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Spencer is throwing his messenger bag onto his desk when the phone in his back pocket starts to ring.
The jet ride home has left him exhausted. It is late, and he wants nothing more than to return to your shared flat and fall asleep, knowing that you are safe and in his arms. Unfortunately, there is a report that needs to be finished, and he wants to put this case behind him as soon as possible.
Still, he is thrilled to see your name flashing on his phone screen, biting his lip to hold back a grin as he puts the phone up to his ear.
“Hey,” he says, his voice brighter than it has been in days. “Perfect timing, we actually just got back.”
Morgan is already teasing him from across the bullpen, but all of the background noise fades away when your voice comes through the speaker.
“Spe-Spence…” Your voice is shaking, heavy with tears, and the sound makes his blood run cold. His concerned voice calls your name, his face drawn with worry.
“What’s wrong? Is- Is everything okay?” Your heavy breathing is loud in his ear, and he knows immediately that it was a silly question.
“I don’t… I don’t know what to do,” you sob, and he feels his chest tightening. He can sense eyes on him, but he cannot bring himself to care.
“About what?” He puts one hand against his desk to steady himself, and it takes conscious effort to keep his voice calm and steady. “What- What’s wrong, m-maybe I can-”
“I have to do it, Spence,” you cry, and it kills the rest of the words in his throat. “I… I have to, I have to.” He shakes his head, staring down at his desk.
“Wh-What are you talking about?”
“I feel like- I feel like I’m dying.” The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach intensifies. “I think I’m g-gonna die.”
His body is moving before his mind can catch up, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. He ignores his fellow agents calling out to him as his feet carry him to the elevator.
“Hey, hey, no, no, no, you’re- I’m right here, okay, I’m on my way home. What makes you say that, why do you think you’re going to die?”
“I have to do it,” you repeat. “I-I have to, or, or… or I’m gonna die.” You repeat it like a mantra, like it is the only thing you know.
“Have to do what?” He shakes his head. “What do you have to do?”
“I have to bleed,” you finally choke out. “I feel- I feel sick. I feel sick and I feel like I have to cut myself open and bleed or- or I’m gonna… explode.”
The breath has long since left his lungs, and for a moment he just listens to you sobbing.
“No, no, no,” is all he can say at first, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again. “No, hey, you… You don’t have to, okay? Look, I-I’m on my way home right now, you are going to be okay, I need you to breathe. I need you to just breathe, okay, you are going to be okay.”
He can hear you whining before he even finishes talking, and his name sounds broken when it falls from your lips. The second the elevator lets him out, he is running.
“I-I can’t,” you gasp, and your voice sounds distant.
“Yes, you can,” he presses, his voice sharp with panic. “Hey, yes, you can, you just have to breathe for me.”
“I can’t, I… Spenc-ce, I have to do it, I have to do it to-to feel normal. I have to.” Your voice is panicked, frenzied, and it makes him feel sick. He tries to speak, but he is unable to get a word in as your panic increases. Unable to hold back the emotions you have been bottling up for so long, they spill out in an avalance of tears.
“I ca- I feel like if I do it, th-then I’m gonna go too far, I won’t be able to stop, a-and I’m gonna die, but if I don’t do it then I’m gonna die. I-I think something b-bad is going to happen to me, I don’t think it matters what I do. I think I’m g-gonna die. Spencer, I think I’m going to die-”
Your voice breaks off, and he does not even have time to call your name before he can hear you dry heaving on the other end of the line. He calls out to you as he clambers into his car, trembling as he shoves the key into the ignition.
“Hey- Hey, you’re not- Nothing is going to happen to you, okay? I’m on my way, I am not letting anything happen to you, y-you’re going to be okay, okay?”
You are still retching when he finishes speaking, and his brain tries desperately to fill the silence.
“Just- Just try to breathe, okay? Just sit tight, I’m on my way, please, you’re going to be okay, I am going to be right there, I promise.”
He hears quiet sobbing through the speaker, and your voice is weak when you finally speak again.
“I can’t- I can’t stop shaking, Spence, I can’t ma-make it s-stop, please, I don’t know how else to make it stop.”
“I need you to take deep breaths, okay? Just stay on the line with me, okay, I need you to keep talking. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m sorry, Spencer,” you say softly, your voice wavering. “I’m so sorry, I have to.”
Before he can open his mouth to respond, the line goes dead.
He calls your name several times, his pitch rising in desperation, before snapping his phone shut and tossing it into the passenger seat. Slamming his hands against the wheel, he picks up the pace.
As soon as he throws open the door to your apartment, he calls your name out into the silence.
The home is dark, empty – save for the crack of light coming from under the bathroom door. With his heart pounding in his chest, he runs to the light, throwing his bag down as he rushes into the room.
He feels like he is going to be sick when he sees you.
You are kneeling on the floor beside the bathtub, leaning against it with your elbows resting on the edge. He flies into action when he notices the blood covering your arms.
“Shit,” he hisses, clumsily stripping his cardigan as he drops to his knees beside you, wrapping the fabric over your wounds and pressing down. You hardly react as he moves you to face him, staring ahead without truly seeing.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, so quiet that he almost does not hear it. He shakes his head, his grip tight on your forearms.
“I had… I had to.” Your voice is tired, flat, completely void of any real emotion.
“You’re going to be okay,” is all he says, not meeting your eyes. “I’m right here, we’re going to get you help. You’re going to be alright, I-I promise.”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital.” Though you are still monotone as you say this, desperation starts to creep into your voice as you continue to speak. “It’s not that deep, it’s not that bad. We can’t afford for me to be locked away right now... A-And what will you tell everyone? I-I’ll miss work, and there won’t be anybody here to take care of things if you have to go away, a-and- and I won’t be able to see you, and…” You are starting to hyperventilate. “I-I can’t go back, Spencer, I can’t, I can’t do it, I don’t want to go aw-way again, I can’t be put away, I-”
“Hey, hey, breathe, breathe for me,” he shushes you, finally looking at your face. His expression is unreadable, but he squeezes your wrists as he speaks. You stare at him, wide-eyed with fear as your chest heaves. “You’re okay, you’re safe. I’m right here, you’re going to be okay.”
Your voice drops below a whisper.
“Please don’t make me go back.”
Spencer shakes his head slowly, trying to keep his breathing steady. He gently peels his now- soaked cardigan away from your forearms, trying to ignore how you wince as he studies the damage.
When he finally lifts his head and meets your eyes, covering your arms again, his gaze is sincere.
“Just… breathe for me, okay? I won’t make you go into the hospital; I won’t make you go through that again.” He pauses as you let out a shuddering sob, tipping your head back and closing your eyes. “I’m going to go get the first aid kit, okay? I-I’m going to clean you up, and then we’re going to talk about it. Okay?”
He waits for you to nod before loosening his grip on your arms, offering you a quiet “Wait here” as he stands. It only takes him a moment to find the kit and a roll of paper towels, and he hurries to return to the bathroom, kneeling back down beside you. Gently, he reaches out to take your arms in his hands.
“O-Okay, I’m going to turn on the water so we can clean this off, okay?” You nod, and he reaches over to turn the knob to the bathtub faucet. He adjusts it for a moment, making sure that it’s cold but not enough to hurt, before starting to pull the fabric off of your arms. Holding your wrists next to the stream of water, he pauses.
“This is, uh- It’s probably going to sting a little, I’m sorry.” You nod to acknowledge his words, closing your eyes as he nudges your arms under the water. You wince, and Spencer immediately offers a string of apologies as the tub slowly turns red. With shaking hands, he washes the drying blood off of your skin, making sure the fresh wounds are thoroughly clean before rinsing off your arms once more.
He instructs you to keep your arms under the water as he gets your dressings ready, keeping an eye out as the bleeding starts to slow.
When he is sure that you are not going to bleed out, he shuts off the water, pressing a wad of paper towels against your wrists to dry them off. Once satisfied, he swaps the paper towel out for gauze and begins to wrap your wounds. When he finally speaks again, his voice is quiet.
“You need to talk to somebody. It-It doesn’t have to be me, that’s okay, but… you, uh, you have to talk to someone about this. This is- It’s not healthy.” You are quiet for several long moments before finally responding.
“I just… I just have to do it. That’s all.”
“Y-You don’t, though.” Spencer shakes his head, furrowing his eyebrows as he looks up at you. "It’s not… It doesn’t have to be like this.” You look wholly unconvinced and he pauses, studying you for a moment before sighing. Securing the last of the tape to your wrists, he sets down the roll and looks up at you. You are staring at the wall, your expression blank. He calls your name softly.
“Can you look at me for a second?”
It takes a moment, but you slowly lift your gaze to look at his face. When he is sure that you are paying attention, he takes a deep breath and rolls up one of the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Numbly, your eyes graze over the healed track marks on his arm, at the scars that still haven’t quite gone away. Shaking, he swallows as he looks down at himself.
“W-When I was- was taken, he… he shot me full of Dilaudid. To make the pain go away. And… After I got out, after I got away, I, uh… I took it. And I kept taking it. I, uh… I wanted to forget. Everything.” He takes a deep breath as he pulls his sleeve back down, his hands shaking. “I quit. Almost eleven months ago, now. But, um… sometimes, I still feel like I need it to keep going.”
Tugging at his hands, he looks up at you. He feels small, vulnerable, but he cannot stop talking now. He knows that you need to hear him.
“You do not have to do this to feel normal,” he says softly. “It won’t get better if you keep going. It-It’ll escalate, it’ll only get worse, until-” He stops, swallowing the words in his throat. He cannot say it out loud.
Until you are dead.
You are quiet for a long time. The tension in your jaw is starting to ache, and your lip quivers when you finally speak.
“I don’t know what else to do,” you whimper. You cannot look at him anymore. “I don’t- I’ve never known anything else.”
Slowly, trying not to startle you, he reaches out and takes your hands in his. The warmth is comforting against the cold numbness in your fingers, though you don’t quite have the strength to grip his hands back.
“So we’ll figure it out,” he says gently. “Like we always do. I’ll be right here the whole way; you are never, never fighting alone. Not while I can help it. I’ll- I’ll do whatever I have to to make sure you’re okay.” He squeezes your hands, meeting your eyes when you finally lift your head again.
“I love you.” He offers you a faint smile. “Always. I-I have ever since I met you. And that isn’t going to change just because you’re hurting. You need help, and- and we’re gonna get it, okay? You are going to be alright, I’ll be right here the whole way. I promise.”
You bite the inside of your lip to hold back the tears as you nod.
“Here,” he says softly, releasing your hands to open his arms. He doesn’t have to offer twice; you almost throw yourself at him, burying your face against his collarbone as you tremble. Spencer wraps his arms tightly around you, like he is scared that you will disappear if he doesn’t hold you close enough. One hand runs a gentle pattern up and down your back as he rests his chin on your head.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “I promise.”