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The first thing Spencer notices when he wakes up is that he is on the floor. Which is odd, really, because the last thing he remembers is being stood in the aisle of the jet, talking to JJ.
The second thing he notices is that his head is in somebody’s lap, and the person whose lap he is in has a hand pressed lightly against his shoulder, as if keeping him on the ground.
It doesn’t make sense.
“Spence?”
He recognises the voice and knows he should be able to put a name to it, but there’s a distinct fog in his brain making the task unreasonably difficult.
“I think he’s coming to.” Somebody else, a man, who is to his left.
He realises he hasn’t yet opened his eyes. He cracks them open and takes in the curved white ceiling of the jet above him, watching as purple and green spots dance in his field of vision.
“Hey, kid.”
Spencer recognises that voice, too.
He attempts to roll on his side, but he finds himself restrained by loose hands that prevent his movements.
“Wait, don’t move just yet, Spencer. Can you open your eyes a bit more?”
He blinks sluggishly, his eyelids feeling heavy. Eventually, he focuses on the upside-down figure of the person he’s got his head on.
JJ, his brain finally makes the connection.
“Hmm?” he croaks, his voice weaker than he’d expected it to be. “S’appened?”
JJ rubs soothing circles into his shoulder. “Are you back with us?”
Spencer blinks a few more times, eyes roaming uselessly. His gaze scans across Hotch, who is in the chair to his left, and Morgan in the chair next to him. He feels sluggish and confused, like he’s just woken up from a one-hundred year nap.
“Hey, no, stay with me,” JJ’s voice urges gently. “Don’t go to sleep.”
Spencer hadn’t even realised his eyes had shut again. He runs his tongue around his mouth aimlessly, tasting something acidic on his gums.
He’s exhausted. The pull of sleep is tempting.
“Reid.” Hotch’s voice is firm but holds an unmistakeable gentleness to it. “Can you tell us what year it is?”
Spencer has to think about that. He scrambles around in his mind but comes up dry, unable to locate the simple information in his memory. “Mm,” he mumbles noncommittally, attempting to turn onto his side but once again finding himself easily restrained.
Behind his closed eyes, Hotch, JJ and Morgan share concerned looks.
“What about where we are?” Hotch tries.
That one is easier. He can see the answer in front of him. “Jet,” he murmurs, “n’floor,” he adds for effect.
“And how are you feeling?” Derek asks this time.
Spencer considers this. He’d felt fine, really, until the question had been asked. But now he’s paying attention to his body, and the throbbing ache in his head comes back full force.
“Head hurts,” he croaks.
“Anything else?” Hotch encourages gently.
Spencer smacks his lips, running his tongue around his mouth again. The taste of bile coats his teeth and tongue. “Stomach?” he looks over at Hotch’s blurred image, trying to focus past the odd halos of light that dance across him. And then, all at once, it clicks. “Did I have a s’zure?”
“Yeah, pretty boy, you had a seizure,” Morgan confirms.
“Reid, has this happened before?” Hotch asks him. Spencer drags up the energy to reply, trying to focus on getting his slurred speech out.
That is, until the jet hits turbulence.
A shudder in the floor sends an odd sort of twisting sensation straight from his head, down his throat and to his stomach. He whines through gritted teeth, forcibly twisting onto his side as his stomach contracts and he gags, bringing up nothing but air.
He feels JJ’s hands combing through his sweaty hair and hears her shushing him gently. He collapses back onto her folded legs, panting as he regains his composure. A wet sob bubbles up in his throat. “Wanna go home,” he cries, barely noticing the tears that streak down his cheeks.
“We’re nearly home, I promise,” JJ reassures, her right hand resuming the soothing pattern of circles on his shoulder. “I wanna get you off the floor, though. Do you feel well enough to sit up? Get you to the couch?”
Spencer contemplates that. He’s still dizzyingly off centre and his vision is nothing more than a few hazy splotches covered in an odd glittering aura. But he really wants to get off the ground, and JJ wants him up too.
Without a verbal reply, he starts pushing himself up using his elbows. “Hey, alright, let me help,” JJ places a cold palm on his back, easing him into a sitting position.
The horizon of the jet tilts and swoops dizzyingly even as he sits still, and he’s certain he’s going to pass out if he can’t get it to stop soon. He feels his centre of balance take a dive and the next thing he knows he’s lying on his back again, legs stretched awkwardly out and shirt hitched up to reveal a sliver of the pale skin of his stomach.
He can tell someone is saying something, but it’s not making it past the fuzzy, high pitched buzzing in his ears. He wants to bring his hands up to cover them even though he knows the noise isn’t coming from an external stimulus, but he finds his hands too heavy to lift.
“-ence. -an you -ear me?”
The consonant sounds don’t appear to be making it past the barrier in his brain, but he gets enough information to be able to understand what’s being asked. A hand materialises in his and he clutches at it.
“Reid,” it’s Hotch. “Listen to my -oice. Has -is happened befo-? Have you -ad a seizu- before?”
“As a kid,” he’s slurring badly enough that it comes out sounding like 'skid’, and he can only hope that Hotch understands. “Then in college, couple times, s’mostly when’m sick. N’for… while. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” JJ’s voice is back, clearer than Hotch’s. “How many times, Spence?”
He should know the answer to that, but he isn’t sure. “Uh, a few? S’not… not sure. M’so… sorry.”
“There’s gonna be an ambulance waiting when we get land, Spence. I’m gonna come with you to the hospital, okay? Is there anything you want me to tell the medics?” JJ asks.
“No narcotics,” Reid mumbles, eyes drifting shut. He thinks he’s been in this position before. “Uhh… allergic to… something. Antibiotics. Penicillin?”
“Alright, I’ll let them know,” JJ soothes, “get some rest, Spence. Save your energy.”
“Mm,” Spencer mumbles, stretching his neck before settling again, silent.
“Did you see if he hit his head when he fell, JJ?” Hotch asks quietly, not taking his eyes off Reid’s still form.
“I’m not sure,” JJ answers.
Hotch’s expression twists. “I’m worried that the slurring and confusion is from concussion and not from the seizure.”
“I can’t believe this has happened before and he never thought to tell us,” Morgan comments.
JJ smiles sadly. “It’s Reid. There’s always going to be a lot we don’t know.”
“He was probably worried I’d take him out of the field if I knew.” Hotch hates that Spencer feels he has to hide his every weakness or disability like it’s some sort of personality flaw, like he expects to be replaced the moment they find out he’s even slightly defective.
“Will you?” Morgan asks, looking up. “This is dangerous, man. If he goes down when we’re taking down an unsub, he could get hurt.”
Hotch doesn’t want to agree, but he knows it’s true. “I’ll talk to him about acting responsibly in the field and being prepared for the worst. If we need to restrict what he does and when, then we will. But I want him to have a say in it.”
They lapse into silence after that, waiting patiently for the jet to land so they can cart Reid off in the waiting ambulance. The silence is interrupted when Reid shifts suddenly, his eyes opening as a short, panicked-sounding hum leaves his throat.
“Reid?” Morgan leans forward in his seat, alarmed.
Spencer breathes unevenly, swallowing repetitively. His eyes grow wide and begin to wander, his pupils blown.
“Is he having another one?” Hotch asks, pulling out his phone.
“Spence?” JJ calls loudly, placing her hand on Spencer’s breastbone, feeling the jittering muscles beneath. “He’s gonna go,” her voice is panicked.
Spencer opens his mouth to say something, but his eyes roll back and his throat constricts over a cry as his jaw starts to bob rhythmically.
“Oh God,” JJ whispers.
“I’m timing,” Hotch informs them, lifting his phone.
Spencer’s head turns into JJ’s crossed legs, his neck stiffening. Short, clipped sounds punch out of his throat as his toes point down and inwards, his hips jerking harshly. The fit increases in violence, his arms raising towards JJ’s face and spasming in time with the cries, which are suddenly accompanied by terrifying gurgles as he chokes on his own saliva, the liquid dribbling down his chin.
“We need to turn him,” Morgan is on his feet with Hotch in an instant. The two turn Spencer as best they can, letting the clear liquid drain from his mouth.
“Sorry, JJ,” Hotch cringes as the saliva pools on one of JJ’s legs.
“It’s fine, don’t worry,” JJ reassures, shuffling her position so she can support Spencer on his side better, the saliva now accumulating on the floor.
“You’re doing so well, buddy,” Morgan soothes, running a firm hand up and down Spencer’s side and feeling the quivering beneath his fingers.
“Two minutes,” Hotch reads. “Shouldn’t go over four, right?”
"Right," Morgan confirms. He dodges one of Spencer's wildly jerking legs, wincing as it instead collides with one of the jet's chairs. "Shit."
“It’s slowing,” JJ notices with relief. The tension in his muscles releases and he jerks and twitches less violently, the seizure petering off. His wet exhales settle into a steady pattern, a rhythmic blinking the only sign he’d been seizing not thirty seconds ago.
He settles fully one minute later, his breathing falling into something resembling sleep, his eyes falling shut.
“Can I get a cloth or some tissues?” JJ requests, grimacing at the cooling pool of saliva trailing out the corner of Spencer’s mouth.
Morgan stands and disappears, presumably searching his own go-bag for a facecloth or something similar. After a moment, Hotch re-adjusts Spencer so he’s supporting his own weight in the recovery position, and JJ tilts his head enough to maintain his airway unsupported.
“Here,” Morgan returns with a damp flannel, passing it to down to JJ who gives her thanks. She gently wipes the drool from Spencer’s chin and then from her own smart trousers.
The jet lands with a bump, Spencer still unconscious, breathing deeply. Within seconds of landing, there are bureau-certified medics on board, asking questions which Hotch, Morgan and JJ can only half answer.
“He told us this has happened to him before, when he was younger, but that’s all we know. He’s been a part of the bureau for years, now, and none of us know of a time when this has happened before,” Hotch informs them smoothly, helping them ease Spencer onto a gurney.
When Spencer next wakes, he’s under crisp hospital sheets.
Hotch is the one sat by his bedside. Spencer cracks his eyes open to see the stern unit chief reading a newspaper, his expression neutral.
“Hotch?” he croaks, pushing himself to a sitting position.
“Hey, Reid,” Hotch greets. He puts the paper down. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Reid answers automatically, and then finds it’s true. His head isn’t hurting nearly as much as it was, and his muscles only ache a little. “Where’s JJ?”
“She had to go pick up Henry.”
Reid’s sense of time is well and truly muddled by now. He’d thought it was early afternoon. “Oh,” he frowns.
Hotch smiles, noticing Spencer’s confusion. “It’s six pm. They gave you lorazepam so you’ve been out of it for a while.”
Ah. Lorazepam. Spencer guesses that’s why he’s not feeling particularly anxious about this whole thing.
“Yeah, that’ll wear off soon,” Hotch has humour in his eyes and Spencer wonders briefly if he’d spoken that thought aloud.
Hotch continues. “You went for an MRI scan while you were asleep.”
“Oh?” Spencer raises his eyebrows. “Did they find anything?”
“Nothing to worry about,” Hotch reassures. “They were worried because you were slurring your speech and seemed pretty confused, but they ruled that out as standard a postictal response once the MRI came back clear.”
Now he’s able to shake off the last vestiges of postictal confusion, Spencer feels the embarrassment begin to seep in. He hadn't been lying when he'd said this hadn't happened for a while. But it has happened since he’d joined the bureau, and he’d considered himself countlessly lucky up until this point that it had never happened in front of the team before.
“Reid?” Hotch must have noticed Spencer’s sudden aversion to eye-contact. Spencer rubs his feet together nervously under the covers.
“I’m sorry you had to see all that,” he murmurs softly, cheeks colouring.
“You couldn’t have helped it. I’m sure you wanted that to happen about as much as we did.”
“Am I gonna have to stop doing field work?”
And there it is, Hotch thinks, the golden question he’d been waiting for. He smiles at Reid’s predictability before his face returns to seriousness.
“Reid, look at me,” he encourages, waiting for Reid to meet his eyes before he continues. “I am not going to take you off the team. I’m not going to confine you to Quantico or even whatever field office we’re local to on a case. You’re as fit for field work as you’ve ever been, and there’s no bureau policy that says I have to limit what you do.”
Reid looks expectantly at Hotch, knowing there’s more.
“What I need you to do, however, is communicate. It’s in the open, now. I know you don’t have seizures often, so it probably feels like a huge deal when you do, but I need to stay informed about your health so I can make the right decisions in the field. That might mean making adjustments, but you will always have a say.”
“Thanks, Hotch,” Reid says softly, feeling relief mix with embarrassment and lingering tiredness.
“You’re welcome. Now get some more rest. The doctor said you’ll be pretty tired and you need to rest your muscles.”
Reid lies back down, closing his eyes. Hotch resumes reading the newspaper, and when he next looks up, Reid is sleeping soundly.