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It started out fine.
For a long time, he thought it was normal. He had always gotten headaches when he was younger if he tried to study for too long, or read a bit too fast. They hurt, of course they hurt, but it was a pain relieved by acetaminophen and a dark room and some rest.
It only started getting bad after the case in Appalachia. Missing children are always some of the most intense cases, and the stress of wondering if that little boy was even alive combined with staring at a map for hours on end did nothing for his pounding head.
Then the boy was found. Hurt, irrevocably so, but still, alive. And the headache didn't go away. It lingered, a gentle pounding on his temples. Days of soft pain before it heightened again. Heightened to the point where the light started to make his eyes hurt, and the world spun, and he couldn't eat without being sick.
He finally went to the doctor, begrudgingly, a month later. Even then, it was only after he took four sick days in less than two weeks and Hotch gave him that look that said 'take care of yourself or I'll do it for you.' And the idea of any of the team knowing about this was enough for him to make the appointment.
He hated going to doctors. They were some of the only people who had the ability to take away your right to choose. Say the wrong thing, act the wrong way, and they just section you and throw you in the psych ward. And the thoughts pounded in time with his head, compounded the pain.
What if I'm crazy?
What if I'm crazy?
What if I'm crazy?
After the MRI came back clean and the CAT scan came back clean and the doctor told him he was fine (what if I'm - ) the world spiralled a bit. His cravings were back, had been back for weeks at this point. And the doctor's suggestion of medication made him want to scream (because I want it and I need it but no I can't have it can't because then I'll never get away from -)
He filled the prescription two days later.
Three years without the benefit of modern pain relief and nearly two months of constant agony made that first day almost euphoric. He could finally think and feel and move without ripping apart at the seams. Finally able to notice that something was off with Emily even though the rest of the team had seen it weeks before. Finally able to listen to the notes from his new keyboard without feeling icepicks stabbing into his brain.
There were, of course, small repercussions to taking the medication. Every action has a reaction, although in this case he refuses to believe it's equal. The pros outweigh the cons - life without pain is a miracle, no matter what comes with it.
(I used to think that all the time before I finally gave dilaudid up because it was euphoric and beautiful and this only gives me half the amount of - )
But still, there's side effects. He can't drink alcohol, which didn't matter at all to him - he was a teetotaler for years before this. Some days he gets jitters that run up and down his hands, so he can't help but fidget and move because he has to move or else that little ball of energy in his chest will implode.
And, then, the worst out of them all.
He can't drink coffee.
Such a small thing, said by the pharmacist as an after thought, written in the smallest font on the box.
And yet, that's the thing that would end up being his downfall.
It started out innocent enough. A small comment he made during the briefing. Just a little correction, a misunderstood rhetorical question. Drawing attention to himself, while simultaneously not paying attention to all the little clues he could be giving off around the other profilers.
It was, after all, just a cup of tea.
They won't notice a cup of tea.
They notice the cup of tea.
"Four hundred and ninety eight point three?"
He startles out of his thoughts at the voice, nearly spilling hot water all over the small kitchenette counter. Somehow he managed to save his mug and the kettle, but the commotion made him trip and it was only Morgan's quick instincts that kept him from falling. He scrambled out of the half-embrace, crossing his arms.
"Morgan! Don't sneak up on me like that!"
"Reid, it's not like I was sneaking around the jet. You're just jumpy." Morgan said, leaning against the counter and grabbing a mug to make his own coffee. Black with a little cream, same as always. He felt himself wince as the hot drink steamed in front of him, making his hands shake a little harder. He would give anything for a cup of coffee right now.
Out of everything, it's the caffeine withdrawal hitting him the hardest. (Pathetic. You should know how to get through a withdrawal by now, you've done it enough times).
He knows is not a biological issue but rather a mental one, since he already has enough of the chemical in his body to prevent any physical effects. But he was still left with pounding headaches and shaky hands in the morning.
Anything was better than those migraines, though.
"What are you thinking about, kid?"
Morgan's voice cut through his thoughts, and he quickly made up an answer.
"Just this case. Normally we're lacking information, but this time it's like we have too much. There's so many ways methanol could be used, but none of them make sense as a signature, especially not in combination with the removal of the skin or the drowning. And that's before we even factor in the disposal sites and victimology."
Going back to his tea, he - carefully - finishes pouring the hot water into his mug before dropping some sugar in. He hears Morgan chuckle behind him, but firmly ignores it. Tea, like coffee, is better sweet.
"You know how these things go. It never makes any sense at the beginning, then you," Morgan reached out, ruffling his hair. He hates it when he does that, even if it makes something warm bloom in his heart. "make some genius connection and we catch the perp. I'm glad these things don't come easily to me."
Amen to that. As much as it's necessary for the case, he's not sure he really wants to know why a man would drown three women in methanol.
Sipping his tea, sighing at the comforting warmth and sweetness. He'd spent long nights when he was younger, in college, studying for exams with only a cup of coffee for company. The warmth leeching from the cup always comforts him, and makes his trembling fade a bit, his thoughts calming.
"Is that chamomile?" Morgan asks, squinting at the small tag. He nods cautiously, knowing it'd be impossible to hide, even as his heart starts to race a bit. "Since when did you drink tea?"
"Since now."
"C'mon, kid, you know you can't lie to me. I've never once seen you drink tea. Not to mention that you have enough coffee to make a normal person wired on a good day and I haven't seen you have a cup in a week."
A trickle of cool, rushing panic runs up his spine. If it was anyone else, he'd brush off the comment without a second thought. But Morgan's a profiler, a good profiler, and he's never been nearly as good of a liar.
Stop panicking. It's just tea, just tea. Deflect, direct his attention onto something else.
"You may have noticed it's the middle of the night in Los Angeles, and contrary to popular belief I am not an insomniac. I don't drink caffeine right before going to bed and I for one would actually like to get some sleep tonight." He pauses for a second, retrieving the statistic. It was an oft-used tactic of his - people stopped asking questions when they were annoyed. "Actually, there have been many studies that show drinking caffeine any later than six hours before you plan to sleep can cause you to lose an average of - "
"Okay, okay, I get it, kid. Keep your secrets." Morgan laughs, picking up his mug and starting back towards his seat. "But don't think I'm not telling the team about this. I'd put my odds on five profilers over one genius any day."
Anyone can tell that the BAU's A-team is as much of a family as one bound by blood. Seeing your co-workers practically every day and night, putting your lives in each other's hands, it creates a kind of solidarity that goes beyond partners.
But as much as he loves his team, they can make his life a living hell sometimes.
Morgan wasted no time in spreading the word about his tea habits.
And, like any group of friends, the team latched onto the rumor like it was the juciest bit of gossip they'd heard in years.
For the past three days, every time someone grabs coffee they come to his desk and pointedly ask him if he wants any. All raised eyebrows and knowing smirks. His teabags mysteriously disappeared from his go-bag one night, replaced with coffee grounds. Morgan even went so far as to leave a steaming mug on his desk, assuring him that it was full of the required sugar. He actually felt near tears when he poured it down the drain later, his hands started shaking so hard.
Knowing that they're all making a game out of it does little to assuage his panic. He keeps trying to tell himself that it's not a big deal, that it's just tea, that even if they find out it doesn't matter. But then someone asks him about it again and he feels himself move ever closer to a panic attack and he has to recite taxonomy under his breath until he calms down again.
He's currently murmuring the various types of algae that reside on coral under his breath. He hasn't been this far down the list since after Hotch's SUV blew up in New York and he was left for hours wondering if his team was even alive.
Still, he manages to keep it relatively together. They make slow progress on the case - too slow to save the next victim but progress all the same, even if his heart wrenches when he hears about the fourth body.
The answer to this case, as he feared, was nausea-inducing. He can remember cutting out those same sample sheets for his experiments in college, and can't help but see human flesh in their place.
So, it suffices to say that he's on edge. On edge enough that he can barely sit still as they're doing the final paperwork before heading to the jet. On edge enough that he manages to make it to species of carnivorous zooplankton even after he learns the last victim is stable in the ICU.
On edge enough that when he finds all the hot water in the station replaced with coffee all the feelings and thoughts festering inside him boil over the top.
Morgan just happens to be the one close enough to get burned.
"You know what, Morgan? It's none of your fucking business what I drink and why I'm drinking it! Just leave me alone!"
He can't hear - the roaring in his head blocks out whatever Morgan says. Thoughts swirling around his head faster than he can process them into words, just blank feelings of disgust and hatred and exhaustion.
Moving, stalking off, he barely manages to make it to the conference room before his knees give out and he's on the floor, hands shaking, breath panting.
They're going to find out and then they're going to know and then I won't be on the team anymore and I'll be institutionalized like Mom and I'll be alone in some room so high on meds again that I don't know what's happening, like Georgia all over again, just another addict locked up -
The thoughts flood him in a wave, a crashing, drowning wave, and it's his own thoughts making up the water, choking his mouth and burning his eyes as he desperately fights against them, only to lose any sense of up from down and left from right. It's only after many long minutes of that terrifying assault that he's able to see that the walls around him aren't the white of an institution. That he's sitting on the floor of a precinct's conference room, safe and whole and real, this is real, not a hallucination or a drug-induced fantasy.
Blankly, he notices a book on the shelf across from him. It's about basic code of conduct, covering legal procedures and various police customs, but he's read it. He's read many things. And even with his panic still mounting, he imagines opening the book. Imagines the font of the text on the paper exactly how he saw it all those years ago.
Steadily, he makes his way through the chapters, reciting the words under his breath from memory. The world stops spinning a bit, thoughts calming. He manages to make it to a chapter about fifth amendment protections before the door to the conference room opens slightly.
He jumps, in spite of himself, and feels his hands start to shake at his side, the ground under him rocking again.
"Is it alright if I come in, pretty boy?"
Morgan's voice floats past him, and he wants to say no, wants to be angry and petty and childish and refuse to talk to him. But more than that he wants his friend - needs his friend.
Needs someone to tell him he's okay.
But I'm not okay.
"Yeah,"
He hates himself for the way his words waver.
His head is resting on his knees, and he feels rather than sees Morgan sitting down next to him. They're not touching, the older profiler knows how much he hates being touched, but the same feeling of comfort and friendship is there.
Morgan is there, and that's enough.
"Are you okay? I don't think I've ever heard you swear before." He's surprised by how gentle Morgan's voice is, the kind of tone he reserves for victims and their families.
"'m fine," He sniffles a bit, tries to clear his throat to get out some of the tears hiding in his tone. "Really, I'm fine, Morgan. It's just been a hard case. I'll be out in a few minutes."
The older profiler scoffs. "Reid, I love ya, but if you think I'm going to let this go you must've lost a few of those IQ points somewhere."
He feels himself laugh a bit in spite of himself. It's sad and small and soft, but there.
"Sorry,"
"Hey, don't apologize, kid. Just tell me what's going through that head of yours."
A shot of courage gives him the power to lift his head again. And he sees Morgan's gaze, brown eyes worried and large, but knowing.
He thinks I'm using.
I'm not using.
Am I?
"Have you ever... done something you're not proud of?" His voice is a whisper. "Something really bad that you know isn't the right decision but feels like the only possible decision?"
The words hang in the air, the worry in his friend's eyes only deepening. And he can see the wheels turning Morgan's head, trying to figure out what to say. It's a small, quick show of uncertainty, but there all the same.
When he finally does speak, his words are slow. Sincere, in a way that's rare from the profiler known for his lightheartedness.
"You know you can tell me anything, right? Even if it was the most stupid thing you could've done. I won't ever, ever judge you."
"I know."
He whispers it, almost afraid of the power those words hold. Because he does know. He knows he can tell Morgan anything. That's the only reason why he went to him in the middle of the night four years ago, when the withdrawals were too much to go through himself. And if those five days after didn't show the truth in those words nothing will, even if it doesn't feel real most of the time.
But it is real. This isn't high school anymore - he's not alone.
I'm not alone.
"I... I've been having these headaches. Migraines, really. Since, uh, since the child abduction case in Pennsylvania."
The words are nearly whispered, his voice thready and uncertain. But a sense of relief washes over him once he's done, and he can feel Morgan's hand gently curl around his own.
"You seen a doctor?"
"Yeah, my primary, then three neurological specialists, an MRI, and a CAT scan." Morgan inhales, a small sound, but enough. He's shocked and scared and Reid's a little shocked and scared himself that he can tell that just from his breathing patterns and the slight shift of his hand. "They all, um, they all say I'm fine."
"Fine?"
And Morgan's pushing, pushing for information, and he knows it and part of him wants to stop and shut up and forget this conversation ever happened but it did and the words come out before he can even think of stopping them -
"It's... it's p-psychosomatic."
His voice drops to a mere murmur, remembering the words spoken under harsh white lights.
And even though it's been months since that revelation, weeks since he started taking medication, that same feeling of panic, ever-enclosing panic, still floods him.
Now he knows I'm crazy. Another crazy addict who can't help but find a way back to their vice. Once an addict, always an addict, ri - ?
He's startled out of his thoughts by Morgan's arms wrapping around him. That brief feeling of wrongness floods over him, same as every time he's touched, but it quickly fades into comforting warmth, and then he's losing himself in it, losing himself, and tears are coming down his face and the arms only tighten.
".... hey, hey, hey, it's okay, pretty boy. Just let it all out, Spence, it's okay.... "
The words are like a soundtrack, repeating, and he falls into them headfirst. Wraps his own arms as tightly around Morgan's chest as he can, even once the tears stop and he's able to breathe again.
"Sorry," He breathed out, reflexively, and feels his friend's laugh through his whole body.
"We've gotta get you to stop saying that, kid."
He bit back another apology, feeling a small smile come to his lips. And he pulls back, out of the embrace, finally feeling whole enough to make it out in one piece on his own.
Morgan eyes him up and down, brown eyes appraising. "You okay?"
And he nods back, still sniffling, pulling a tissue from his bag. He lets his hand play over the strap for a moment, comforted by the familiar feeling of the worn leather.
"I'm taking medication." His eyes are fixed squarely on the floor, but he can still imagine Morgan's eye brows shooting up. His dislike-bordering-on-fear-bordering-on-phobia of any kind of drug is not exactly a secret. "At first they tried to give me Tramadol but when I refused they put me on Fioricet. That's a, uh, acetaminophen-butalbital-caffiene synergetic. Acetaminophen is used as the pain relief, butalbital relaxes any muscle contractions, and caffeine is a central nervous system stimulant that promotes bloodflow. It's, it's helping - actually, it's helping a lot - but because of the caffeine content I can't have any extra by drinking coffee, hence the tea."
The ramble slows, even as he feels his hands start to shake and his elbow itch. And he can't help but reach a hand up scratch at it, feeling Morgan's eyes on him.
"If, uh, if you feel you have to report me I understand."
That seems to surprise the other profiler enough to say something. "Why the hell would I report you?"
He feels his legs curl in a little further on himself. "Hotch doesn't know about this, any of this, just that I've been taking more sick days than normal. And according to regulatio - "
"Kid, since when have I given a damn about regs? I'm not going to report you for keeping Hotch in the dark about this." He sighs, before turning to look at him straight on, his voice taking on that tone of 'I understand more than you can know' that makes his heart ache. "It's personal and scary and just because he's our SAIC doesn't mean he needs to know everything."
And he knows he's not just talking about his headaches but his addiction. And Buford. So he makes himself look up, focusing on those brown eyes again, even though all he wants is to disappear.
"I'm craving."
A beat of silence.
"I know."
Another beat.
"And I'm scared, Morgan." A shaky breath. A whisper. "What if I'm going crazy?"
Heartbeat speeding up, hands starting to tap against the old carpet even at the thought.
"Kid, look at me." He does - he hadn't even noticed he had closed his eyes. "You're not crazy."
"How do you - ?"
"Because I know you, Spencer." Morgan smiled, gently, a soft thing that made him blush. "What's the population of Yerington?"
"Three thousand one hundred and thrifty seven."
It took him a millisecond, less, to think of the answer, hidden away from when he memorized all the facts about all the towns in Nevada. And he felt himself calm a bit just by saying it.
Schizophrenia is characterized by disordered thoughts, trouble with memory recall. There are days where Mom can't remember her favorite book, or the town they lived in when he was nine.
It's one of the many reasons reciting statistics helps him cope with so much - it reminds him he's sane.
"You're stressed, and tired, and in pain, but you're not crazy, kid." And Morgan's smile widens, beautifully. "And I'm so proud of you."
Proud?
His surprise has to have shown on his face, because Morgan quickly continues.
"C'mon, how can I not be proud of you? You're still here, doing this job, after everything you've been through. You're happy and safe and clean and you." Morgan raises a hand to pat him on the back, waiting for the little nod he always gives. "And I've finally taught you to swear."
He feels his face heat up. "That's not fair! You got the team to gang up on me! And someone stole all the tea out of my go-bag!"
Morgan laughed, loud and real and happy. "I think that might've been Rossi."
"The point is any swearing I might have done was justified."
"Keep saying that, Spence." The older agent stood, groaning as his knees popped. "What do ya say we go to that little coffee shop around the corner? They had some of those fancy little cake-lollipop things you like. Not that I should be encouraging your sugar habit."
Standing up cautiously, relieved when the world didn't start spinning again.
"Firstly, they're called cake pops. Secondly, there have been multiple studies that's show that sugar in any form is not actually addictive. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that... "
It's not like the world suddenly is alright again - not that it ever really had been alright.
He still spends sleepless nights awake afraid that he'll see things that aren't real when he wakes. He still has days where the cravings are bad and he can barely focus on anything beyond that euphoria and heaven and painlessness it would bring. He still has days where the pounding behind his eyes starts again in time with his heart, the only relief a dark and quiet room.
But there are good days too. More good days than he can remember having in a long time.
And, sitting in that coffeeshop with Morgan, he can almost imagine it staying that way.