Work Text:
Derek Morgan hasn’t heard from his partner in three days.
Usually, he wouldn’t worry; Spencer has an odd grudge against technology and often forgets to text or call him back— engrossed in his newest book or writing another paper— but his boyfriend usually comes up for air, assuring him that the genius is at least alive by now.
He checks his phone, texting Spencer a short, “u good?” and waiting a few minutes before sighing, switching to his conversation with Mr. Aaron, “Hotch is fine,” Hotchner.
Derek doesn’t dislike his boyfriend’s father— he’s glad Spencer has such a supportive parent— but he’s a dry texter, and he’s never seen the man smile; it’s creepy.
Derek Morgan:
hey, is spencer alright?
Hotch:
He hasn’t been home. I thought he was with you.
Derek Morgan:
nope. haven’t heard from him in a few days.
There’s a pause between messages before Hotch responds.
Hotch:
He’s at the library.
Derek Morgan:
did you ask him, or did you have Penelope track his phone?
Hotch:
I have his location.
Derek Morgan:
does he know that?
Hotch doesn’t respond, and Derek assumes that’s a no, which he would argue it’s a breach of his boyfriend’s privacy, but Spencer does tend to disappear, and his father is an FBI agent who hunts down dangerous criminals, so he understands the man’s intentions.
Derek Morgan:
i’ll check on him
Hotch:
Thanks. Keep me updated.
Derek hauls himself out of bed, throwing on a comfy grey t-shirt before grabbing his softest hoodie from his closet, knowing the library runs cold and Spencer runs colder, and his keys before making his way downstairs, calling out to his mom before leaving the house.
He finds Spencer exactly where he imagined, curled up in one of the comfy library armchairs, stacks of books surrounding him, and lap desk resting on his knees as the brunette scribbles across a page furiously— the scene is almost comforting, knowing this is where he thrives.
What he isn’t expecting is the state his boyfriend’s in; his skin is somehow paler than usual, his eyebags more pronounced, his hair unkempt and pulled back into a small ponytail, and he looks like he hasn’t left the library in the three days Derek hasn’t heard from him.
“Spence?” He doesn’t react as Derek approaches, the older boy mesmerized as he watches the brunette write at break-neck speed, dumping his racing thoughts on paper.
He crouches in front of the preoccupied genius, waving to get his attention.
“Hm?” Spencer looks up and takes out one of his earplugs when he notices his boyfriend, revealing his red, almost bloodshot eyes.
“Hey, Pretty Boy. What’re you working on?” The younger boy blinks, taking a second to process his words before shoving a piece of paper that Derek recognizes as the start of his partner’s most recent research paper, despite his awful handwriting. “Criminal psychology, huh?”
Spencer merely nods, head dropping as he returns to his work.
“Spencer,” The brunette looks annoyed as Derek interrupts again, and the older boy knows Spencer is in what he calls “The Zone,” running on fumes, his thoughts race like a roaring river, spewing statistics and displacing his body’s need for food with his brain’s desperation for more. “When’s the last time you ate?”
He shrugs, reaching for a book by his side.
“Why don’t you take a break, Pretty Boy? Maybe get something to eat and let your dad know you’re not dead.” He catches Spencer’s wrist, his grip loose to let the brunette pull away if the touch is too much.
“Can’t.” Spencer murmurs, wrenching his hand out of Derek’s grasp like the contact burns, grabbing the book and flipping through it, eyes darting back and forth across the page rapidly.
“Spencer–”
“No.” The younger boy hisses, making Derek frown, taken aback by the uncharacteristic venom dripping from his voice.
They’ve been here before— Spencer in “The Zone,” lost in his head, while Derek is powerless to stop the destruction the state leaves in its wake— the sleepless nights and long-winded, rapid rants about Spencer’s newest fixation, the sudden burst of motivation, learning new skills and devouring information, signing up for more classes than the 18-year-old could keep up with, even with his IQ and eidetic memory.
Derek has been there through the panic attacks and shutdowns that come with his partner’s overstimulation and burnout, body and brain finally cracking under the suffocating weight of unbalanced motivation— the episodes, Zones, accidents that Spencer refuses to call mania, and the crash that always follows.
And once, the major depressive episode that immediately followed the high; the days of holding Spencer and stroking his hair while his boyfriend disappeared, refusing to eat and unable to sleep until it was too much.
He was in the backseat, holding his partner’s unconscious body while Hotch drove them to the hospital; there when they stuck a tube down his nose and when Spencer woke up and sobbed until the doctors had to sedate him and put him on a saline drip to keep him from dehydrating.
Derek was there when he refused to speak to the psychologist, using energy he couldn’t spare to fight medication and a diagnosis— bipolar disorder— arguing with his father until Hotch finally caved because his son ripped his feeding tube and IV out and screamed whenever anyone got near him.
It nearly tore them apart— Derek unwilling to watch his boyfriend destroy himself but equally unwilling to walk away— until Spencer started getting better, stopped refusing to eat, and started sleeping and gaining weight until his doctors declared him physically healthy and reluctantly discharged him.
He’s been here before; he won’t go through it again.
“Fine.” The older boy stands, grabbing as many of the books as he can, carrying them to the reshelving cart as he ignores Spencer’s protests.
“Derek, stop–”
“No. I’m not doing this, Spencer,” Derek grabs another stack of books before walking away again.
“ Derek– ”
“Spencer,” He stops, staring at the brunette, now standing, his legs trembling under his weight with exhaustion. “I won’t let you do this again.”
“That was one time–” He shakes his head, returning to shelving books to occupy his hands.
“That was the worst-case scenario; this is mania, and I’m not standing by and letting you almost kill yourself again.” Spencer clenches his jaw, eyes burning as his gaze falls to the floor. “Now, I can drive you home, we can go to my house, or I’ll call your dad to pick you up, but I’m not leaving you alone. What will it be?”
He glares at Derek, watching his boyfriend replace the last of his piles before stopping in front of him, phone in hand.
“Is your mom home?” Derek nods.
“I’ll go to a cafe,” Spencer compromises, sighing indignantly. “If I get to check out a few books first.”
“Two books. If you get coffee, it’ll be decaf, and you have to get something to eat.”
The brunette’s eyes narrow, shoulders tense as he nods tersely.
“You’re carrying my things.” Derek’s face softens, a tentatively hopeful smile spreading across his face.
“Thank you, Pretty Boy,” He picks up his boyfriend’s bag, throwing an arm around Spencer’s shoulder when he doesn’t move away, pressing a quick kiss against his forehead. “I love you.”
The worst thing about Spencer’s grief is that he doesn’t remember the days leading up to it.
Despite his eidetic memory, there have always been some gaps— pictures without context or sound, like glimpses of a life that isn’t his— especially around his episodes–
–his mania, the ghost of his boyfriend’s voice helpfully supplies.
There are blanks, empty spaces, like an unfinished story destined to end tragically, no matter how many times he rearranges the fragments of time.
In the end, Derek always dies.
He always wakes up alone— without Derek, at least. It’s written in stone.
Aaron finds his son on the floor, curled up in the corner, unsettlingly still beside his constant trembling, fingers digging into his arms, nails biting into his skin, drawing blood.
“Spencer?” He keeps his voice low and steady, the voice of an agent and unit chief, but also a father who’s let his son drown for far too long— even before Derek’s death— as he approaches. “Bud? Can you hear me?”
The younger brunette doesn’t respond, burying himself in his boyfriend’s hoodie— Spencer’s favorite sweatshirt and the one Derek Morgan died in— shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut.
He doesn’t need to speak for Hotch to know where his son is right now— back at the scene on that night, performing CPR on a corpse–
Hotch shakes his head, pushing away the memory of his near-catatonic son, lost in the motions until EMTs had to pry him off of Derek’s body in favor of sitting across from him, taking a trembling hand in his.
“You’re not there, Spence; it’s over.”
He wishes his words didn’t feel like lies, burning his throat and tongue as he coaxes Spencer away from the worst day of his life, that it could be over, that he won’t keep returning to the scene every time he closes his eyes, haunting the street his boyfriend died on as if Spencer’s life ended there too. He wishes his son could forget but knows he never will; even without an eidetic memory, you never forget.
Another part of him wishes Spencer had someone to blame, some of the closure he got when George Foyet’s heart stopped, and Aaron’s stomach twists, shame curling in his gut when he realizes he wishes that Derek got killed— was another victim in the sea of faces he sees at work— and his son had someone to blame, to get back at.
Hotch wishes that day was his son’s lowest, but Derek’s death was only the start.
“Spence, can you hear me? I need you to take a deep breath.”
The worst thing about his flashbacks, at least from Hotch’s perspective, is the fact his son never panics— not outwardly, at least— never hyperventilating or breaking down until someone pulls him out of the past because he has to stay calm, has to keep counting, keep his breathing level to save Derek, counting to 30 before forcing another breath into his boyfriend’s lungs.
The younger brunette’s lips move— counting up to 30— blocking out everything else.
If Hotch had to choose one thing Spencer excels at above all else, it’s his dedication, his focus— the ability to hone in on one thing until it’s done— for better or for worse, when Spencer decides he wants to do something, get something done, learn something, he does.
Except now, he’s stuck on something out of his control, on saving a ghost, abandoning everything else, fixated on an unobtainable feat.
“Spencer.” He reaches out, just like he did that night, using his badge to get past the caution tape to the site of the accident, the sight of his son on his knees, his blood spilling on Derek’s lifeless body etched into his memory— the place everything fell apart— resting a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezing gently.
He was barely conscious then, struggling to hold himself up with his injuries, but the freshly 18-year-old kept going– kept performing CPR until the EMTs had to sedate him to get him away from the body.
“Spencer, look at me,” The teenager blinks, glancing up at Hotch, lips still moving, counting. “It’s over, Bud; you can stop now.”
Spencer’s mouth stills, grip around his arms going slack as exhaustion sets in, his body shaking violently as he slumps into his father’s arms.
“Dad.” He sobs, too tired to lift his head, his face buried in Aaron’s shoulder.
“I’ve got you, Bud. It’s going to be okay.” Spencer shakes his head, clenching his shirt.
“Can’t–” He gasps between sobs, lifting his head to let fresh air fill his lungs. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can, Spence; you’re so strong–” He shakes his head again, looking up at Hotch with wide, red-rimmed eyes, tears staining his cheeks.
“Can’t. I can’t,” The young brunette reburies himself in Aaron’s arms, muffling his words. “I need help, Dad,” followed by an impossibly smaller, “I don’t want to get better; I want to be gone.”