Chapter Text
Philip Dowd was dead. Philip Dowd was dead because Spencer Reid had killed him.
The body had long ago been rolled away in a body bag, bullet wound in his head hidden from any curious onlookers.
Spencer knew it was there, though. He didn't think he'd ever stop seeing it.
Still, he feels nothing.
Surely he should feel regret, disgust, at least sadness over the life he took. He killed him. He killed a man. And he has no overwhelming emotions to show for it.
He should probably count his blessings and try to move on, but the fact that he felt nothing was harder to deal with than any of the other feelings he'd been expecting.
All his knowledge of the stages of dealing with having to kill came to mind. Killing someone for the first time was...something; it wasn't rare, though. Unfortunately, there was a lot of information out there telling Spencer what he would (should) feel.
In theory, this was good - he knew what to expect.
In reality, this left him feeling confused when he held the door open for those expected emotions, only to realise they'd apparently stood him up. He didn't have much energy to be upset at them for not showing anyway, he was too busy trying to quiet the sound of his heart beating in his ears and the breaths reverberating in his chest.
He could feel his unsteady breaths in his ribs, too, adrenaline wearing off, allowing pain and tiredness to set in.
Spencer knew why Hotch had done it, said it- well, he did now. At first, he had almost been convinced this was Hotch’s true feelings about him finally surfacing due to the stress of the situation.
It was absurd, he knew that now. He was smart enough to realise Hotch was likely executing a plan, but in those moments, everything Spencer (knew) feared had been true.
Everyone left. If they cared at one point, Spencer would eventually do something, say something, be someone, that caused that affection to wither and die. No one could stay with him for long. Not whilst being happy that is.
Only his mother had stuck by him, and even that wasn't out of choice - and look at her now, locked up in the mental health ward, away from her home, alone and probably scared, and Spencer's dad was right-
“Are you alright?” he suppressed a flinch at the sudden disturbance to his inner monologue. Not very well, he noted, as his unit chief's brow furrowed.
He opened his mouth to say something, but all Spencer's overstimulated and frantic brain could think was that he was too close, his arms were crossed across his chest, but that didn't cover much; he was exposed.
Hotch was too close and the scrunch in his brow wasn't confusion anymore it was anger, and Hotch’s face wasn't Hotch’s face anymore it was William Reid’s, and Spencer wasn't Dr. Reid anymore; he was a scared little boy who had talked too long about the wrong thing to the wrong person, not picked up on the right social queue and embarrassed or annoyed his dad. And the hit would be coming soon, and it would be fair' a side of him he wanted to be rid of, murmured.
" I have to listen to this kid whine- ” Hotch’s voice mixed with his father's, and suddenly it didn't matter who was who because either way Spencer was weak and scared, two things he always tried not to be.
No statistic could help calm his beating heart, no knowledge that Hotch had never hurt him before (hadn't beaten him until something cracked, until he blacked out, or until he was too hurt to even sob) would stop his panic rising, choking out his lungs and stopping him from replying.
“Spencer?” The use of his first name (a rare occurrence) startled him once more and finally pulled him out of his spiralling thoughts. His heart was still beating and his breath still hurt, but he had to think.
Spencer was smart; he could think. Just think. He was a liar, capital L - he could do this, act the part. Act the part, feel the part, not feel like himself anymore. He could do this.
He called on every statistic he could find about the population and diversity of the area they were in; it did bring him comfort, even if it was small and even if he was only just realising he hadn't responded to Hotch.
“Sorry, yes, I'm fine. Sorry.” He tried to stop the apologies from sounding too weak, tried to not be pathetic. He tried to look Hotch in the eye, to try and convince Hotch and himself that his words were true. Try, try, try. Apparently, that's all he could do.
Stop. He didn't have to be so hard on himself; he needed to be calm. He was being dramatic; he should be able to have a normal conversation without deciding he was a weak, snivelling mess.
“I hope I didn't hurt you too badly.”
He hadn't, not really. His ribs were bruised, though, more from the fall and Dowd's quick kicks into his sides as he fell than from Hotch's kicks. Spencer knew the pain was mostly his imagination running wild, fueled by old fear and learned panic.
Spencer smiled and shook his head. Play the part, he was just the nerdy little kid that was innocent and uncorrupted, who knew that he wasn't any of the things Hotch said.
He is okay, he is just upset because he killed someone, he is okay because why wouldn't he? Dr Reid of the BAU was a good person. Why should he be wondering if what Hotch had said was some part of him realising who Spencer Reid, William Reid's only son, was?
He played it, forcing out a weak chuckle and a bad joke about him being a child prodigy at a Las Vegas high school. "You kick like a nine-year-old girl." He certainly didn't, but Hotch laughed nonetheless.
It was just like his magic tricks, misdirection, deflection, magic, lying, conning, whatever he called it, the same technique was at play. His mind was on autopilot, and he had nothing else to say. Hotch was content to fill the silence.
“I would have stopped kicking, but I was worried you didn't get my plan.” Hotch looked nervously at his feet, and common sense hit Spencer like a truck. This was Hotch. He trusted Hotch, he was a good man.
Shame filled Spencer and now he hated himself and the man that had made him feel this way - the man that was s till fucking with Spencer's head, managing to turn every good thing in his life to rubbish.
He hated how weak that made him feel, it shouldn't. He knew many statistics on the matter of child abuse, how it affected people, and how it wasn't their fault. Spencer was smart and capable, and he knew it wasn't his fault that this didn't make him weak.
He didn't feel it, though. He could recall every fact and figure about why his self-deprecating thoughts were normal but wrong. He couldn't believe them, not when it came to him.
There was always a reason, an exception that meant it didn't apply to him, about this and about everything else that goes wrong in his life. They didn't deserve it, they're not you. That voice whispered in his head. He shoved these conflicting thoughts aside; if he ignored them, he wouldn't have to address them - he could picture Gideon's disapproving look at that thought clear as day.
“Hotch, I understood your plan...“
Smart, capable Dr Reid, that's who he had to be. He would've picked up on the plan because he wouldn't have been thinking of his own ways to get out of this; he would have trusted Hotch to get them out. Play the part, be the part. He finished his sentence, pushing confidence into his voice, hoping it sounded right.
“...The moment you moved the hostages out of my line of sight.” It wasn't exactly true, in fact, more of an outright lie, but Hotch didn't need to know that.
Didn't need to know Spencer would have understood if Hotch was being truthful, didn't need to know Spencer would still crawl back like a kicked puppy without the sense to dodge the next blow, didn't need to know Spencer had been about ready to apologize to him , because he had been an issue all week and his dad had told him not to ask for help so much, it annoyed people, Hotch was his boss, not his dad he wasn't supposed to have to tutor him, this was his job he should be able to do it- he breathed in once more.
The rest of their conversation went by without Spencer realising it. He felt strangely disconnected from his body as he slipped away (ran away) from the paramedics as Hotch left, ignoring the conversation he heard between the medic looking over him and their partner about his condition needing monitoring.
Soon enough, he was boarding the plane, taking his usual seat with Gideon, minus the chessboard. He’d reasoned it was to talk to the older agent. It wasn't untrue, he did need his help to understand his feelings - or lack thereof about Dowd - but Spencer was also self-aware enough to know he was positioning himself so Hotch’s back was to him, and so Spencer could see the man. Just as he used to try to sit with his father.
The familiarity of feelings hurt him.
On one hand, he didn't think he was important enough to Hotch; it would necessarily hurt him, but on the other, comparing a good man to William Reid was never a nice thing to do.
Besides, he had worked hard to get here, he liked working here, and he trusted his team. He couldn't let that be taken away. He had been here a little over two years now, he was turning 20 in just a few months, and he'd known these people since he was 18. He couldn't let the trust he had built be taken away.
After a slightly comforting talk with Gideon, which helped calm most of his feelings about Dowd, and a claim of being proud of him (which definitely did not make Spencer feel the need to cry), Spencer's mind started to drift, panic lost in his exhaustion.
The plane had landed, and Spencer realised he had dozed off - definitely not good that his eyes immediately searched for Hotch, panic gripping his conscience, shaking him awake.
A hand was on his shoulder, and he visibly flinched and didn't even have a chance to hide it.
"Sorry." Hotch said, clearly thinking he'd woken Spencer, "We're here." He turned, likely to get a file he had left.
He paused, and Spencer positively shrank back into his seat when he turned around too suddenly for Spencer's dreary mind to predict.
Hotch looked taken aback, so Spencer reasoned before he had a chance to ask, "Sorry, fell asleep- minds all weird."
Hotch seemed suspicious, but Spencer could tell he mostly believed him - they always did.
Still, the doubt was more than usual. Spencer was off his game. He tried to still the spinning of his head enough to stand up and get back on his feet.
Filling the heavy silence, Hotch said, "Gideon would've woken you, but I needed to finish collecting some files from the plane and wanted to finish a report quickly in here while it was fresh in my mind, so we thought we'd let you rest for another five minutes or so." How thoughtful, he thought, then immediately felt bad for the unnecessary sarcasm.
Spencer just nodded, which proved to be a mistake because it made him nauseous.
He stood up as Hotch turned to pick up a bag and took in an involuntary sharp breath when he felt the pain in his side that he had forgotten would be there.
Hotch turned, stoic face slightly taunt at the sides. Worry, Spencer's mind supplied.
"Reid?" It wasn't loud, but it still hurt his head for some reason, the way the sounds sometimes did after a long day, where the fabrics of his clothes were suddenly uncomfortable and colours too bright. ,
"Are you okay?" he asked as he looked Spencer over.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, my legs fell asleep, I almost fell over there." The lie came easy to his lips, too easy, too familiar. He let out a chuckle, though, and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that Hotch bought it.
He didn't say anything, but Spencer could tell he was suspicious. That was fine. He just needed to get home. Then he could put an ice pack on his head, go to sleep and forget this happened.
He made his way out of the plane and winced as every step hurt more. Hotch was eyeing him now, Spencer couldn't hide his winces and almost let a cry as they got to the floor - almost.
He was practised.
Hotch spoke up, the words coming out of him with the same energy as a can of soda just being opened, as if he'd been holding in his words for a while,
"Reid, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?" Of course, he'd figured it out. Spencer wasn't exactly subtle.
Spencer had to play it off; he was so close to being able to leave and ignore this. "I already said you didn't, don't overestimate your strength, Hotch."
The last jab didn't land well as at that moment Spencer's vision blurred and he fell over, Hotch narrowly stopping his head from hitting the ground. He didn't lose consciousness; he just temporarily lost control of his body.
Could be worse, he mused - until Hotch's face came into view and Spencer felt himself grimace just before the wave of embarrassment went straight to form a blush he knew was noticeable.
"Spencer?!" His boss's alarmed voice and his first name being used spurred Spencer into action "Shit, sorry, I'm so sorry."
His habit of over-apologise only alarmed Hotch more by the looks of it, as well as his unusually vulgar language, "If you are hurt, you need to tell me. How hard did I kick? I couldn't have -" His voice was similar to when he'd talk to victims they'd deal with, concerned, filled with sympathy, but stoic nonetheless.
Spencer shrugged off his hand, attempting to stand. Hotch pushed him so he was sitting, clearly wanting answers. "I don't think it was you. I haven't been sleeping well, and haven't eaten in a while. It's probably just the shock and adrenaline wearing off. I'm fine; I just need rest." It was half true. Hotch clearly didn't believe him. Again.
"Reid-" he started, but Spencer stood up, definitely not using Hotch to help him. 'I'm fine, but tired. I just need rest." Hotch sighed. Really, there was nothing he could do.
He was his boss, not his father. He couldn't get the two confused.
An hour and about a hundred worried glances (clearly meant to be hidden, but weren't well enough) from his unit chief later, Spencer was home. Hotch had driven him there, saying he shouldn't drive or take the train alone in his 'condition'. Truthfully (despite his protests), Spencer was grateful.
He walked, well stumbled, into his apartment and went to get ice for the throbbing growing in his head. He considered re-reading a book to calm him, but found out very quickly that staying conscious for much longer would be a challenge he didn't feel up to. He needed to just calm down and sleep. He was safe, he had killed Dowd and gotten away from Hotch, who wasn't a real threat, he reminded himself. It was an act; he was getting Dowd to trust him. Spencer should've seen this the whole time; he was supposed to be smarter, quicker. He was kept around because he was smart; he couldn't not be.
Next time, he'd have to be. It had turned out fine now, but next time -
He didn't want to think about that. Wouldn't.
Despite the weariness in his bones, it took a considerable amount of time to fall asleep, anxiousness about how he had worried Hotch and images of Dowd kept his consciousness turning.
AN: could someone let me know if this chapter is too short I haven't written many fanfics before so I don't know how long they should be or what people prefer <333