Chapter Text
"Let me kick the snot out of this kid." Spencer wanted to move, to look at Hotch, but he couldn't; his head was locked in place. Eyes glued to the man he hasn't seen in years, currently standing across from Dowd.
His father stared.
He stared back.
Hotch was throwing him to the floor, punches now being thrown at Spencer. No, wait, this didn't happen.
This isn't how it happened, he thinks he was shouting it.
Hotch didn't listen.
Dowed smiled. His dad stared.
His team, who were now staring at him through the observation glass, smiled. Why?
Hotch was yelling, but it wasn't his voice. "Think you're tough?" He'd heard that many times, when he'd keep quiet, he was just trying to not wake his mum; if he made a noise, she might hear. But if he didn't, surely his dad, no - Hotch. Hotch was the one yelling at him; he was the one who would get angry if he tried to hold back his reactions, wait- that made no sense. Why did Hotch care?
He didn't know what to do.
All he could think was that this wasn't how it happened. What was he supposed to do? This didn't happen, this didn't happen, this didn't -
He must've been yelling it out loud because moments later, he woke up to the sound of his voice, and his throat was sore.
He lay there for a moment, breathing heavily, covered in sweat, and his entire body shaking.
He turned to the clock on his mantle, 3:30 am.
He calmed himself, steadying his breathing and slowing his heart rate enough to function - something he had learned to do by himself, something he had practice doing by now.
He got up, had a shower, and went to get dressed, trying to forget his dream while knowing it wouldn't work.
He was starting to notice the pain in his side, and he walked to the mirror to see how bad the bruises were. He'd had a day off since he'd shot and killed Dowd, more for the paperwork to confirm it was a good shot to go through than anything relating to his injuries. He hadn't looked to see how they were healing.
Oh.
The left side of his ribs was covered in black, blues, and yellows. His eye was starting to turn darker too, the few cuts on his face were sealing over, leaving angry red lines across his lips and cheek.
He didn't look great. Hotch hadn't even kicked that hard, had he? It was likely from Dowd; he almost slipped out of consciousness from the hit to his head, so his memory was blurry, but he knew Dowd had gotten a good few kicks in, fueled by his slight panic and anger over being caught before he had gone into the main room and revealed himself.
He put on clothes and reached for some pain meds he had in his first aid kit. That's all he'd need, that and some coffee.
He made his way to work early and hoped his face would miraculously heal on the way, that his (unreasonable) shaking wasn't visible, and that the slight tilt that accompanied his vision would go away soon .
Gideon was already in his office, and so was Hotch. The first year he'd worked here, he and Gideon often came into work together .
Sometimes they still did, but today Spencer had wanted privacy on his way here. He was anxious about being at work, partly because both Hotch and Gideon had told him to take the next few days off - at least 3 had been the consensus.
"Get your head on straight." Gideon had said, and Hotch had decided to give him time off after Spencer almost passed out on him when they got off the jet. He hadn't wanted to be alone another day - if the paperwork was done , he didn't need to stay off work. He was starting to think that was a mistake. His team wasn't all here yet, but the officers around him were chatting and giving him a headache; so were the fluorescent lights of the office.
He got some paperwork done, being somewhat productive - until he saw Elle enter and practically ran to the bathroom.
Until he saw his team, he hadn't thought about the questions that would likely follow. For some reason, he'd been operating under the assumption they knew what had happened with Dowd. Now he realised they didn't.
They knew he'd shot him; they knew somehow he'd been hurt slightly. No one knew how, by whom , or how bad. No, Hotch would have explained, right?
He needed to calm down, he just needed to check his face, see how bad it was.
It was noticeable. Not bad , but noticeable.
The thought sent an uneasy feeling down his spine. He remembered when he was a kid, he'd had to cover up the bruises and cuts; he'd used his mom's concealer, which had roughly the same shade. It had been out of necessity, but it had helped too. The thought that it was hidden away, he could ignore it, almost forget it for a while.
"Spencer?" Elle's voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him into motion. He readjusted his hair, hid the worst bruise on his forehead, and went to open the door.
"Yeah? You know this is the men's bathroom, right ?" He added the last part to try to lighten the instant heavy mood that was created when Elle saw him.
" Whoa , you alright? That looks pretty nasty?" The last statement was more of a question.
"I'm fine, it looks worse than it is." She raised a brow but didn't say anything. He filled the silence, "Did you need something?" She took a second, seemingly trying to read him.
"No, I just saw you rush to the bathroom when you saw me. " He knew he hadn't been subtle, but he still hoped she wouldn't notice. "
You were in there for a while, I was worried you were sick or something." How long had he spent staring at himself in the mirror?
She was worried? That thought probably shouldn't make him feel as happy as it did; he didn't want her - anyone - to worry over him. "I'm fine. Sorry for worrying you, I just - " He didn't have an excuse, but he was good at misdirection, distraction, making people focus on something else until they forgot what they'd been worried about at first, or assumed that they'd fixed it.
However , his mind was blank right now; he didn't know if it was due to the slight lightheadedness and the feeling of dread deep in his stomach that had accompanied him since yesterday. Or whether it was Elle's eyes, how they seemed trained on his, seeming to pierce through his eyes and see directly into his brain, as if she already knew the answer to her (and his) questions, as if she was simply trying to see what his response would be - or maybe she already knew that too.
Her dark eyes bore into his own, and he tried to decipher why it felt more comforting than uncomfortable.
"Sorry, what did you ask?" Elle blinked, confusion clear on her face. "Nothing, " She paused, chuckling slightly as Spencer's face heated, "You were explaining why you ran to hide from me in here." She gestured to the room behind him; they'd both moved in now, Elle having locked the door behind them.
Oh, right, he couldn't lie to her, that's what his ramble about her eyes had been about. He couldn't tell the complete truth, either. How would he explain that?
"I- " He breathed, she waited, her dark eyes questioning him, "My face doesn't hurt, but it's... uncomfortable having everyone be able to see. I was just worried about people asking questions." Elle nodded, she hummed, looking over his face, a cold hand coming to move the pieces of hair he was using to cover the worst bruise, out of the way. He did the best he could to not move, lest she remove her hand from his face. It was cooling the burning that had hit his face since his mini-confession. In that moment, he didn't quite understand books' obsession with describing the warmth of physical contact as a comfort.
She seemed to study it for a moment. Then removed it from his face. He instantly missed its comfort.
"I don't have anything on me that could help cover it up .
Maybe later, when Garcia comes in, I can ask if she has any concealer. " He was about to tell her not to bother when she interrupted him before he could vocalise his thoughts, "Don't worry about it, I won't say it's for you."
He smiled and gave in, "Thank you."
"In the meantime, I'm sure no one will question too much . We get it may not be fun to talk about right now." He smiled . The anxiousness was still there, but he had to admit she'd helped.
His worry was there, but...soothed slightly, for now at least.
"Oh, and if that concussion gets worse, go to the doctor," She added as she passed by him to leave the bathroom . Of course, she had figured that out : "Don't want you passing out on me." She winked and left the room with a grin that left Spencer frozen for a second . He felt a smile creep its way to his face despite his worries.
Elle was right, he got a few "Hey kid, you alright?" from Morgan and many worried glances from JJ, but no one pushed. Garcia wasn't in yet, Spencer couldn't remember if she would be today, and he should. He remembered everything. They were doing paperwork, well, the others were. Spencer was restless.
He needed to do work; he felt panic over how little he’d done, but at the same time, sitting here writing and reading files didn’t ease the anxiety as he’d hoped.
He was tapping his pen on the table - he had been for a while . It was slow and dependable, unlike his heartbeat, which was once again speeding up.
Was he dying? Why did his head feel so light? He thinks he was sweating, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was tired. He waited a few moments, steadying his breathing and trying to quell his nausea. He got up to get some coffee.
He was adding sugar to his cup when he heard Hotch’s voice, making him jump, “Morning, Reid .” It was a polite and normal occurrence.
“Morning.” He said, his voice shook a bit. He hoped his boss didn’t notice. He looked up as he finished making his drink. Hotch was closer than he thought. To close, to close, to close too-
His breathing was uneven; he flashed Hotch a wavering smile before leaving the room, a bit too fast to be casual, and heading once again to the bathroom.
What was wrong with him? He couldn’t even be in the same room as Hotch now?
He was an FBI agent; he should be able to deal with this. He was him, he was supposed to know better. Hotch wasn’t going to hurt him. He knew that - no, he should know that.
He couldn’t be like this, he had to get over it, or at least deal with it.
His father's voice played out in his head, mixing again with Hotchs, “He's made my life miserable for two, lousy years.”
Breathe in
Breath out
He was back at his desk now, avoiding concerned gazes from Morgan and Elle.
Reid jumped as a hand touched his shoulder, he couldn't even hide it. He looked up to see Hotch, his face unreadable, except for maybe a bit of surprise. He couldn’t even apologise , he was trying to control his breathing and focus on quelling the sick feeling once again in his stomach, as well as the self-deprecating thoughts swirling around his head, as well as the memories - flashbacks, his mind supplied.
“You left your coffee,” Hotch said, his voice soft and calming, again the voice he used on the victims they dealt with and their families. He hated it.
He looked at the cup Hotch was holding. If he reached out for it he thinks he’d be shaking, he’d spill it and the Hotch would be mad - dad always hated how clumsy he was, crash they'd call him, despite the fact half of those things were broken cause Hotch threw him (no- his dad threw him) into it but dad didn't care he'd still-.
Hotch wordlessly put the coffee down and pulled a chair up to Ried's desk, far enough away that it was comfortable but close enough no one else heard when Hotch asked, “Are you okay?” Spencer had the sense to act confused, “ Yeah, I'm fine, hotch.” He looked at him sceptically. He then let his eyes wander across Spencer's face, a crease forming on his forehead.
“Your face is bruised pretty badly. “ He noted, he didn't elaborate, didn't ask a question, or give an order. Spencer just shrugged and turned back to his file. Then, as a last-second thought, he said , “Thanks for bringing my coffee.” He ignored the pain that shot through his sides as he reached over for it, starting to trust his hands again.
“Reid, what's bothering you?” Spencer sighed . Clearly , ignoring people's concerns wasn’t working. That's fine, he could try misdirection. Like a magician or pickpocket diverting your attention during a sleight of hand.
“I just- “ He paused, acting as though he was revealing some deep, shameful secret, he wasn’t, “I killed him.” He stated, as though Hotch hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen it. Hotch nodded, sighing slightly - he had expected that. “You did what you had to. If you hadn’t, people - good people- could've died. I wouldn’t have gone home to Halyey and Jack if you hadn’t.” It was similar to the speech Gideon had given him; it helped. As much as fixing a paper cut over a broken bone helped. That was mostly healed, but clearly, he had bigger problems.
Hotch gave more empty reassurances and asked again if Spencer needed the next few days off. Spencer had gone back hoping it would distract him from his growing anxiety, usually, it would; he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the thoughts, and it made him feel useful, which eased his nerves. Today, however, it had not.
He wasn't doing a great job hi ding how he was feeling, and he'd rather deal with being alone for a few days than deal with explaining it to his team.
He sheepishly accepted the offer, saying he’d just take the rest of today and maybe tomorrow off; after a quick goodbye to Gideon and a quick wave to Elle, he left.
He had read a few books, slept for a few hours, and drank more water than he usually did in a week. It didn't stop the room from spinning.
As if on queue, his phone buzzed with a text from Elle.
"I know you hate doctors, but that concussion likely hasn't faded. You are taking the next few days off anyway, so you should see a doctor. Just a check-up, they can make sure you don't get brain damage." Who told her he was taking the next few days off? His phone beeped again,
"We have to protect that brain of yours, genius ;)"
He smiled. He decided to listen, kind of. He'd sleep, and if he felt the same tomorrow, he'd get checked up.
He did.
They checked him over, decided he should be fine, and prescribed some pain and anti-nausea meds. He avoided mentioning his ribs. The concussion was from Dowd; his ribs were (mostly) from Hotch. Getting them treated would make it more real, besides, it wasn't necessary.
He let Hotch know about his concussion; he had the rest of the week off, if necessary.
Gideon had shown up without an invitation or warning on his third (and last) day off. He he l d up a bag of takeout and walked past Reid into his apartment without explanation.
They'd ended up watching a Poirot adaptation, making meaningless small talk about the movie.
There was a temporary lull in the pacing of the movie, and Gideon seized the opportunity .
"You know Hotch would never hurt you." With anyone else, Spencer would take it as a question, he knew from Jason that it was a statement.
"I do. That doesn't mean much."
"Not when he did."Gideon nodded, his tone was gentle, but the words cut Spencer anyway.
"I know why he did. I'm fine, we don't need this conversation." Gideon just stared.
"You should talk to him." Spencer didn't make eye contact, he shrugged noncommittally . Gideon stared at him for a moment , but Spencer saw out of the corner of his eye when Gideon slumped , looking back towards the screen. He knew he'd got out of this one. He wished he felt relieved rather than disappointed .
"If you need anything, I'm here." That promise had started feeling empty a while ago now. Maybe after Boston, maybe that was just when Gideon noticed it too.
Specner didn't respond.