Work Text:
Spencer is lying in a hospital bed, his leg bandaged and braced from ankle to hip and aching terribly, when he thinks, I want to die.
It’s not the first time he’s had that thought. He flips back through his memories, a rolodex of trauma—he might have had the thought after seeing his father in Las Vegas last year, and definitely when he was taking Dilaudid, and before that, while he was being tortured in Tobias Hankel’s cabin. In fact, he’s shocked he never did anything about it during that terrible time, those months—years?—when it was on his mind pretty much constantly.
That wasn’t even the beginning, because really, those thoughts have been there for as long as he can remember.
And yet, now, all alone in the hospital, pushed to his limits of pain and craving and loneliness, the thought feels more urgent than it ever has. More tangible.
More like an actual option.
The thought is like a warm blanket draped over him, calming and comforting. He starts to fall asleep.
His phone buzzes—it’s JJ, checking in on him. The team is busy looking after Hotch, and this is actually the first time anyone on the team has contacted him since he was taken away in the ambulance. He’s not sure how long he was in surgery, or how long he was out afterwards, but it’s surely been more than a day. Hotch was his emergency contact, and Spencer doubts the hospital was able to get through to him with an update about Spencer’s condition.
Is this the first time anyone has thought about him since he was shot?
He shoots off a quick reply, telling JJ he’s fine and out of surgery, and asking how Hotch is doing. JJ explains that Hotch was stabbed nine times, and Haley and Jack have been placed under Witness Protection. JJ promises to come visit Spencer soon.
Spencer puts the phone away and closes his eyes. Being stabbed nine times is so much worse than being shot in the knee—no wonder the whole team is busy with Hotch. Spencer feels selfish for wishing someone was here with him, anyone, just one person. He feels guilty and needy but he’s just so lonely. The hospital lighting bothers him, and all the noises coming from every direction, even when his door is closed. The nurses look at him with pity.
The doctor told him he might need another surgery before he can go home. They don’t know how long he’s going to be here. They don’t know if he’ll ever walk again without some sort of mobility aid.
The thought terrifies Spencer, and he’s had no one to talk it through with, so it just festers inside him, growing bigger and bigger, scarier and scarier.
He’s plagued by nightmares, and he wakes up screaming as a nurse rushes into the room, turning the terrible lights back on and asking if he wants a sedative. And Spencer, who never, ever takes medication unless he absolutely has to, says yes.
In the morning, the doctor informs him that he’ll need one more surgery, but he should be able to go home in a few days. He’ll be on crutches to start, and they’ll see how things progress as he heals. Spencer thanks him, and that night they operate for a second time.
When Spencer wakes up, he checks his phone to find no texts and no missed calls.
He spends the next several days alone, recovering, before he’s finally allowed to go home. He considers calling one of his friends for a ride home from the hospital, but he really doesn’t want to bother them, so instead he takes a cab. Navigating the steps up to his apartment takes considerable effort, but he makes it. He’s glad to be in a familiar space.
It’s hard, though, trying to take care of things while hobbling around on crutches with a giant brace on his leg. He struggles to clean, and to shower, so he mostly stops doing both. He knows his long hair is greasy and unkept, but he’s not due back at work for another week, anyway, so who cares? He doesn’t have the energy to go grocery shopping, so he just eats what he has in his kitchen, and if that happens to be crackers and cream cheese for dinner, so be it.
All of his correspondence regarding his return to work has gone through Human Resources, so he hasn’t actually spoken to any of his teammates about his absence or his injury or his return. He’s hurt that no one has reached out to him, but he knows they’re busy, and anyway, he hasn’t reached out to anyone, either.
He wonders if this is just his life now, hobbling around, barely existing. A disabled ghost.
When he goes through his hospital bag to put things away, he finds antibiotics, extra strength Tylenol, and a bottle of narcotic pain medication. He can’t remember if he told the doctor he didn’t want it, and the fact that he can’t remember is concerning. The important thing is that he doesn’t throw it away, he just tucks it into the medicine cabinet with the other pills and closes the mirrored door.
He considers going to an NA meeting, but it just feels like too much effort. He could call his sponsor, but he doesn’t want to bother him—or maybe he just doesn’t really want help, after all.
He’s spending too much time alone with his thoughts, and it’s getting dangerous. The desire to die comes on stronger and stronger, and there’s no one to talk him down, no one to remind him that he’s loved, that he’s important. That his life matters. He hasn’t called his mother to tell her about his leg. He’s been too scared.
The night he does it is just like any other. He doesn’t do any elaborate staging or write any letters. It doesn’t feel dramatic or important. He just pulls out the bottle of narcotic painkillers, pours a glass of the fancy scotch Rossi gave him last Christmas, and swallows every single one of them.
It takes about two minutes for him to panic at what he’s done. Why did he do that? Why didn’t he write letters? Why didn’t he call anyone? Is this what he really wants? Suddenly he’s scared, and this is all wrong, and it’s not what he really wants, not at all.
He reaches for his phone and calls 911, and 10 minutes later he’s barely conscious as they load him into an ambulance.
The next thing he knows, he’s back in the hospital with the bad lights, hooked up to a plethora of machines, and, just like last time, he’s all alone.
“You gave us quite a scare,” a nurse says to him. “A psychologist will be in soon to talk to you.”
All Spencer can do is nod. His head hurts, and his stomach, and his heart.
At least while he’s in the hospital he doesn’t have to worry about his mobility.
He doesn’t call anyone from the BAU, and no one comes to visit him. Hotch is obviously busy with other things at the moment, too busy to be his emergency contact, and Spencer understands, he really does, and he wishes that would cancel out how much it hurts.
He bullshits his way through the meeting with the psychologist and convinces her to let him go home in a couple of days. He assures her that there will be someone at home to watch over him for a while. He promises to follow up with his doctor. He insists he will take the antidepressants he’s been prescribed. It was just a mistake, he tells her. He knows better now. He’ll be fine.
And she believes him.
He takes another taxi home when he is released, and no one calls, and no one comes to check on him. As far as they know, he’s still on medical leave, and they have serial killers to hunt.
Spencer returns to work three days after his suicide attempt, tripping over his crutches and almost falling out of the elevator. JJ is right there to catch him in a hug.
“We missed you,” she says. “Sorry I haven’t called. We’ve been swamped. How are you doing?”
“It’s fine,” Spencer says. “I’m fine. I’m glad to be back.”
The rest of the team is similarly glad to see him, and he gets lots of hugs. Hotch isn’t back at work yet, but he will be soon. Garcia tells Spencer about how they’ve been visiting him in shifts when they’re in town, to make sure he’s okay, and Spencer smiles and nods as though he’s glad to know that information, as though it doesn’t cut him like a knife when he remembers all those days alone in his apartment.
You could have called them, his brain reminds him. But Spencer has never been very good at asking for help, and he can’t bear the thought of taking up time that they could have been spending with Hotch.
Being targeted by a serial killer is so much worse than getting shot in the knee.
He repeats that to himself over and over and over.
“Hey, pretty boy,” Morgan says when Spencer sits down at his desk. Morgan ruffles his hair. “Getting a little greasy, there, kid,” he jokes. “You gotta wash that hair sometimes, you know?”
He laughs and goes back to his desk, missing the way Spencer’s cheeks bloom bright red. Showering is so hard for him right now, and sometimes he just doesn’t have the energy to go through with washing his hair. He knows it’s gross, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. And it’s disgusting, and embarrassing, and Morgan just called him out on it in front of the whole bullpen, and before he can really finish processing that thought, he’s hobbling to the bathroom on his crutches and locking himself in a stall just in time for tears to start rolling down his cheeks.
He’s trying so hard. He’s been trying so hard for such a long time, and he’s so tired, and so lonely, and still so, so scared. He doesn’t know yet if he’ll ever walk normally again, and he hasn’t been able to share that with anybody, the fact that maybe he’ll never be able to go out in the field again. It’s a nightmare, and he keeps waking up screaming, and each time he’s alone.
Spencer sets a timer on his phone for three minutes, and for those three minutes he lets himself cry big, loud, ugly tears. He sobs in frustration, doubled over, leaning against the side of the stall. He cries until he can’t breathe, until he can’t think, until—until the timer goes off, and then he immediately stops, wipes his face with a piece of toilet paper, and steps out of the stall. He rinses his face at the sink, dries it again with a paper towel, and looks at his reflection in the mirror. It’s nothing great, he doesn’t look particularly fine, but he doesn’t look like he’s been crying. So he leaves the bathroom and goes back to his desk to work.
When Hotch gets back to work, the team throws a party for him in the conference room. Garcia bakes him cookies, and she swats Spencer’s hand away when he tries to take one.
“These are for Hotch,” she chides.
“I get shot in the leg and I don’t get any cookies? You know he’s going to hate the attention.”
“It’s cookies,” Garcia says. “Not cake.”
And she doesn’t say anything about why Hotch got cookies and Spencer got nothing, and Spencer doesn’t press the issue, he just hugs Hotch like everyone else when he finally arrives, and Hotch doesn’t outright reject the party, though, as Spencer predicted, he clearly hates the attention.
Hotch pulls him aside after the party. “I got a call from the hospital a while ago,” he says. “It went to my voicemail and I didn’t get a chance to check it for a few days, but they said it was about you. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” Spencer lies. “It was just a complication with my knee. Everything is fine.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hotch says. “No traveling until I get clearance from your doctor, okay? You can work here with Garcia in the meantime.”
Spencer wilts. “What if I get a second opinion?” he asks weakly.
“Are you the second opinion?”
“I’m a doctor!”
Hotch laughs. “Sorry, Reid.”
“It’s okay,” Spencer sighs.
“How are you doing, really?” Hotch asks, and something about the way he says it breaks something inside Spencer.
“I’m okay,” he says, looking away and ignoring the tears pricking at his eyes. “Really, I’m…I’ll be fine.”
“If you ever want to talk, please know that I’m here. I’ve missed you.”
“Thank you,” Spencer says, knowing he’ll never take Hotch up on that offer, but appreciating it nonetheless. “I’ve missed you, too. And, uh… I’m here if you ever want to talk, too. Just so you know.”
“Hotch,” JJ says, coming up behind them. “We’ve got a case.”
Life goes on.
Eventually, Spencer is allowed to travel with the team, and he graduates from crutches to a cane.
A few months later, he’s walking on his own—something no one was sure he’d ever do again.
He finally feels like a part of the team again, like himself again, and he pretends like the past few months never happened. He ignores the fact that no one visited him in the hospital. That no one even knew he was there, the second time.
He never follows up with his doctor. He never takes the antidepressants he was prescribed at the hospital.
He ignores the fact that he ever tried to die.
Emily dies.
Suddenly, the world is different. Life is different. Spencer finds himself living in a world where your best friend can be taken from you in an instant, and he knows that’s nothing new, he knows that’s the world he’s always lived in, but it feels different now.
She’s gone.
At first, he hides in his apartment, refusing to speak to anyone, to see or be seen. He sleeps and cries and considers less than ideal coping mechanisms. He sends texts to Emily, even though he knows she’ll never see them.
[I miss you.]
[I don’t understand how you can be gone.]
[We would have protected you, if you had told us.]
[I don’t know how to do this.]
He forces himself to shower and get dressed for the funeral. He carries her casket. They bury her. He doesn’t hear a word anyone says. When it’s over, he lets JJ lead him to her car, and he lets her drive him to her house and put him to bed in the guest bedroom. He can’t speak. JJ doesn’t try to force him.
Huddled under the comforter in bed, he slips his phone out of his pocket and texts Emily some more.
[I can’t believe we buried you.]
[I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.]
[I’m scared to leave JJ’s house.]
He does leave JJ’s the next day, but it’s not long before he shows back up on her doorstep, broken and sobbing, unsure how he even got there. And again, she gently leads him inside and gets him situated. Brings him a glass of water. Runs a hand through his hair while he cries.
He starts going to JJ’s whenever the cravings are too much, when he no longer trusts himself to stay safe. He doesn’t tell her that’s why he’s there. He assumes she knows.
Things get darker.
As the rest of the team seems to be getting better, Spencer is getting worse, and he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t know how to live with the ache in his chest, the inability to take a full breath. The fatigue. The headaches.
The fucking headaches.
They won’t stop, and no one can give him an answer for what’s causing them.
[I’m so scared.]
[I don’t know why I’m like this.]
[I dream about you all the time.]
[I don’t know how much longer I can do this.]
He starts showing up to work late, because he can’t force himself out of bed until he’s snoozed his alarm 10 or 12 times. It’s hard to shower, almost as hard as it was when he was on crutches, and so he just… skips it sometimes. He knows he looks like a mess, but he can’t really bring himself to care.
The rest of the team tries to reach out, but he doesn’t know what to say to them. He doesn’t know how to explain what he’s feeling, how to describe his pain. He knows he should be done grieving by now, but he just can’t seem to let it go. He knows he should tell the rest of the team about his headaches, but he can’t.
He feels desperate. He feels afraid. He feels hopeless.
His head hurts so badly.
[I can’t keep doing this.]
[You would be so ashamed of what I’ve become.]
[I’m sorry, Emily.]
The night he does it, the rest of the team is having dinner at Rossi’s. Spencer told them he couldn’t come because he wasn’t feeling well, which was not a lie.
He’s never feeling well.
Spencer reaches into the cabinet above his bathroom sink and pulls out the full vial of Dilaudid that he got from his old dealer the day Emily died. He hasn't touched it until now.
He takes a needle out of the same cabinet and sets it down next to the vial. Then he picks up his phone.
[I know you’ll never read this, but I have to say it anyway. I miss you so much, and I don’t know how to live in this world anymore. The headaches are too much, the grief is too much. I can’t think straight anymore.]
[I haven’t spoken to my mom in weeks, I’ve barely spoken to the team except about work things. I don’t know how to open myself up. I don’t know how to fix myself. I don’t recognize what I’ve become.]
[The last time I felt like this, I attempted suicide. Immediately after, I regretted what I’d done and called 911. I never told any of you guys it happened.]
[This time, I won’t be calling 911. This time it’s real.]
[I’m sorry, I just can’t do this anymore.]
[I don’t have a belief system that purports that we’ll “see each other on the other side.” I don’t believe I’ll ever see you again. I don’t believe you’re somehow reading these messages from the afterlife. I’m not sure exactly what I believe, but it’s not that.]
[Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for brightening my life. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong, or stable, or capable. I’m sorry I couldn’t just suck it up and ask for help. I’m sorry I chose to hide, instead. I’m so, so sorry.]
[Okay, here goes.]
[Goodbye, Emily.]
As Spencer draws a frighteningly large dose of narcotic into the syringe, a computer chimes across the sea, and Emily opens the text chain she’s been following since she got to Paris.
She always accesses it from an encrypted computer so her usage can’t be traced, and of course, she never, ever replies. But it helps her feel connected to her friend, and although she can’t contact her friends at home to beg them to please, please look out for him, she tries to send positive vibes out into the universe.
That night, she opens her texts and immediately feels like she’s been punched in the gut. She doesn’t even finish reading what is essentially Spencer’s suicide note - as she’s scanning it, the final message pops up on her screen: [Goodbye, Emily.]
She double checks the VPN on her computer, opens her email, and sends a message to the entire BAU team.
FROM: anonymous
SUBJECT: [URGENT] reid 911
CALL 911 TO SPENCER’S APARTMENT NOW. he is attempting suicide. delete this email.
Around Rossi’s dinner table, every cell phone chimes at the same time. Hotch grabs his first, expecting a case, and chokes on his wine when he reads the message. He’s already on the phone calling EMS when the rest of the team reads the message.
“I’m going to Spencer’s apartment,” Morgan says, jumping up from the table and running out the door before anyone can comment or protest. JJ and Penelope quickly follow.
“I’m staying on the phone with 911 until they get to him,” Hotch says to Rossi and Seaver, who are still in their chairs, stunned. “Then I’ll probably meet them at the hospital.” He shakes his head. “Fuck.”
“How did we miss—”
“Dave, I can’t right now,” Hotch interrupts, tugging at his hair. “I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
“You’re fine,” Rossi says gently. “I’m just… at a loss.”
Seaver is pale and silent.
At Spencer’s apartment, Morgan arrives just in time to see the paramedics kick down Spencer’s door. He’s lying unconscious on his living room couch, a needle on the coffee table next to him. Morgan stays out of their way as they work on him, and the whole thing is just a blur of naloxone and CPR, he can’t keep track of exactly what’s going on. All he knows is that at a certain point, they load him onto a gurney and take him out of the apartment, and once they’re gone, Morgan looks around and realizes that JJ and Garcia are right there next to him.
“We should go to the hospital,” JJ says quietly. “I’ll drive.”
Morgan and Garcia follow her in silence, holding hands tightly.
The team meets in the waiting area of the emergency room. They’re all too dazed to speak. Morgan and Garcia sit in chairs, Garcia’s head on Morgan’s shoulder. JJ paces back and forth. Hotch argues with the nurse, trying to get information since he’s Spencer’s emergency contact. Dave goes to get everyone coffee. Seaver opted to go home—she’s not as close to Spencer, to the team. She didn’t want to be in the way.
No one asks who sent the email.
Several hours later, Spencer wakes up in another white room with bad lighting. It’s devastatingly familiar. Once again, he’s hooked up to monitors and IVs, and his chest hurts.
But this time, he’s not alone.
The whole team (minus Seaver) is crammed into his hospital room, looking scared and exhausted.
Part of Spencer is absolutely humiliated that they’re seeing him like this, that they know what he did. Part of him is baffled as to how he ended up in the hospital at all. But the biggest part of him is overwhelmingly relieved that they’re there with him, because nothing is worse than waking up in the hospital alone.
“Spence?” JJ says suddenly, and she stands up and walks over to the bed. “Are you awake?”
“Mm-hmm,” Spencer hums, blinking against the fluorescence. He swallows, and his throat is scratchy. “Um… water?” he croaks.
JJ hands him a plastic tumbler with a straw and guides it to his lips. The water is cold and refreshing. It soothes his throat.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
“You scared us to death,” JJ says, her chin wobbling. “We came so close to losing you. How could you— why did you—”
“JJ,” Hotch interrupts, joining her at Spencer’s bedside. “Not right now, okay? Let’s give him a little time to wake up.”
Spencer closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“How are you feeling?” Hotch asks. “Is there anything you need?”
Spencer shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he starts to say, but when he sees the look on Hotch’s face, he tries again. “I’m… ashamed.”
“You don’t need to feel ashamed. We all love you very much, and we’re just glad you’re alright.”
“Why are you all here?” Spencer asks groggily. He doesn’t feel particularly coherent yet. His thoughts are all jumbled. He’s so tired.
“Because we care about you,” JJ says. “We’ll always be here for you.”
“Weren’t… last time,” Spencer mumbles.
“When you got shot? We tried to be, Spence, it was just really chaotic and complicated, we couldn’t all be here at once—”
“No one was here,” Spencer corrects. “At all.”
Hotch frowns. “No one was with you when you had your knee surgery?”
Spencer shakes his head. “Two surgeries. And, no.” He pauses. “And, no one was here the other time, either.”
“What other time?” JJ asks.
“The other time I tried to kill myself.” Spencer’s barely thinking about what he’s saying. He doesn’t have the energy to filter his words.
“What other time you tried to kill yourself?” Morgan demands, joining Hotch and JJ at the bed. “When was that?”
“Right after I got out of the hospital with my knee,” Spencer tells him. “No one came. It’s my fault, though. Didn’t call you.”
“The hospital should have called Hotch!” Morgan snaps.
“Hotch was recovering,” JJ realizes. “He must have missed the call.”
“It’s fine,” Spencer promises. “I got better on my own.”
“Did you, though?” comes Garcia’s sad voice from the other side of the room. “I mean, look where we are…”
In a small apartment in Paris, Emily is absolutely frantic. She has no way of knowing if the team got her message.
If they got to Spencer in time.
If he’s okay.
She paces the small space, back and forth, back and forth.
Hours go by, and eventually, her computer dings.
[Notification - Scrabble™]
CheetoBreath has played a word: ALIVE