Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The coffee shop had a different queer flag at every table and a bright pink neon sign that said be gay, do crime in sprawling cursive.

Rowan sipped her oat milk latte, glared at Spencer over the rim of her mug, “I know we’ve both been busy, but I hate that you made me get up this early.”

“It’s 9 A.M on a Saturday. That’s not super early.”

“It is for us normal humans who like to sleep in on weekends.”

“You know that screws with your sleep schedule, right.”

Rowan snorted, “Yes, my greatest concern these days. You know, for two people who used to pour vodka in their morning coffee, we have grown to worrying about sleep schedules.”

Spencer chuckled and raised his coffee in her direction, “To growth.”

Rowan wrapped her hands around her mug, “So seriously, it’s been a few weeks since you got one year under your belt. How are you feeling about that?”

Spencer straightened the napkin on the table. “I feel good. I realized before I actually tried to get clean, before rehab, I never actually got a year doing it by myself. I never actually got a year doing it by myself. I got close once—eleven months—but slipped. And then with every half assed attempt after that, every failure seemed to be proof that I was just meant to be using.”

Rowan nodded, “Yeah, I get that. My last relapse was chaotic, as you know, but also felt like coming home.”

They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment.  

Rowan declared, “I have officially given up on Moby Dick. It is too long. And I hate reading about white straight men—it’s so boring.”

Spencer shook his head, “Really? How much did you actually read before you gave up?”

Rowan cleared her throat, “I gave it the old college try. I read exactly one chapter. And then fell asleep.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, “Give it at least two more chapters, then come talk to me. And if you are really hating it, I have other suggestions with different protagonist.”

Rowan checked her watch, “Deal. Shit, I have to meet Ash for our walk in the park.”

Just as she was getting up to leave, she gave him a sly grin, pulled his wallet from her pocket, and tossed it on the table. “Situational awareness, Doctor.”

Spencer grabbed his wallet, “Come on—when did you do that? That’s the third time this month.”

Rowan clicked her tongue, “I’ll never tell. I’ll see you sometime this week.”

--

That Sunday was full of quiet chores and puzzles for Luke and Spencer.

Spencer put the last piece in place with a soft, “Finally.”

Luke chuckled, “Impatient much? That only took us ah hour. Mostly thanks to your pattern recognition skills.”

“Yes. I’ll let you lead puzzling next time, don’t worry.” Spencer turned toward Luke on the couch. “I mostly wanted to finish quickly so I could do this.” He gently cupped the nape of Luke’s neck and pulled him into a slow kiss.

 Luke brought his hands up to intertwin in Spencer’s hair and pulled away for a second, “Color?”

 “100% green.” Spencer hummed. “I realized we hadn’t broken in the new couch yet. I have a theory. Color?”

“Green.” Luke chuckled. “And a theory?”’

Spencer pulled off his shirt and started tugging at Luke’s buttons.

“Yes, although I’m not sure how it will work out in practice, given the width of the couch seat.”

“Okay, now I’m intrigued.” Luke helped Spencer take his shirt off and gasped when Spencer trailed his hands down to the waistband of his pants.

Spencer paused for a moment and gazed at Luke, “I want you to ride me on the couch. But I want to control the pace.”

Luke raised an eyebrow as he started unbuttoning Spencer’s pants. “Is your theory that we won’t break the couch? I’m officially worried about breaking the couch.”

“Yes. Can we stop talking now about it and you just take my pants off, please.”

Spencer leaned back on his elbows as Luke peeled off his pants. The layers they had left were shed quickly. Spencer reached into the side table and pulled out condoms and lube as Luke made his way down his chest.

They took their time exploring each other’s bodies, sweat built on the base of Spencer spine and Luke’s hairline, soft murmurs turned into breathless chuckles.

When Luke was panting and whispering, “Please” in his ear, Spencer withdrew his fingers. Luke exhaled as he slowly sank down onto Spencer

Spencer anchored Luke’s hips with his hands and whispered, “Color?”

Luke closed his eyes and nodded, “Green.”

Spencer started slowly, paying attention to Luke’s expression, and slowly sped up until he hit a rhythm that made Luke start cursing in Spanish and stroking himself.

When Spencer could see Luke was about to fall apart, he stroked Luke’s hip and said, “Look at me.”

Luke looked at Spencer and then tumbled apart, piece by piece, bringing Spencer with him with a deep moan and a whispered prayer.

Luke collapsed onto Spencer chest, “Jesus Christ, I think I need a second.”

Spencer hummed contently, twirled his fingers through Luke’s hair.

Afterward was quick logistics, then cuddling under the throw on the couch.

--

Emily called an all hands meeting in the conference room the second they got in on Monday.

Her mouth was in a thin line, “This came to my attention an hour ago. Cat Adams is set to be executed a week from today. Her former FBI handlers were murdered this weekend, and we are investigating those deaths. She is claiming credit for the murders, as well as the murder of a United States Senator that she made look like a heart attack. We don’t know what’s true and what isn’t at this point, and they refused to stay her execution. She will only talk to Reid. She claims that she’ll be honest with only him, but we know she lies. We have until midnight on Monday, so we are on a clock. The director wants us to find out as much as possible from her about the murders. We need a two pronged approach- we investigate the murders just like any other and talk to Cat. She’s managed to put us in a corner here but I don’t want to put Spencer through another one of her games.”

JJ glanced at Spencer, and shook her head, “Honestly, considering what happened last time, I don’t want Spencer to play her game either.”

Heads nodded around the table. Luke inched his hand toward Spencer than stopped himself.

Spencer’s fingers tightened around the pen in his hand, “This is not about protecting me. This is about solving three murders- one senator and two agents. So, let me take care of me please, and I will let you know if I need any help. But I am doing this.”

Garcia spun her hair around her finger, Spence—”

“Seriously, Garcia, if I can’t do it. I’ll let you know.”

She nodded.

Emily’s shoulders tensed, “Okay, that’s settled. Let’s strategize.”

Chapter Text

Spencer and Luke dropped their keys in the bowl by the door and toed off their shoes. Spencer angled toward the bedroom; Luke caught his hand.

“Hey, wait a minute. We need to talk about this.”

Spencer looked back, jaw tight. “I’m doing it, Luke. She killed three people—two were ours. We know she won’t talk to anyone else.”

Luke let go and leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “I need to say my fears out loud.”

“Okay.”

“Cat does what she always does: plays you, weaponizes your confessions, goads you toward a drink or a fix. I’m scared she’ll spike the prison flashbacks. I’m scared she’ll blow up trust with the team. I don’t think you should go.” He exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction. “But I know you are. So: prep with your sponsor beforehand. Post-session check-ins. Non-negotiable.”

Spencer stepped in, laced their fingers, rested his forehead against Luke’s. “Thank you for saying it. I can do that. I’ll take care of myself.”

Luke closed his eyes. “I love you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I know.” Spencer brushed his thumb along Luke’s knuckles. “I love you too. It’s going to be okay.”

--

Rowan came in from the mailbox, sorting junk as she crossed her kitchen. A plain envelope with no return address stopped her. Her name—Rowan—was scrawled in spiky cursive.

She set the rest of the mail down and opened it. Two handwritten pages slid into her palm.

Dear Rowan,
I miss the sound of your screams…

The letter hit the counter like it burned. Her breath sped up.

She locked the door. Checked the window. The street below was empty and, somehow, not empty at all.

She dropped the blinds and shoved the pages into the junk drawer, buried under flyers and coupons. Then she slid to the floor with her back to the cabinets and watched the door until the sky lightened—counting her breaths to prove she was still here.

--

The interrogation room was a cold box: white walls, steel table, the clock loud in its restraint. Cat sat with queenly stillness—shoulders relaxed, chin level, eyes like glass.

Behind the two-way, the team watched. Luke stood with his arms crossed, glare fixed on the woman in the chair.

JJ turned to Spencer, mouth a thin line. “Ready?”

Spencer adjusted his cuffs. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” He stepped in. The recorder light blinked on.

Cat’s smile appeared without reaching her eyes. “Spencie. So glad you could make it.”

Spencer pulled the chair out and sat. “What are your rules, Cat?”

“You never did like foreplay.” She tilted her head. “Fine. Earn it: truth for truth. You answer me honestly; I give you a verifiable fact. You guess how I did it correctly, you win. You guess wrong, I do.” She flicked a glance at the clock. “And by the way—you’re invited.”

“To what.”

“My execution, of course. Death has to be more exciting than this decor.”

“Rules,” he repeated.

"Three questions each round.” She laced her fingers. “I killed a senator. I convinced two federal agents to carry out a murder/suicide pact. I got bored.” Her smile sharpened. “Then you got interesting again. Rehab. An overdose. A boyfriend. Your personal file was a dull read, but it had… hints.” She twirled a lock of hair. “You know I like to make you bleed with an audience. Let’s catch up.”

“Since you seem to have a severe substance problem, let’s start there.” She leaned in, bright with appetite. “Tell me something you only said in rehab. Not at NA. Not to your boyfriend. Not to your sponsor. Something that proves you’ll actually play.”

Spencer crossed his arms, fingers digging into his elbow. He fixed his gaze on a point just past her shoulder. “I didn’t want to die,” he said evenly. “Sometimes, when there was no way out of my head, dying felt like relief.”

Behind the glass, JJ blinked and glanced at Luke. “Did you know?”

Luke’s face had gone pale. He shook his head once.

Spencer met Cat’s eyes again. “Satisfied? Your turn.”

“Jesus, that was dark—even for you.” She sat back, pleased. “Your tox will sing when you finally manage it. The senator’s was clean because you asked a small question. Ask bigger.” Her tone went crisp. “Kitchen label reprint at 18:14. Camera 3C drops 18:09–18:27. Service elevator logs an extra trip at 18:18. You like numbers, Spencer. Add.”

On the other side of the glass, Garcia’s fingers flew.

Spencer tapped the table impatiently, “Next, Cat.”

“You file says you were 11 minutes late to a breathalyzer last year but passed. You almost lost your job. Why?”

Spencer closed his eyes, “I was coming from a strangers apartment. I guess I turned off my alarm at one point.” Spencer sighed, “I was coming from a sex party.”

Cat narrowed her eyes, “Not as fun as I’d hoped- unless you go to those,” she gestured vaguely, “can’t keep it in their pants meetings.”

Spencer just gave her a small nod.

Cat grinned, “We’ve been together so long, I didn’t think you could surprise me anymore. You are incredibly fucked up.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows, “I am aware, Cat. Give me something good.”

She sighed, “Fine. Sous-chef Whitesides ordered the label reprint at 18:14. He’ll deny it. The dishwasher rota doesn’t.”

JJ texts Garcia; Garcia starts pulling the staffing sheet. Rossi glanced at Luke, Luke just shook his head.

Cat hummed, “I’ll give you a gift. For my own edification, what drugs were you doing, and how?”

Spencer said, “Heroin, Oxy, Alcohol, other opioids. Sometimes stimulants or benzos or ex. Some other stuff that I don’t know what it was but I can guess. Orally, snorting, smoking, shooting. That’s it?”

Cat blinked, “Seriously, you were shooting heroin and they let you keep your job? I guess that big brain of yours is priceless to the government. Well, what’s left of it.” She tipped her head.  “Food-runner swap between Tables 1 and 3 at 18:16. The floor captain will pretend not to remember.”

Spencer stands. Chair legs scrape. The door shuttered against the frame.

--

JJ reached for him when he stepped into the observation room. Luke’s eyes never left his face.

“Don’t, please.” Spencer glanced toward Luke. “Can we not do this right now.”

Emily nodded once. “Okay. Later.” She looked to the monitors. “Garcia pulled the logs. She was telling the truth. Whoever used that service elevator avoided the cameras and went down to the kitchen corridor. We need the M.E. to run an extended tox, and we need to re-interview the kitchen staff. We missed something.”

Spencer nodded and stepped out to call Maya.

Chapter Text

Spencer stared out the window as the city rushed by. Luke’s hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles where white. When they finally pulled in the apartment parking lot, he turned toward Spencer.

“I know you’re mad that Emily forced us to take the weekend off, but I think it is for the best right now.”

Spencer turned in his seat to face Luke. “We need to be working on this case. We have 6 days until she is executed, and we haven’t figured anything out.”

“Everyone else is working the case, Spence,” Luke said, shaking his head. “And after what you said in there, I’d be worried if you started working yourself to death again.”

“I’m fine, Luke.” Spencer picked at his fingernails. “That was a long time ago.”

Luke reached over and laid his hand over Spencer’s. “Don’t minimize this because you don’t want to talk about it. This is serious—”

“You don’t think I know that, Luke?” Spencer threaded their fingers. “I left rehab with a safety plan if it ever happened again. And it hasn’t.”

“That plan was created before we got together,” Luke said, tucking a curl behind Spencer’s ear and cupping his face. “So, can we sit down tonight and make another one? Please, Spence. I’m scared. I can’t lose you.”

Spencer let out a long exhale, “Okay. I can do that.”

“And then we can have a normal weekend full of distractions that I already planned.”

“What are we doing?”

“I’ll tell you after we talk through the safety plan.”

“Fine.”

--

The art gallery crowd pulsed like a living thing. Lo-fi beats from hidden speakers filled the gaps between conversations.

Luke led Spencer through the room by the hand. Elena stood in a corner near the reds, fingers laced with her new boyfriend’s.

Spencer locked eyes with him and froze.

“Miles” teeth grazed his shoulder as Spencer’s hand gripped his hair.

The same thin chain glinted against his collarbone.

Luke clocked the tension in Spencer’s body.

“Glad you could make it!” Elena said. “This is Ryan. Ryan, this is my brother, Luke, and his boyfriend, Spencer.”

“Hello again,” Spencer said after a beat. “We’ve met.”

Ryan nodded. “Yes. A couple of years ago. Nice to see you again.”

Luke’s hand tightened around Spencer’s. “What do you mean you’ve met, Spence?”

Spencer shifted his weight. “We hooked up once, a couple of years ago.”

Elena blinked.

Luke turned toward him, his voice low, “Were you sober?”

The air thinned. Ryan studied his shoes.

Elena squeezed Ryan’s hand and tugged him away. “Come on Ryan, let’s look at the blues.”

Spencer glared at Luke. “This is not the time or place for that conversation. But since you asked—yes. This was the one I told you about after rehab. And when I was under the influence back then, the people I was with were also. Not that that makes it better, but it’s the truth. Next time, please ask me that in private.”

Luke nodded. “Thank you for telling me. And I’m sorry. Next time, I’ll ask in private. What do you want to do?”

Spencer sighed. “Can we say goodbye and go home? I’m not up for hanging with him tonight.”

Luke ran his thumb across Spencer’s hand. “Sure. No problem.”

--

The dumpling spot was all bright color and soft light. Luke and Spencer slid into the booth across from Rowan and Ash.

Ash wore a denim jacket dotted with enamel pins and a T-shirt that said Gender is a social construct.

“I’m glad you guys could make it,” Rowan said. “I know work has been… crazy.”

“Yes, can we talk about anything else, please?” Spencer said. “Nice to see you again, Ash.”

Ash grinned. “Likewise. I have a challenge for you—next time we’re all gaming, I want to play you in Scrabble. But you can’t let me win. Rowan says you’ve been pulling your punches. I want a fair game.”

“Okay,” Spencer said, raising an eyebrow. “But I’m warning you now: I’m going to win.”

“We’ll see,” Ash said.

Luke chuckled. “Trust me, you’re going to regret this. But I really want to see it.”

“Same,” Rowan said.

They pursued the menu in silence for second.

“So, what do you do for work?” Luke asked Ash.

“Day job, I’m an administrative assistant at an LGBTQ+ group home. My real passion is art. I work in a bunch of mediums, but I love painting. I also freelance graphic design. The group home can be difficult, but it’s rewarding.”

“That sounds interesting,” Luke said. “You’ll have to show me some of your paintings.”

Spencer nodded. Dinner warmed into lively banter and get-to-know-you questions.

--

Afterward, as they walked Rowan and Ash back to Rowan’s place, Rowan fell in beside Spencer, letting Luke and Ash drift a few steps ahead.

“I know they wanted to talk to Luke about the whole Al-Anon thing,” Rowan said. “And me. Mostly me. Which is good—but it makes me nervous.”

 “Why?” Spencer bumped her shoulder with his. “It’s good. It means they care enough to work their side of the street.”

She blew out a breath. “What if, no matter what they do, I’m too much. Like last time? Ash has their own history with depression, and I’m afraid of triggering them with all my shit.”

“I get it,” Spencer said. “Sometimes I’m surprised Luke is still here. And if you are too much, you can always find someone else. There are a lot of fish in the sea. Trust them to take care of themselves and tell you when they don’t have the capacity right then. You can always ask before you trauma-dump—what’s your spoon level; can you handle this? And if they can’t, you have a whole list of people to call. Including me.”

Rowan nodded, “Right. Thank you. I don’t want any other fish. I like this fish.”

Spencer chuckled, “Does this mean you are finally monogamous?”

“Nope.” Rowan shook her head. “Monogamy never felt right to me. Still ENM. Ash is my primary. We have explicit boundaries—what counts as cheating, who not to sleep with, how we allocate time, all that. And a list of exes who are off-limits.”

“Why would you want to date each other’s exes?”

“There aren’t that many sapphic fish in the sea, Spencer. There’s always crossover.”

Spencer shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have an awkward question.”

“Shoot.”

“How does ENM work with SAA? I feel like it would just give me permission to act out, if I’m honest.”

Rowan snorted. “Yeah, I can see that with you. Our agreements are explicit. I focus on motives when I’m initiating, and no matter who I’m with, there are a lot of check-ins. Secrecy breaks my bottom lines. So does sleeping with monogamous married women.”

“Right. That makes sense.”

A few feet ahead, Ash and Luke walked side by side.

A few feet ahead, Ash and Luke walked side by side.

“I wanted to talk to you about being a partner to someone in recovery,” Ash said.

“I figured.” Luke glanced over. “What’s your biggest fear?”

Ash worried the hem of their jacket. “Besides her dying? That I’m the reason for a relapse. We fight, or I don’t show up right, and she just…”

“First thing I learned in Al-Anon—which I highly recommend, by the way—you didn’t cause it, can’t control it, and can’t cure it,” Luke said. “Hard in practice. Especially if he’s using. I know how I can contribute to safety—we do at least a thirty-day pause if he’s using or cheating. And I’m not going to lie, it’s hard to watch, even from a distance. After his last relapse, I spent months waking up in the night to watch him breathe. Boundaries help you show up when you can without burning out.”

“Right,” Ash said. “This whole SAA thing is new to me. I’m worried she’ll break our agreement and I won’t be able to come back from that.”

“I don’t handle SAA slips without anger,” Luke admitted. “I’m not perfect. It hurts. A lot. But we do couples therapy. Rebuilding trust is a process. I don’t ask for details, and I’m honest about my feelings.”

“I’ll talk to her about preemptive couples therapy,” Ash said. “We’ll see.”

Luke handed over his phone. “Here. Put your number in. Call me anytime. Maybe we can hit a meeting together.”

“Sure,” Ash said, tapping in their info. “That’d be great.”

--

Later that night, Ash and Rowan were curled on the couch, watching Hustlers.

“They should’ve made Romona and Destiny get together,” Rowan muttered as the credit scrolled.

Ash nodded, “That would’ve been great. More gay is always good.”

Rowan turned and kissed them, fingers threading through their hair.

Ash broke the kiss gently, “Color?”

“Green,” Rowan said, smiling. “All the way.”

They deepened the kiss, hands warm at Rowan’s hips. Rowan trailed her mouth along their throat.

“Bedroom,” Ash stammered. “Now.”

They grabbed her hand and pulled her into the bedroom.

They stood for a beat, breathing in sync.

“What do you want?” Ash whispered.

“I want to top first,” Rowan said. “And when we switch, I want to be surprised by the toy you pick.”

Ash grinned. “I love when you let me surprise you.”

“I know.”

Rowan nudged them back onto the bed and straddled their hips, pressing kisses along their neck. Clothes slid away slowly, one whispered yes at a time.

She took her time exploring, drawing breathless curses from their mouth. When Ash’s thighs closed around her, Rowan reached up and laced their fingers, holding on until Ash’s body shuddered and softened.

She collapsed beside them, arm draped across their chest as their eyes closed.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” they murmured, turning with a grin. “My turn. Color?”

“Green,” Rowan said, tracing idle lines down their arm.

Ash pulled her closer, kissing her slow, tongue skimming her top lip as their hands traveled—leaving goosebumps in their wake. They hooked a leg over hers and rolled, straddling her.

Fingers and mouth worked patiently until Rowan was panting. Ash sat up and reached into the bedside drawer.

“Hmm. Which one should I pick?”

“Any,” Rowan said, glaring playfully. “Just pick one.”

“Shh,” they teased. “I’m thinking.”

They clicked on the bullet vibe.

“Color?” they asked.

“Green,” Rowan said, grinning.

Ash kissed her and trailed the vibe down, finding that spot on her hip that made her back arch. Their mouth grazed her throat as they circled quick and sure.

When Rowan finally crested, she tucked her face into the warm hollow of Ash’s neck, fingers gripping their sides.

Cleanup was quick. “You were right—more gay is always good,” she breathed. The room went quiet; their heartbeat under her ear was enough.

Chapter Text

Cat sat in the hard metal chair, orange jumpsuit bunched at the waist, arms crossed across her white T-shirt. She glared at Spencer as he entered.

“I’m been waiting two whole days, Spencie.” She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, “Let me guess—you were feeling particularly relapse-y after our last match and needed a break.”

“No, Cat. You’re wrong again. I was busy solving the senator’s murder.”

Cat scoffed. “Go ahead then. Give me an answer.”

“You have someone on the outside working for you—again. Every clue you gave was something they did to gain access to the kitchen. They killed the cameras, used the service elevator, reprinted the senator’s dish label, swapped runners, and brought the plate to him. The only difference this time is that you didn’t actually kill the senator—his death was natural. You wanted your execution pushed, because you’re scared of dying like everyone else, and you needed us to think you killed him to buy time. Now give us the name of your accomplice.”

Cat slow-clapped. “Bravo. Ninety percent. I’m disappointed you didn’t figure out who they are yourself. I win that round—unless you think you can get the name out of me?” She shook her head. “Not happening. But I will give you more clues about who they are. And about the murder/suicide. I know you’re chomping at the bit to hear how I did that.” She leaned forward, walking her index and middle fingers toward him. “Earn it.”

Spencer leaned back and crossed his arms. “Fine.”

Cat grinned. “How many times have your cheated on your boyfriend, little sex addict? And does he know about all of them?”

“Yes, he knows. And four times.”

“Boring.” Cat huffed. “I said earn it, didn’t I?”

“It’s not my fault you find my answers boring.”

Cat snorted, “It most certainly is.” She cocked her head to the side, “Does the whole sex addiction thing affect your sex life with Luke? Spare me the boring emotional check-ins—give me the interesting bits.”

“In the past, I broke my bottom lines with Luke by using him to quiet my head,” Spencer said, glare flat. “We fought about it. I was in denial. I reset day one in SAA. Happy? Give me something.”

Behind the glass, Tara and Garcia glanced at Luke. He snapped, “Can you stop looking at me like that? I’m not answering your questions.” A beat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Delighted,” Cat said. “The person you’re looking for is very good with computers. That’s how we met. A dark-web meet-cute.” She tapped the table. “Now, if you want to know how I cornered those agents into a murder/suicide, you have to give me something good.”

“I know.” She leaned in, chin on her hands, gaze pinned to him. “What thought were you most ashamed of this year?”

Spencer’s leg started bouncing under the table. He pressed his palm to his knee.

“Fuck it. If I’m going to ruin it anyway, I should go ahead and do it.”

Behind the glass, Luke muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

“Good boy.” Cat’s smile was small and pleased. “Looks like we’ll both die with needles in our arms. You’ve earned a reward. Paper says suicide; patterns don’t. Check which side of the body the GSR lives and compare it to handedness.”

Spencer nodded, stood, and closed the door firmly behind him.

--

Rowan and Ash were curled on the couch, each with a book, when a knock echoed through the apartment.

Rowan disentangled herself and peered through the peephole. She groaned. “It’s my mom.”

“I thought she was supposed to text before she came over?” Ash asked.

“She is. This is not starting out great.”

Rowan opened the door to a woman in a sharp wool coat whose hair looked like it never fell out of place by sheer force of will.

“Hi, Mom. Surprise visits are against the rules. I asked you to text first.”

Vivian strode in. “I forgot. I’ll try next time. Besides, what is the big deal? I’m your mother. I should be able to check on you, especially considering your…history.”

Rowan crossed her arms. “Ash, this is my mom, Vivian. Mom, this is Ash—they use they/them pronouns.”

Ash stood up and shook Vivian’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure, Ash,” Vivian said, eyes flicking to the dried ink on their knuckles.

She turned back to Rowan. “I came to ask why my daughter didn’t show up to family dinner.”

“I told you—I’m not going as long as your boyfriend is there,” Rowan said. “If he refuses to take my sobriety seriously and keeps making jokes, I’m out until he apologizes and commits to a behavior change.”

Vivian tsked, “I talked to him. He understands it now. He apologized. He was just joking. It didn’t mean anything.”

“You apologized for him. He never apologized to me, mom. And it does mean something.”

“Is this about money? Do you need anything? ? I know rehab is expensive—after all, I paid for it the first time.”

“No, I don’t need money.” Rowan set her hands on her hips. “Not everything can be fixed by throwing money at it. And every time you give something, it comes with strings.”

“Having you take a drug test before your annual gift isn’t ‘strings.’ It’s making sure I don’t fund your using—like when I gave you my mother’s brooches.”

“Those were legally mine from her will. And I would’ve pawned them anyway because they were ugly. I’m not hunting for them—you can look yourself if you care that much.”

Ash stayed on the couch, eyes moving between them, hands still.

“Fine, I will,” Vivian snapped. “You could be more like your sister. Her kids love the private school I picked.”

“They’re both under five, Mom. They’d love anywhere they can play with friends. And Briar would do anything for her kids.”

“Yes—clearly taking money from me is a burden.” Vivian drew herself up. “I know you were too young when he died to remember much, but trust me, your father would’ve insisted on dinners.”

“You don’t know what Dad would’ve wanted. Neither do I. Using him to guilt me won’t work. Please leave. Tell me when Richard wants to apologize.”

Vivian spun on her heel. “Fine. You tell me when you stop being so stubborn.” She slammed the door.

Ash wrapped their arms around Rowan. “Are you all right? You were right—she’s a lot. I didn’t know if I should step in. Can we have a plan next time?”

“Yes. We can have a plan.” Rowan leaned into them. “I’m all right.”

“Less serious question—are you secretly rich? Is that how you afford this place?”

Rowan snorted. “I’m not secretly rich. Any money I’ve gotten went to rehab, lawyers, commissary, school, and a ridiculous amount of therapy. It’s not millions. The will is roughly twenty thousand a year until it runs out. Years I was using and didn’t pass the drug test, my mom took the money herself or gave it to Briar for the kids’ school fund. I don’t know the status of the life-insurance pot, but I think it’s running out—hence the rich-boyfriend search.”

“Okay.” Ash squeezed her hand. “Do you want to text Amelia or just cuddle?”

“Text Amelia first, then cuddle?”

“Deal.”

--

Spencer watched the clock tick to 1:00 a.m. and tried to sync his breathing to Luke’s. His phone buzzed across the nightstand. He grabbed it and stepped into the living room.

“Rowan? What’s wrong?”

“Hi, it’s Ash. I called Amelia—no answer. Then Maya. We tried all her stuff—breathing, five senses, cold water. Nothing’s working. Rowan’s stuck in a loop, curled up in the corner, won’t let me touch her, and I’m kind of freaking out.”

“It’s close to one of her anniversaries,” Spencer said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you ask if it’s okay for me to come over? I might be able to help.”

Ash called out, then back into the phone: “She nodded.”

“See you in ten.”

When he hung up, Luke was in the bedroom doorway. “What happened?”

“Rowan’s stuck in a flashback loop. I’m heading over.”

“Want me to come?”

“No. Less people is better right now. I’ll text when I’m headed back.”

--

The apartment was dim. Rowan was huddled in the kitchen corner, hands locked around her shins, gaze distant. Ash sat nearby—close enough to be there, far enough to give space.

Spencer sat cross-legged across from her. “Okay, Rowan. Can you tell me what’s happening right now?”

She curled tighter. “He’s never going to go away. I keep replaying the last time. When I begged you to kill me in that basement. I just want something to make it to stop.”

Ash’s eyes flicked to Spencer, shock flashing; he gave a small shake of his head.

“You’re in your apartment,” Spencer said. “You’re safe. Can you breathe with me?”

They breathed together. Rowan’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Good. Can you count the tiles in the kitchen?”

Rowan started counting softly. At ten, her grip loosened. At twenty, she uncurled by degrees, exhaustion painting her face as her eyes closed for a second.

Spencer waited until she looked at him. “Two more questions: are you a danger to yourself?”

She shook her head.

“And do you want to try Amelia again?”

A nod.

Rowan spoke to Amelia for a few minutes, and together they made a plan for the night. Rowan booked an emergency therapy slot for the morning through her therapist’s portal.

Spencer waited until Rowan and Ash were settled on the couch, a comfort movie humming in the background, before he left.

--

Rowan held Ash’s hand as they walked to her therapy appointment the next morning. She studied their face.

“Thank you for trying to help last night.”

“Of course.” Ash blew out a breath. “I’ll admit I didn’t love that Spencer could help when I couldn’t. I want to be able to help you with that.”

“I know. He’s been helping me with this for a long time. He’s also been there—even if he’s worked through a lot of it. There wasn’t anything wrong with what you did. My first true rock bottom—the one that got me into my first rehab—was when I tried to kill myself. More than once that day. I was admitted on a 72-hour hold, then transferred to detox, then rehab.” She swallowed. “I didn’t tell you because of your history with depression. I didn’t want to trigger you.”

“Moving forward, can you disclose big things like that?” Ash asked. “I don’t need details—just the big stuff. I want to help. Trust me to take care of my side of the street. And to tell you if I can’t handle it.”

“Okay. I don’t think there’s more I need to tell you, but if I think of something, I’ll say it.”

They stopped outside the therapist’s building.

“Want coffee for when you come out?” Ash asked.

Rowan nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Chapter Text

Cat watched him like a hawk sizing up her prey as he walked in.

“Welcome to the battle royale, Spencer.” She examined her nails, “Now, with this being my last and final wish before I die, you better be prepared to earn your little clues.”

She stretched and faked a yawn, “Nothing boring. You know how I despise boring.’

She winked at him, “You ready, Professor. I’ll enjoy watching the bruises form.”

Spencer clasped his hands together under the table.

“Just ask, Cat.”

“Since you know my body count, what’s yours?”

He sighed, “Really, Cat? I don’t know.”

She slapped the table, teeth bared, “I don’t know isn’t good enough. You don’t forget things”

“I don’t know because there are whole weekends I don’t remember, Cat. Happy?”

She crossed her arms, “No, obviously not. When I tell you to earn it, I mean it. Are you going to be a good boy for me and answer my next question?”

“I don’t really have a choice here, Cat.”

“You always have a choice Spencie, you could just not engage with me. Stop lying to yourself. You know you like it.”

“Ask, Cat.”

“I heard your mom died. I’m disappointed I didn’t get to see your face when you heard the news. What was the first thing you did after you heard?”

“I drank the fifth in my cabinet and then shot heroin in an alley. And that’s all I remember until I woke up in a strange apartment two days later.”

Behind the glass, Garcia blinked, “Oh, Spence.” Luke didn’t move his glare from Cat’s face.

She clapped, “Good boy. You win a truth: the agents were lured to that house by spoofed text messages.”

She leaned in, conspiratorial. “What’s the one thing you swore you wouldn’t tell me?”

She leaned back, waiting.

Spencer focused on the clock above her head. The ticking filled the room.

“I slept with my dealer for heroin. Convinced myself that it was my rock bottom. Then did it three more times.”

Behind the glass, Emily cussed softly. JJ ran her hand through her hair. Garcia put her hand over her mouth.

Cat’s smile gleamed, “There he is. I love revealing the real you. You’ve earned this last clue: My protégé used to have a badge.”

As Spencer got up to leave, she said, “I won. I’ll see you midnight on Friday. If you don’t overdose between now and then.”

He slammed the door behind him.

Everyone stared at him when he walked back into the observation room.

Garcia reached him first and pulled him into a hug.

“Garcia, you don’t—”

“I do. Let me hug you, Spencer.”

Rossi and Tara pretended to be engrossed in paperwork. JJ just asked, “Are you okay?” Spencer nodded. Luke held his gaze from the corner.

--

Rowan shoved the latest letter—with the photos and flash drives—into the drawer with the others. It was almost too full to close. She declined another call from an unknown number, watched the tenth voicemail land, deleted it.

A text from Spencer lit the screen.

SPENCER: Hey, haven’t seen you this week. You okay?

ROWAN: I’m fine. Just coming down with something. Don’t want to spread it.

SPENCER: Let me know if you need anything.

Rowan opened the freezer, took out the bottle of vodka, poured two fingers in a glass She palmed a pill and downed both like medicine.

--

Rowan divided three white lines with the precision of a surgeon. One lamp glowed, throwing shadows across the wall. A half-full bottle sweated on the counter; an empty one lay in the sink. Little baggies dotted the coffee table.

She leaned forward, snorted a line, barely registering the door opening through the burn in her nose, her head blessedly quiet.

“Hey, I was waiting for thirty minutes. I tried calling you. You left it unlocked—” Ash stopped like they’d been slapped.

They stepped in. “I’m going to check your pulse, okay? I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Rowan shook her head but let Ash’s fingers find her pulse, “I’m fine, Ash. What are you doing here?”

“Okay—pulse and breathing are good.” They scanned the room, ran a hand through their hair.

“Of course they are. I’m fine. I just needed—”

“Because you’re using, I can’t be with you anymore,” Ash said, voice steady. “Text me when you hit thirty and we can talk.”

Rowan froze, then crumpled, “Please, please don’t leave me. I can’t handle that right now.”

At the door, Ash’s knuckles whitened on the knob. “My phone is on for emergencies only. Text RED if you need an ambulance.” They shut the door firmly behind them.

Rowan stood in the silence. The ice maker grumbled and she jumped.

She cranked the music. thumbed past Amelia’s name, and added every off-limits ex and toxic friend to a party invite.

Two more lines later, the apartment was packed and swaying. Angela stripped on the coffee table, doing shots off Cori. Amy and Jenny were making out on the couch. Shane offered anyone a bump. Rowan took one and slammed a shot after, chasing oblivion. Before long her clothes were scattered and Shane’s head was between her thighs; Helena crawled from a pile of bodies and swung a leg over Rowan’s shoulders. Rowan stared up, counting breaths, until her mind narrowed into static.

--

Rowan woke to a quiet apartment, naked under her duvet on the couch. Bottles clinked when she rolled. She pulled on someone’s underwear and crawled toward the bathroom, grinding more glitter into the carpet and stepping around damp patches.

She shut the door and dug in the bottom drawer until she found the kit she’d hidden. The room spun when she tried to stand; the floor rose to meet her. “Shit.”

She crawled toward the toilet, let the cool porcelain steady her, then reached into the tank for a plastic bag with a couple of balloons inside. Her hands shook as she worked. When the needle pinched and the warmth hit, her mind went silent and she slumped against the wall.

Home.

--

Rowan checked at her shattered watch as she tripped up the stairs of her sister’s house. “Shit, shit.”

Amy opened the door in cow pajamas and beamed. “Auntie Ro! Auntie Ro is here, Mommy!” she yelled, grabbing Rowan’s hand.

Briar called back from the kitchen, “And she’s only fifteen minutes late. What a miracle.”

Rowan focused on the warmth of Amy’s hand clutching hers as she led her down the hall to the kitchen, skipping.

“We waited—” Briar called from the kitchen, then turned and slammed a spoon down, sauce splattering the stovetop. “Amy, go join everyone in the playroom, please.”

“But I don’t—”

“Now, Amy.” Amy stomped off.

“Briar, what are you—”

“Seriously, Ro?” Briar hauled her outside. “You show up here high? In front of my fucking kids?”

“I’m not—”

“Save it.” Briar threw up her hands. “Your pupils are pinpricks and you smell like a distillery. I’m exhausted. You are exhausting, Rowan. I’m tired of picking you up when you reach rock bottom.”

Rowan laughed, sharp, “I don’t have rock bottoms, Briar. I’m the fucking Mariana trench.”

Briar set her hands on her hips, “I’m done. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. I will not show up.” She slammed the door.

Rowan dragged her hands down her face and screamed.

She was crossing the driveway when her mother grabbed her arm. “Rowan. Rowan, look at me.”

Rowan wrenched free. “You said you wouldn’t do this in front of the kids.”

“I lied,” Rowan snapped.

Vivian’s slap was quick and brutal. “I love you, Rowan, but I don’t like you.”

Rowan touched her burning cheek. “Mom—”

Vivian turned on her heel and left.

Chapter Text

Spencer was the only one on Cat’s side of the execution chamber. The victims’ families murmured quietly.

When the priest asked Cat if she had any last words, Cat grinned then winked at him, “I win, Spencer.”

His knees stopped shaking only when they called her time of death.

--

Spencer knocked a third time at Rowan’s apartment before trying the knob. She sat at the kitchen table, chain-smoking, as he took in the wreckage.

She was sitting at her kitchen table, chain smoking cigarettes as Spencer took in the wreckage of her apartment.

“So you weren’t just ignoring me,” he said. “You’ve been deep in a relapse.”

Rowan snorted. “No shit, Sherlock.”

He tucked the soup into the fridge next to a moldy head of lettuce and sat across from her. “Three choices: you tell me what’s actually going on, you come to a meeting with me, or you let me call Amelia.”

Her eyes narrowed as she blew smoke out her nose, “Those aren’t choices and you know it. Fine. You want to know what happened? It was a Tuesday.”

“Please don’t lie to me right now,” Spencer said.

“I can say whatever I want to get you to leave,” she shot back. “You showed up unannounced. And you’ve been wrapped up in Cat.”

“I did show up unannounced, and I’ll own that. She’s dead. That’s finally over.”

Rowan glared. “Okay. Leave.”

“No.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” She shoved her chair back so hard it slammed to the floor. “Fine.” She yanked the drawer open and dumped the letters on the table, then held up her phone to show the voicemails. “Here. Happy? They’ve been coming for weeks. He’s going to get to me again, Spencer. So go ahead and be mad—if I’m going to die, I’m going to die high.”

Spencer snapped on gloves, sorted through the letters, skimmed the photos spilling from one envelope and the flash drives poking from another.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve helped—gotten you protective custody—”

“No. I don’t want your help. Do whatever you want with the letters; I don’t care. But I’m not going back into protective custody. I’m not talking to your coworkers again.” Her hands shook. “I refuse to be a victim again.” Her voice cracked.

“Rowan—” Spencer gathered the letters, voice soft.

She opened the door. “Leave.”

He paused, close enough to lower his voice. “Call before, not after.”

She pushed him out and slammed the door.

--

The team hit dead end after dead end chasing Cat’s protégé—she’d revealed nothing useful at the execution.

Rowan’s letters were spread across the conference room table. Garcia was busy pulling Throne’s calls and mail records from the prison he was in.

JJ studied a page “Were you able to get anything out of Rowan about how she’s been receiving the letters? If she saw anyone?”

Spencer shook his head, “No. She’s using. I barely got this out of her.”

Emily glanced over from the whiteboard, “You think you can convince her to come in and talk ? Or at least go into protective custody.”

“She was adamant about no protective detail,” Spencer said. “As for getting her to talk to us—I can try again.”

Luke came in and handed Spencer a coffee. “Any mention of a copycat? Anything about him trying to kidnap her again?”

“No copycat,” Spencer said. “It’s all threats about what he’ll do when he’s out. And memories.”

--

Rowan sat across from them in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, nursing the coffee they’d handed her. JJ had a legal pad; Spencer kept to the corner, watchful.

“Ask your questions, so I can get out of here.” Rowan said.

JJ nodded, “Have you seen anyone delivering these letters?”

“Obviously not.”

“What about anyone following you? Anyone new in your building?”

“No and no.”

“We’ve gone through the letters and voicemails,” JJ said. “The photos and flash drives don’t show new victims, so we don’t think there’s a copycat. He’s still threatening your life, and he’s obviously working with someone, so we recommend protective custody.”

Rowan groaned, “No.”                                                                                            

She glanced at Spencer, “Why did I have to come here in person to do this?”

“I needed to see you were alive,” he said.

“I’m told you I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to feel this way again. And you dragged—”

“I asked—”

“Dragged me here just to see if I was fucking alive. Do I look alive to you?” She shoved back from the table and stormed out.

“Rowan—” Spencer followed her to the door.

She flipped him off and kept going, straight through the bullpen.

--

Garcia found the multiple calls to a burner and letters sent to a PO box from the prison records. She pinged the burner and identified a personal cell that consistently hit the same towers; whoever owned the burner kept it beside their own phone.

Both the cell and P.O box belonged to a Karen White.

When they showed up to arrest her, the first thing she said was “Do you think I’ll be out for Caleb and my wedding date? It’s in three months.”

--

Spencer and Amelia stood outside Rowan’s door with shopping bags full of supplies.

Amelia knocked, then tried the knob. The door swung inward to reveal several semiclothed women strewn around the apartment, along with bottles, powder, and pipes.

Spencer took one look, stepped back into the hall, closed the door, and called through it, “Right. Can you maybe get everyone out while I wait out here?”

Amelia raised her voice. “Yeah, I think a random woman waking them up will make them feel much more comfortable.”

Two of the woman tangled in the couch groaned at the sound, “Shut up.”

Amelia flipped on all the lights. “No. Get up, get dressed, and get out. Everyone.”

She moved through the room handing people clothes and herding them toward the door. In the bathroom, she turned on the shower to rouse the woman passed out there and got a “fuck you” for her trouble. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

She pushed open the bedroom. Rowan lay sprawled in boxers on the bed, with Shane asleep beside her and Helena on the floor. A bottle sat on the nightstand beside a used syringe and a belt. Amelia turned the light on and Helena groaned. “Fuck.”

Amelia tossed a shirt. “Get dressed and get out.”

Shane squinted. “Hi, Amelia.”

“Hi, Shane. I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but it isn’t. Out.”

Shane sat up, scrubbed a hand over her face. “Yeah.”

Helena dragged on her dress as Shane tripped over her jeans.

Amelia shook Rowan, “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Rowan groaned and burrowed her head in the pillow, “No.”

Amelia ripped the pillow out from under her. “Get dressed. Spencer’s waiting outside and we need to have a conversation.”

Rowan glared, her hair sticking up. “I did not consent to you being in fucking apartment, Amelia.”

“Did you consent to me saving your life? Because that’s what I’m doing here. I’ll dump ice water on you if I have to.”

Rowan sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, “Fine. One conversation.”

By the time she made it to the living room in an oversized T-shirt, Amelia and Spencer had done a surface clean. Rowan slumped onto the couch.

“What.”

Spencer finished picking up trash and Amelia poured out a bottle at the sink.

Spencer sat in the chair beside her. “I’m glad you’re still here. Just so you know—we caught the person who was delivering the letters for him. One of his obsessed fans who thinks she’s going to marry him. She’s been arrested. He’s in SHU for at least six months, with no phone privileges except to his lawyer for the rest of his sentence.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Rowan whispered.

Amelia sat next to her. “Three choices. One: hospital detox and rehab. Two: at-home detox and IOP. Three: you make us leave, and we won’t come back until you call. I wanted Spencer to tell you the case news himself before you decided. If you want help, we’re here.”

Rowan crossed her arms, nails digging into her elbows. “No hospital. No inpatient.”

Okay,” Amelia said.

Rowan looked up at Spencer. “It’s really over?”

He nodded.

Tears rolled down her face, “I’m so tired.”

Amelia put her arm around her, “I know. It’s going to be okay.”

“I need help. But I want to stay here.”

“Okay,” Amelia said, “We can do that.”

--

Rowan goes through a box of tissues and two sets of sweat soaked PJ on the couch. She crawled to the bathroom to throw up and ended up staying on the tile, bones too heavy to lift. She counted floor squares, lost count, started again. Amelia made her drink water.

She curled up in the corner of the bathroom, still unable to go far from the toilet. She glared at Spencer, sitting in her hallway, reading Moby Dick.

“I ruin everything,” she muttered. “I want to use. Just give me my fucking phone back, Spencer.”

“You told us to take your phone and not to give it back—no matter what you said.”

“Fuck you. How many times have you been where I am? Ten? Give. Me. My. Phone. Or I’ll kick you out and get it anyway.”

Spencer glanced up, “I can’t leave you when you are like this. If you want to try to get up and find it, be my guest. Having been where you are, you aren’t going to make it three feet.”

“You self righteous fuck.”

--

Amelia sits outside the shower while Rowan lets the water run over her.

“You decide yet?”

“IOP.”

The water thundered in the small room. Rowan closed her eyes and breathed.

Chapter Text

It’d been a full week since Cat died. And a week since he’d had a full nights sleep. He kept jolting up at midnight, her voice echoing in his head. He caught himself obsessing over everything she said in their games, trying to figure out any clues he’d missed. He filled two legal pads with notes and told Luke it was for his new research article when he asked.

--

The book was on his lap, his phone tucked beside it, as Luke worked on dinner. He hovered over the yellow-and-black app, thumb shaking, then pressed download. He set his radius to a mile around the old bar. He swiped until he found who he was looking for and messaged him. Time, place, boundaries, specific words to use traded hands in quick succession.

He glanced at his watch, grabbed his step work notebook, and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Hey, I’m hitting the 7:30. I’ll be back by 9.”

Luke nodded, “Okay, I’ll make you a plate and put it in the microwave.”

Spencer closed the door gently and switched his phone to Do not Disturb.

--

The motel No Vacany sign was only half lit in green neon. He knocked twice on room 294. The door opened: tall, suited, a falcon tattoo climbing his throat. Still trouble, neat and pressed.

“You can call me Falcon. Do I get a name this time?”

Spencer shook his head, “No.”

Falcon shrugged off his jacket and undid his belt. “Color?”

Spencer started to shed his shirt, “Green.”

Falcon tugged Spencer’s belt free and slid down his zipper. He pushed Spencer onto the bed; the springs complained. He stripped the rest of the way, picked his shirt up off the floor, and straddled Spencer’s hips

“Color?”

“Green.” Spencer whispered.

Falcon guided Spencer’s wrists above his head and tied them together with the shirt.

Spencer felt the slight pressure, tested it. He could have pulled free. He didn’t

Falcon grabbed Spencer’s jaw, “You know the rules. You can’t come until you earn it. Color?”

“Green.”

Falcon took his time—unzipping Spencer from the day, one slow pass at a time. When he finally closed a hand around him, Spencer’s hips bucked into the friction. Falcon withdrew.

“Ask.”

“Permission—”

“No. Earn it.”

When Falcon started again, heat tunneled Spencer’s vision. A sound climbed up from somewhere feral. Falcon lifted his hand; the sound broke.

“Ask.”

“Permission—”

“No. Earn it.”

Falcon’s palms pinned Spencer’s hips as his mouth replaced his hand. Heat built. Breath stuttered.

“Permission—”

Falcon stopped touching him completely. Air rushed in where contact had been. Spencer gasped.

“No. Earn it.”

He tried to count ceiling tiles. Gave up on the third try.

“Permission—”

“No. Earn it.”

Foil tore. Latex snapped. Pain braided into pleasure as Falcon pressed in. He started slow, stroking Spencer in time with his thrusts.

“Permission—”

He stopped.

“No. Earn it.”

Sweat pooled at Spencer lower back. His wrists tugged at the restraint.

Falcon started again, steady, until Spencer forced out, “Permission—”

“Yes.”

The room narrowed, then brightened, then narrowed again to breath and pressure and the clean, bright slide of everything aligning at once. It hit in a rush that made him forget to breathe and then remember in a gasp.

Afterward, Falcon untied him. “Color”

“Green.” Spencer said too fast.

He pulled on his clothes, grabbed his notebook, and phone. 8:45. He deleted the app.

“You know where to find me.” Falcon said.

“I won’t.” Spencer didn’t look back.

He willed his hand to stop shaking as he turned the key in their lock. Luke was on the couch, curled up with a book.

“How was it?”

“Good. Step eight speaker… good reminder about amends. I’m going to shower and go to bed early.”

“I’ll join you after this next chapter,” Luke said, turning the page.

Spencer stayed in the shower until his skin went red.

--

Spencer’s phone buzzed as he left the office on Monday.

TOM: You coming to the evening meeting?

SPENCER: Had a day, going to AA.

TOM: How’s your intimacy pattern been this week?”

SPENCER: Fine.

He lay in bed, listening to Luke breath, watching the clock tick to 6 am.

--

Tom was waiting for him outside the Sunday evening meeting, two steaming travel cups of tea in his hands. He passed one over.

“You don’t look like you’ve slept at all this week. You missed two meetings. What’s going on?”

Spencer tugged at the tea bag string; his teeth worried his lip. “I broke my bottom line and cheated on Luke and lied about it. And I can’t sleep with him next to me. And don’t tell me to tell him, because I can’t. I can’t see him look at me like that again.”

Tom sighed, “Okay. I can be on speaker while you disclose—”

“I said I can’t tell him, Tom.”

“Look, we are only as sick as our secrets. Keep hiding this and either he figures it out—more hurt, because it’s ongoing lying—or you push him away because you hate yourself. Both happened to me. Neither ended pretty.”

Spencer closed his eyes. “Fine. With you on speaker I’ll disclose. I’ll restart my time.”

With Tom’s help, Spencer crafted a text to Luke and sent it while he walked home.

SPENCER: I need to share something hard about my program and our agreements. I’m safe and sober. I’d like to do it today with Tom on the line if you’re willing. What time works for you? We can do living room, therapy office, or phone.

LUKE: Living room. When you get home.

--

Luke was pacing when Spencer opened the door. He stopped and folded his arms. Spencer held up his phone—Tom on speaker. Luke nodded.

“Tell me.”

“I broke a bottom-line SAA commitment last week when I told you I was going to a meeting. I didn’t tell you the same day. That violates our agreements. I’m sorry. I’ve told my sponsor and started the repair steps. I’d like to tell you only what affects your safety, ask what you need, and accept your boundaries. “

Luke held up one of his hands, “Stop reading your script for a second. That’s why you haven’t been sleeping and you barely touched me last week?”

Spencer nodded.

Luke sank into the chair. “Were you safe?”

“I had protected sex with one person. I deleted the app, mapped triggers, and scheduled extra meetings.”

Tom’s voice came through the phone. “What do you need to feel safe right now, Luke?”

“For my boyfriend to stop having sex with random people, Tom,” Luke snapped, then exhaled. “Sorry. I’m very angry and frustrated.”

“Understandable,” Tom said. “Apology accepted.”

Luke ran his hand through his hair, “Secrecy is a breach of our cohab rule, so I am moving out to Elena’s for a few days. And I honestly don’t know what I will need to trust you again. I need to think about it.” He started toward the bedroom.

Spencer gripped the phone, his fingers white, “Okay. I love you.”

“I know. That’s what makes this hurt, Spence.”

Chapter Text

Spencer stared at the side of the bed Luke usually slept in until the clock hit 6:00 A.M. The coffee maker’s grumble echoed in the apartment. He poured coffee into Luke’s favorite blue mug.

He opened the lockbox, reached for his bupe strips, his hand hovering. He bit his lip, withdrew, and closed the door. The whirr of the lock followed him out the door.

--

He walked straight to the liquor store after work. The way Luke had said “Reid” instead of “Spencer” all day echoed as he bought five minis—so small they felt like nothing.

Back home, he stood in front of the call list on the fridge until the names blurred. The first drink spread warmth through his limbs. The second let him breathe. By the fifth, he’d convinced himself Luke leaving didn’t matter.

--

When the skin-crawl came and sleep left him, he lay on the couch watching night take the city. His thumb hovered over Luke, then Maya, then a new thread. He texted the old number before his brain reminded him not to.

-

There are no streetlights in the alley between a Chinese takeout and the dry cleaners. A car idled, headlights cutting the darkness. The inside smelled like wet dog. Money and powder exchanged in a quick handshake.

He hid in a doorway, did a quick bump, slid down the door as quiet enveloped him. He wiped his nose; his fingers came away damp, and only then did he realize his cheeks were wet.

--

“Sir, don’t reach—hands where I can see them. Is this yours?”

“Can you stand for me?”

“Found another one in his pocket.”

The cold metal tightened around his wrists.

Chains rattled as he walked, metal tight on his wrist, shouts and banging from the cells echoed around the concrete block.

“You have the right to remain silent—”

--

The holding cell smelled like bleach and sweat. The skinny kid on his left kept pulling out his hair. The block of muscle on his right snored lightly. Spencer’s knee jiggled; pressing his palm to it didn’t help.

“We’ll protect you for a price.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

A rough towel shoved in his mouth, his hands held behind his back, and Luis’s blood splattered on the floor.

--

“Where are you?” Luke’s voice sounded far away through the black plastic.

Spencer leaned his head against the wall next to the phone, the brick rough against his forehead.

“Central booking. Downtown. Possession.”

Luke exhaled. “Are you high?”

“Define.”

“Jesus Christ. I’m coming.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You know I do.”

--

The lobby smelled like bleach and stale vomit. Luke signed paperwork at the bail window, brow furrowed.

Spencer’s mouth stayed dry no matter how many times he swallowed. “I told you, you didn’t have to come.”

Luke handed him the plastic property bag and paperwork. “I’m not doing this here. Car.”

The ride home was silence stretching between them like a rubber band that refused to break.

The ride home stretched like a rubber band that refused to break. In their lot, Luke killed the engine, eyes forward. “I’ll walk you up. Then I’m going back to Elena’s.”

Spencer slammed the car door, then turned to Luke, arms crossed, “Say it. Say whatever you’ve been holding back since you picked me up.”

Luke raked a hand through his hair. “I’m so angry I almost didn’t bail you out. But I can’t leave you in a cage again.”

“It was a holding cell. Not Milburn.”

“Tell that to your face when I picked you up.” Luke set his hands on the hood to steady himself.

“I’m fine, Luke.” Spencer said, shoulders taut, turning toward the entrance.

Luke threw up his hands, his voice raised. “Just stop fucking lying to me—”

Spencer spun back, lines pulled tight. “I told you about the cheating. I didn’t lie—”

“You lied for a week. You only told me when Tom made you.”

“So I broke us—congrats. Cash in all your I-told-you-so’s.”

Luke ticked them off on his fingers. “I told you seeing Cat was a bad idea. Playing her game was a bad idea. Going to her execution was a bad idea.” He gestured at the dark lot. “And right now we’re fighting in a fucking parking lot because I had to bail you out. Even time the phone rings in the middle of the night, I’m braced it’s someone asking me to identify your body.” His voice broke.

“You left,” Spencer shot back. “You get to stop worrying about me.”

“I left to protect myself from the you that can lie to me with a straight face.”

“You left because it was easier than dealing with me, Luke, admit it.” The taste of metal sat behind his teeth.

“No, Spencer, I left because I can’t watch you die again.”

“Then stop watching.” Spencer stalked to the door and slammed it behind him.

--