Work Text:
One
Spencer Reid wakes up at 1 am, only an hour since he fell asleep, drenched in sweat, his sheets and blankets a knotted mess from his constant tossing and turning, and so horribly and completely empty.
He staggers to his feet, drifting into his bathroom as he follows some distant routine ingrained in his body after decades of insomnia and nightmares.
He takes off his shirt, staring blankly at his ghostly pale, scarred skin.
Even without his eidetic memory, he’s sure he’d remember all of his scars.
His eyes linger, unseeing, on the neat, straight lines starting at his shoulders and ending above his elbows.
Oh, how he misses that feeling— the sensation of feeling anything at all.
Spencer opens the cabinet above his sink, fingers finding the box of cigarettes and lighter that rest on top of his razor blades, giving him one addiction to cling to before returning to his oldest poison.
He takes a cigarette from the box, ignoring the low, mumbling voice in the back of his head rattling statistics about smoking, and lights it, hanging out his open bathroom window as he exhales.
He watches the sleeping streets, sighing smoke into the still sky.
And he feels nothing.
Spencer retreats from his window, crumbling to the bathroom floor in slow motion, before extinguishing his cigarette on his thigh, smushing the in the center of a cluster of small, circular burns.
Clarity, like one’s first breath of fresh air after holding their head underwater, rushes through his veins, heart pumping adrenaline through his body, letting him feel everything for one rapturing second.
Until it’s gone again, and he returns to his hallow nothingness.
And Spencer lights another cigarette.
Two
Blood trickles from the lines of sensation running down Spencer Reid’s arms, filling the skin between his shoulders and elbows with angry, beautiful, and addicting cuts.
Long, skinny fingers pinch at his flesh, and glassy eyes watch the thick, red liquid spill from the cuts with a distant sense of awe.
What a way to remind yourself you’re human. Sometimes he forgets.
His box of cigarettes is empty, most of them extinguished against his skin without reaching his lips. He frowns when he realizes how wasteful it is, but the small circles make him feel better.
His razor blade is cold in his hand, sending sparks of feeling through his fingertips, anticipation fanning them into burning flames of desire for more.
He needs more.
Spencer moves below his elbows.
Three
Spencer sits on the cold floor of his bathroom, watching his blood stain his bath mat, too exhausted to care.
The adrenaline has since worn off; there’s nothing left of him again.
The crook of his elbow itches.
He aches to feel again.
Four
He remembers his dealer’s number; he can’t forget it. Even if he could, he wouldn’t; he needs it too much.
He wants to call, but he can’t bring himself to stand, his phone still charging next to his bed.
Instead, he sits, letting his mind run rampant, spouting statistics and static, facts and fantasies.
He digs his nails into his arms.
And he sits.
Five
The sun rises; he does not.
He doesn’t feel the cold morning air biting at his bare skin or the chill of the bathroom floor.
He doesn’t feel the ache in his muscles from sitting in one spot for– how long has it been? He doesn’t remember.
He doesn’t remember.
Six
He doesn’t hear his phone ringing— or maybe he does, he isn’t sure— but he doesn’t answer it.
Somehow, he ends up in his bathtub, still in his boxers, though he discarded his pajama pants– How long ago was that?
Water sprays against his back, and he isn’t sure if it’s too hot or cold, but it tethers him to his sad reality.
Seven
He doesn’t register his body trembling or his eyes struggling to stay open.
He doesn’t hear his phone ringing or his neighbors getting ready for the day.
His mind wanders through an old cemetery, pausing at an unfinished grave.
He picks up a shovel and starts digging.
Eight
The dirt beneath him doesn’t move as he shovels desperately, digging for the treasure he isn’t sure exists.
He doesn’t remember why he’s digging, only that he can’t stop.
His body aches with every movement, but the pain doesn’t radiate from the delicate web of cuts on his arms or the burns on his legs; this ache is deep— deeper than the grave he’s digging— like his body is a casket for something burning in its death.
He keeps digging, the dead soul of Spencer Reid desperate to be laid to rest.
He can’t stop.
Nine
He doesn’t hear Derek Morgan at the door, begging him to let the older agent— his friend, his brother— in.
He doesn’t hear Derek kick his door in, halting at the mess in the living room only a dead body can create.
He doesn’t hear Derek knocking on the bathroom door or entering his tiled prison.
He hears the crunch of the leaves beneath him and the sound of the shovel hitting the ground. He hears whispers of bible verses and shouts telling him to confess his sins.
I’m not weak.
He doesn’t hear the low mumble escape his lips, chanting his words like a mantra as Derek drapes a towel over his shoulders.
I’m not weak.
Hands pull him to his feet, and the grave is done; it’s time to rest.
He closes his eyes and lets his legs give out.
Ten
He lies in his grave, staring at the starry sky above him, letting the small celestial bodies observe him as his corpse breathes.
What a beautiful night to be dead.
A tall, muscular figure stands over him, paying his respects to the dead.
Where are you, kid?
The low voice falls over him with the first layer of dirt as they bury him.
Come on. It’s time to wake up.
He blinks up at the figure, watching their lips move as a shovel drops another layer of dirt on his lap.
Wake up? Maybe there really is no rest for the dead, but he doesn’t want to disturb his grave.
C’mon, Pretty Boy, I need you to wake up.
The ground shakes, flinging loose soil in his eyes, and the figure takes his hand gently.
Time to wake up.
Time to wake up.
It’s time to wake up.
Eleven
He blinks. Once, twice, his body aches.
It’s too bright; he misses the stars.
He closes his eyes again, letting gravity pull him back to the ground— to the safety of his grave— but that security never comes.
He isn’t in the graveyard anymore. Where is he?
You back with me, kid?
The voice floats through his ears like he’s underwater, muffled and distorted but warm and familiar.
He leans towards the sound, head falling against a comforting chest, an arm wrapping around his torso.
Can you nod if you can hear me, Spencer?
He nods, or at least he thinks he does; the dead don’t move, but maybe that’s another way he’s extraordinary.
Good. Get some rest, Pretty Boy. I’ll be here.
He nods again, letting his body fall limp as he disappears into his head.
Twelve
Spencer Reid wakes up in his bed thirteen minutes after noon.
He blinks tiredly, digging through the clutter in his brain for his last memory, and everything hits him at once.
The sleepless nights, tossing and turning until his alarm goes off, practically drowning in coffee, the distant pain in his stomach after too many days without a real meal.
And the gaps in his memory.
Mornings he wakes up with no recollection of the night before, the smell of cigarettes lingering on his clothes and fresh cuts against his skin— sometimes coming down from a high only narcotics can provide.
His shoulders tense at the thought.
“Hey, Pretty Boy, it’s okay,” Spencer’s eyes widen, lifting his head to find the source of the familiar voice. “You with me, Spence?”
Derek.
He stares at his friend, half-laying in his bed next to him, arm draped over the brunette’s shoulders, holding him against the older agent.
He opens his mouth, but no words fall from his tongue, mind blank as the realization of what his coworker probably saw hits him.
“It’s okay, Spencer. Everything’s going to be okay. Do you hear me? We’re going to fix this. Okay?” Spencer merely nods, letting his head drop against Derek’s chest while his friend murmurs affirmations softly, fingers running through his hair.
It’s nowhere near perfect, but for the first time in a while, it’s okay.