your wonderful, amazing self. Lots and lots and lots of love, Garcia (and the team) xxxxxx.

He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face. He detached the note carefully from the ribbon and put it on the table beside the cookies. Pulling the loose end, the ribbon unravelled and sprung back, allowing the paper to fall away. The box underneath was distinctive, unmistakable as to what it contained.

"Is that-" Morgan began, but Spencer held up a hand and he fell silent.

He took a breath, before finding the seam with his thumb and flipping back the lid.

Nestled together, with a dark green cloth between them, were two pairs of identical glasses.

Black, horn-rimmed, with a silver frame.

He looked down at them for a few long seconds before taking a pair from the box, the weight familiar in his hand. Placing the box on the coffee table, he eased back the arms gently. They were slightly stiff, the screws in the corners not yet loose from wear. Pinching the arms with each hand, he slid them onto his face. They fit like a glove.

He raised his head and caught sight of himself in the mirror over the mantle.

Still exhausted. Still sporting dark circles beneath his eyes. Still a little too gaunt in the cheeks. Still haunted by everything he'd endured. But as he looked back at himself through the thick lenses, he saw a flicker of the person he'd been before.

He knew there was no going back, he was and would always be irrevocably changed by this experience. Yet it seemed he wasn't entirely lost. That version of him was still there, meeting his gaze in the mirror with a small smile. He'd been given a chance to find himself again.

This felt like a start.