Work Text:
Spencer was 2 months sober when he first felt an itch in his stomach. It festered in his gut, swirling around like something wanting to be let out. It danced in the darkness and cherished the light. It knotted in on itself, over and over again, choking him up.
It felt dark somehow, a gaping hole left out in the open. As if Hankel had given him an unhealable wound; as if a hound dog was following him around everywhere, ready to pounce.
He tried to ignore it. Occupy himself with other things. Work, he needed to work. His hands started shaking even more than usual. It scared him, his hands almost shook as much as his moms did. They shook as if they needed something to hold on to. So hold he did, he held his case files close to his chest, and he never let them go. Maybe if he solved a few more cases, if he distracted himself, all of this would go away.
It didn't.
It was like he was on a ledge, one misstep and he would fall to his death. He could feel the wind whistling through the empty cliff, urging him to jump. Just jump. Then everything would be over.
Someone kept shoving him, pushing him forward. He would push back, grasping for anything to keep him in place. It never seemed to work, and as days passed, he started to see his ruin just a few inches away.
It felt futile; stupid for trying to resist it.
He was on edge all the time, jumping up whenever sounds became too loud. His eyes franticly looking around whenever his doorbell rang, whenever someone called out his name. He couldn't understand what was happening to him. His skin felt uncomfortable on his body like it wasn't his. All he wanted to do was grab a loose part of it and tear it off.
Tear it off, so he wouldn't have to live with himself anymore.
He couldn't name what was happening to him. He had gone through the withdrawal. He had. He remembers clearly the way he shook and the way he could barely think clearly for days. But this. This was something worse. He could deal with fevers, running to the bathroom to vomit at ungodly hours.
He couldn't handle this. He just wanted all of this to be over. Then, he could ignore what had happened to him 'till the day they dig his grave.
Spencer had always been great at understanding things. He used to describe things to his mother when he was smaller. Sometimes his mom would stare off at a blank wall, eyes glossed over. It could happen anytime; in front of the tv, at the check out in their local grocery store. She would just suddenly... freeze. It was like she suddenly fell asleep. Spencer could scream all he wanted, push her around, call her name out, it wouldn't change anything.
Spencer learned to tell her signs; eyes twitching, fidgeting, restlessness. He always found a way to chase it out, even for a couple of hours. Describing things around her made her come to her senses. A white wall with peeling paint. Looks about 20 years old, and started yellowing from years of sun exposure. An old television, constantly glitching due to its age, on top of the box-like tv lays embroideries his mom makes whenever she's manic. Blood prickled fingers, shaking, trying to get the needle into a specific hole.
His soft voice and descriptions could get her to blink a few times. Maybe squeeze his hand. That was enough for Spencer.
But now, he couldn't understand what was happening for the life of him. Spencer was a rational person. He was supposed to be the best in the field, solely for the way he understood things.
He was supposed to be, but right now, he was laying in bed at 5 in the morning not having slept at all.
When he was a kid, he used to sneak into his mom's bed. Somehow, even though they had the same shitty mattress bought from a thrift store, hers felt softer. Warmer. He doesn't have his mom now. He hasn't had her for a long time. Now, he rolls over and sighs.
He reaches over to his nightstand. Hand hesitating for a moment in the air, then getting his cigarettes from the drawer. Spencer doesn't smoke anymore. He had to quit when he started working at the BAU. But sometimes, whenever cases felt much bigger than him, bigger than he could ever tackle, he would go outside and let the smoke fill his lungs.
—
The next morning, he came into work smelling of cigarettes. Morgan eyed him but didn't dare to say anything. Everybody knew he was off, ever since the Hankel case. He knew that they knew because he was constantly being treated like a wild animal. They kept their distance. Never looking at him in the eye, never glancing over at him too long. They knew he would pounce the moment they came too close.
He couldn't dare to utter a word. Would someone bring up the fact that he smelled of heavy smoke? Would they finally call him out? He felt Morgan's stare. He kept trying to meet his eyes, looking at him with furrowed brows.
Spencer didn't look back.
He couldn't even look up without being plagued with guilt so deep he drowned in it.
Morgan, who flushed his cigarettes down the drain when he found out; who got him nicotine patches, gave him gum in case he wanted a cigarette in his mouth. Morgan, who loved him more fiercely than anyone he had ever met.
He let out a breath and suddenly stood up from his chair. It made a deafening squeaking noise against the stone floors so loud that everyone's heads whipped towards him.
His eyes looked everyone over, breath shaky. He cleared his throat and tried to relax his tense shoulders.
"I'm going out for some fresh air," he said. He sounded ever so uncertain, even to him.
Everyone was looking at him oddly. Suddenly, he could feel his jacket brushing over his skin, the taps of Garcia's pen, the fluorescent lights being too bright, the humming sound of everyone's computers, it all made him want to bash his head into a wall.
He balled up his hands into fists and bit his mouth as hard as he could. He could feel the silvery taste of blood now, which made him even more uncomfortable. He was barely holding himself back from running to the bathroom and throwing up. It was the same blood that trickled out of countless people they couldn't save. He wondered what they would think of him now. Nearly crying from the taste of blood. Was this the guy who was supposed to save them?
Hotch broke the silence.
Dipping his head slowly, "Sure, try to be back in a few hours." he said.
And then, Spencer was nodding and dashing out of the room. He ran outside, not aware of his surrounding in the slightest. Everything became blurry to him, running in a haze. When the cold January air finally hit him and bit at his warm skin, he felt like he could breathe. He took a deep breath, urging himself not to let the tears that were welling in his eyes to drop.
The door he presumably came out of opened with a creak again. He wondered who it was. Morgan, JJ, Gideon? He whipped his head back, looking back, back, back. Back towards someone that came out looking for him.
Penelope Garcia was standing in front of him with furrowed eyebrows and a down-turned mouth. She tilted her head.
"Hi, Spencer."
Spencer turned his body fully towards Garcia and waved. It was hardly a wave, with his hand only a few inches up and his fidgeting fingers stopping him from actually opening his palm.
"Why don't we go for a walk a bit?" she said, and her voice was quiet.
Spencer realized belatedly that Penelope Garcia was never quiet. She might whisper, her voice might shake, but she was never quiet.
Spencer tried to respond, and tried to will his vocal cords to work when he needed them, but he couldn't. So instead, he nodded.
Garcia held out her hand. Spencer flinched away, just like the wild animal he was, fur ruffled up.
Spencer looked down and stared at her hand.
He took it.
Garcia started walking down the street, dragging Spencer with her. He felt calm for the first time in a long while. Her hands were sweaty, and her nails dug into his hand, but he wasn't bothered. They made him feel alive. Spencer had always had unusually cold skin for a 24-year-old and he liked to leech off of human heaters. Like Garcia.
Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt in his chest. He had worried Garcia. God, why couldn't he just be normal? Why couldn't he handle a bit of pressure without completely breaking down? Why was he so weak?
Garcia squeezed his hand, chasing his thoughts away. The guilt stayed, hallowed. Spencer let out a shaky breath.
He kept his eyes down. Staring at the changing pavement, he tried to step inside the grey squares.
When the pavement turned into wet grass, he finally looked up. Garcia kept walking with his hand in hers, ever so silent. When she found what she seemed to be looking for, she sat down in front of it. A pond, with brown ducks and colorful fishes before her. The grass was wet, and suddenly Spencer could talk.
"Garcia, the grass is muddy, it rained-" he tried to say, get out the words fact before the mud could really stick to her glittery blue dress.
Suddenly, Spencer heard a few giggles slip out of her mouth. She was covering her mouth with her hands, urging herself to stop the giggles slipping out of her.
"What?" Spencer tried to say, and god, what was he missing? What context was he always missing?
Garcia smiled up at him and Spencer saw a lint of misheviousness in her eyes. Fox-like eyes looked up at him and suddenly, he felt as if he wasn't the only feral animal around.
In a grace that only foxes move like, garcia threw out her hands. Before he could say anything about it, Spencer was being garbed by his shins with such a strong force that it knocked him to the ground. He fell rather forcefully on the grass and he could feel the cold mud seeping into his jeans. He winced, he hated wet things.
She moved her head towards him and whispered while trying to hide the grin that had taken over her face in full force. "Washing machines are a thing of the 21st century Spencer. You might not like the digital notes i give everyone, but I sure as hell am not washing my dress with my own two hands. These beauties are reserved for more special occasions."
Spencer scoffed, "And what might that be?" but he knew his up-turned lips gave him away to Garcia.
"Like holding your hand," Garcia said in such a serious voice that it made Spencer crack a smile. "My little baby brother needs his hand holding," she said, nodding her head.
Spencer gasped in mock outrage and hit her shoulder. "I am not little" he hissed.
Garcia roared out a laugh, and soon Spencer joined, albeit hesitantly.
The swirling knot in his gut loosened for a few seconds, and he felt light. As if Garcia ever stopped holding him down onto the earth, he would float up, up, up, towards the sky.
Wild animals like him weren't used to the skies. They were used to running, running with bare paws and the wind in their back. He didn't understand the skies. It seemed to be a recurring theme in Spencer's life recently, not understanding things.
Suddenly, Garcia's smile fell. And with that, he could feel the swirling need in his gut again, making him jittery.
She turned towards him, and this time it actually felt serious. Garcia's eyebrows furrowed.
"Spencer, how have you been feeling?"
Spencer didn't answer. Fidgeting with his hands, he thought about telling Garcia what had happened two months ago. He thought about what she would say. Would she be terrified, that he didn't tell anyone? Would she be angry, demanding him to let the others know?
Spencer decided he didn't want to find out. At least not today.
"I don't want to- I don't want to talk about this Garcia," he said quietly. For the first time today, his voice didn't waver or break. He felt safe, even when he was outright ignoring Garcia's question.
Garcia nodded to his answer but she didn't look dejected. Something akin to guilt flashed in her eyes, but before Spencer could call her out for it, her eyes cleared over. Now, it was replaced with understanding.
"That's okay Spencer. Just… just know I'm always here," she said. He knew Garcia wasn't equipped for this, equipped with helping him. A fox could do nothing to help a feral animal.
It didn't stop her words from putting balm on his wounds.
"You would tell me, right? If something was seriously wrong?
Spencer knew that in due time, he would tell her. He didn't know when, but he knew that he would, eventually.
"Yeah, I would. Of course I would."
Garcia wasn't looking at him now, instead looking up at the sky. She was pulling out grass from its roots with her unoccupied hand, making her fingertips muddy. With the other, she was holding her hand up, shielding her eyes from the sun.
"You better," she replied.
Spencer, the feral animal, looked up toward the sky too.