Chapter Text
The walls of Spencer’s room are blue.
Not bright blue— the color of the sky on a clear day at noon— not Derek’s favorite color.
It’s a light, cloudy blue, and Spencer can almost imagine he’s looking sky through a thin layer of fog in the morning, tinting Derek Blue, sitting on an old blanket in a field near his house, his head in his boyfriend’s lap, peering over the pages of his book at the older teenager.
He can almost feel Derek’s warm hands cupping his cheeks, grinning at him, saying, “I love you, Pretty Boy.”
He can almost forget Derek isn’t there, that he isn’t hanging on to the ghost of his boyfriend, refusing to accept that he’s gone because Spencer might lose whatever shreds of him remain if he does, bits of genius blowing away in the wind.
He’s vaguely aware of someone speaking to him— a psychologist, probably— the ever-counting clock in his subconscious reminding him that he’s been here for two days, silent and unmoving.
Two days.
Two days ago, he chose to come here, desperate to get away from the place Derek considered a second home— the house that used to be his home until every feeling of comfort it provided died with his boyfriend— the memories of his boyfriend suffocating him.
It took him two days to wake up from his first overdose, exhausted and in pain, his dad reading Proust with Alex by his side.
He wasn’t expecting this place to magically cure him— to rid him of the suffocating grief buried in his chest, the same way they buried Derek in the ground— but he thought he’d feel better, getting out of a house that memories of Derek haunt.
But memories of his boyfriend haunt him too, Derek’s ghost lingering in the maze of book-lined halls of his brain, corrupting every memory he used to treasure.
It’s all ruined, every moment tainted with grief, just like him.
He pulls the hood of Derek’s sweatshirt over his head, the drawstring removed after he refused to take it off, and brings his knees to his chest, curling into a ball of grief.
The psychologist says something he doesn’t hear— he doesn’t care enough to listen— before exiting the room, leaving Spencer to his thoughts.
They give him a feeding tube on the third day.
Spencer isn’t surprised; he doesn’t fight it.
He stares at the ceiling, remembering the last time he was in a situation like this— too exhausted to move, Derek’s clothes draped over his lithe form, tube forcing nutrients into his stomach.
Derek was there last time. He isn’t now.
His dad was there too. He isn’t now.
Spencer is alone.
The ceiling is white.
“How are you feeling today, Spencer?” A distant voice asks.
He blinks, glancing at the source of the noise— a tall woman with blonde hair and silver-framed glasses— and shrugs, already exhausted with the small movements, the listening, not getting lost in his head.
He can tell his response— the fact he even responded— surprises her. She hides it well, keeping her face neutral, but even in his state, Spencer can tell; his dad taught him how to read body language proficiently, a skill that didn’t come naturally to either of them.
“I know you’re tired, so I’ll try to keep this short and stick to yes or no questions. Is that okay?”
Spencer nods, not fully processing the woman’s words, just knowing she expects something of him, and the sooner she’s happy with his “progress,” the sooner he gets to go home.
Home.
His mind wanders, imagining Derek in his bed, on the couch, in the kitchen making pancakes–
“–feeling better than yesterday?”
Better? Is he feeling better?
It’s hard to tell what’s “better” or “worse” when everything is awful.
Better? No.
Better means Derek is alive; the bare minimum to feel okay— for his world to stop crumbling around him— again.
Spencer shakes his head.
“Worse?”
Worse? Does he feel worse?
He doesn’t feel anything, but Derek is still dead, and Spencer is alone; it can’t get much worse than that.
Maybe this is finally his rock bottom after falling for so long.
He shakes his head.
“That’s good–”
Is it?
“Do you want to hurt yourself?”
Hurt himself? No.
That’s too much work for something so temporary.
Everything he does fades eventually— he’ll always feel hollow— it’s not worth the work, the look on his dad’s face, the look on Derek’s–
Derek is gone.
They buried him.
Derek is gone.
He shakes his head.
“Do you want to die?”
Yes.
It’s like an itch in the back of his head he can never scratch, the urge to disappear, fade away, melt into the ground beside his boyfriend, six feet beneath upturned Earth, but the exhaustion weighs him down, tethering him to a world without Derek.
He wants to die; Derek’s death didn’t cause that.
He doesn’t remember when it started, the itch, the urge to be gone, only that it’s the only constant in his ever-changing, shifting, fucked up life.
“Spencer?”
He can’t nod and move on; he has to explain himself— tell the woman it’s more than a want, it’s a need— but he can’t.
Instead, he doesn’t answer.
He turns his head away from the psychologist, eyes burning with shame— a shame beaten into him— and he focuses on damning his sobs because he doesn’t have the energy to cry and keep his breathing steady.
He wants to die.
The psychologist speaks, but he isn’t listening anymore.
He lays down in the grave he’s spent the last two years digging for himself, letting the drugs and alcohol, the running away and lashing out, panic attacks, flashbacks, shutdowns, self-harm, and suicide attempts bury him.
The dirt is cool and damp against his skin, extinguishing the burning desire to be gone.
Yes, he wants to die.
The doctor— Natalie— suggests medication on the fourth day.
He’s feeling slightly better after 24 hours on a steady drip of nutrients and a Gatorade, though the exhaustion is still bone-deep, filling the space Derek once occupied in his chest.
Spencer used to fight tooth and nail against medication, terrified it would trigger something— whether it’s his mother’s schizophrenia or William Reid’s anger— in him or that it would strip away parts of him, changing and reshaping him into something he doesn’t recognize.
Logically, he knows that’s not how medications like antidepressants work— it won’t change who he is fundamentally, just how his brain processes and produces different chemicals— but what if he’s an outlier? He’s never been like everyone else, standing out— “extraordinary,” his mom called him— in so many ways; what if this is another thing that sets him apart?
Now, however, he doesn’t recognize himself— once a genius, son, boyfriend, now a suicidal addict— he’s changed so much in the past two years, warping, ruining his image; what’s the worst that could happen?
“What would you recommend for me?”
After a long, grueling discussion about his symptoms, family and personal history, side effects, and concerns, taking breaks when Spencer can’t stop shaking, thoughts thickening like mud, making it impossible to continue, they settle on starting with an antipsychotic since they typically take effect faster than most mood stabilizers, a standard starting point for bipolar disorder.
By the end of their conversation, Spencer is curled up in Derek’s sweatshirt, knees to his chest and hood over his head, communicating through rudimentary ASL and simple gestures that Natalie picks up on quickly, filling gaps in her understanding with simple yes or no questions.
“Thank you for trusting me with all of this,” The doctor smiles, tapping her pen against her notebook when they finish. “Everything you told me has been very helpful, and I appreciate your honesty and vulnerability. Is there anything else you want to tell me or something you need?”
The brunette takes a deep breath, scanning the room, his gaze landing on a music player— Derek’s music player— resting on his bag.
“This?” Natalie seems to understand, picking up the device and carrying it over when he nods. “A nurse will check in on you in an hour or so, but you can relax for the rest of the day. Okay?” Spencer nods again, unwinding the headphone cord. “You did a great job today, Spencer; I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
She smiles again before leaving, letting the brunette slip the headphones over his ears and listen to the playlist Derek made him for his birthday.
He has a nightmare on the fourth night.
He’s surprised it took this long, though it’s the first night he’s slept properly.
It’s dark— the darkness is suffocating, filling his nose and mouth, flooding his throat and lungs— it tastes like blood.
He’s counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
His heartbeat roars in his chest, slamming against his ribs, aching for escape.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Derek is beneath him.
Seven.
Eight.
He forces air into his lungs, the blood-flavored darkness filling his throat.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven.
He can’t stop– can’t break the sequence; he has to keep going.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
His arms hurt. Everything hurts— his head, his chest, his knees— pain radiates through his body, finding purchase in every crevice of his bones, fire dancing beneath his skin.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
“Spencer?”
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
A hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t stop– can’t stop. He can’t stop counting, forcing his lips to part, letting oxygen and darkness into his lungs. He can’t stop.
Twenty.
Twenty-one.
“Spencer.”
Twenty-two.
The hand moves, finding his— fingers curled together on his boyfriend’s chest, counting with every compression–
Twenty-three.
“It’s not real, Spencer–”
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five.
“–You’re not there anymore.”
Twenty-six.
Twenty-seven.
He wants to scream when hands catch his wrists, trying to wrench them away from Derek’s chest, but he can’t; he needs the oxygen– Derek needs the oxygen.
He’s breathing for both of them.
Twenty-eight.
“It’s okay. You’re okay, Spencer. Finish this round, and I’ll take over. You need to rest.”
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
He falls back, collapsing against a faceless figure, gasping.
“You’re okay. You did well; someone’s got it from here.”
One.
Two.
Three.
He lets his eyes fall close, counting the pounding beat of his heart.
Four.
Five.
Six.
His body aches. The pain starts in his chest, bringing agony with every breath, and spreads to his limbs.
Seven.
Eight.
He doesn’t feel the needle sliding under his skin— he didn’t that night either— too lost in the motions, the desperation, the pain.
Nine.
Ten.
His body melts into a bed— it was a gurney that night— blinking sluggishly.
Eleven.
Twelve.
“There we go… you’re okay; you’re safe.”
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
The pain eases, fading into a dull discomfort.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
He lets his eyes fall closed, lids growing heavier with every beat of his heart.
Seventeen.
Eighteen.
“It’s okay; everything’s okay.”
Nineteen.
Twenty.
He floats away.
He spends the morning and most of the afternoon in a haze, the medication nurses gave him to calm him down and dissociation tugging at the edges of his consciousness.
He stares at the wall. It’s blue— not Derek Blue— morning sky, just after sunrise, another day without his boyfriend, blue.
He wishes Derek was here; he would wrap his arms around Spencer and hold him tightly, talking about anything and everything, running his fingers through brown hair to help ground him.
He’d pepper kisses along Spencer’s forehead and cheeks, reminding his boyfriend that he loves him.
He’d fill the hole in Spencer’s chest, a pain that never went away after the accident— after he recovered— a part of him that died on the road with Derek.
Instead, Natalie is here, legs crossed, hair pulled back in its signature blonde ponytail, watching him.
“I was giving him CPR,” He tells her, unprompted, desperate to fill the silence. He doesn’t say Derek’s name; he hasn’t since the funeral, at least, not sober. “I gave him CPR when–”
He swallows, clearing his throat.
If Derek were here, he’d tell Spencer how well he’s doing— how proud he is— but he isn’t.
“When it happened until they found us–” Almost an hour— he wasn’t conscious enough to count the seconds, lost in the motions— 60 minutes, around 200-240 rounds of CPR– “I couldn’t stop— I almost bled out, but I couldn’t stop; I couldn’t–”
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a sob rips from his throat, and the damn crumbles, loud, ugly cries wracking his body.
He wraps Derek’s sweatshirt around his knees, tucking his head into the torso, pretending it’s his boyfriend’s embrace, not the hoodie his boyfriend died in.
It doesn’t smell like him anymore; it smells like tears and grief.
He knows Natalie is talking to him— probably trying to calm him down and get him to breathe— but he doesn’t care; she isn’t Derek.
His skin itches, something buzzing under his skin, desperate to be free.
He digs his fingers into his forearms, over layers of old lines of scar tissue, blood pooling under his nails; it feels good, but it’s not enough.
His hands move to his shins, clawing lines up his legs, leaving angry scratches in their wake.
He remembers the first time Derek saw him like this, sobbing uncontrollably, biting his knuckles, and clawing at his arms, shoulders, neck, back— every inch of exposed skin.
He doesn’t remember the trigger, only being so afraid that the older boy wouldn’t like him anymore— that he would wrinkle his nose in disgust at Spencer’s awkward body, bones jutting out at harsh angles, nail and scratch-shaped scars littered across his skin, more lines on his back. And the damage Derek couldn’t see, the years of William Reid’s cruel parenting, shouting, screaming, asking his son why he couldn’t just be normal, and as he got older, the frustration he took for his mother, keeping her safe.
But Derek never left his side, coaxing deep, steady breaths out of the 15-year-old, wiping tears from his eyes when Spencer didn’t flinch away from his touch.
He remembers apologizing over and over, his throat raw and dry, forcing the words out of his mouth clumsily, despite his brain shutting down, needing the older boy to know how ashamed and sorry he was.
He remembers Derek saying, “It’s okay, Pretty Boy,” the words making Spencer’s panicked heart flutter and skip, the older boy holding him so gently, making him feel so safe.
He remembers Derek carefully cleaning his cuts, covering each bloody reminder of the young brunette’s panic with brightly colored bandaids before dotting them across his arms and legs, vibrant pinks, greens, and blues decorating smooth, dark skin.
“Now we match,” He said with a glowing smile that made Spencer smile too, as he helped the younger boy to his feet, brushing his hair out of his face. “I still adore you, Pretty Boy.”
He remembers waking up in the hospital, learning Derek was gone the first time, and reliving it with every other.
He remembers relishing the numb nothingness the drugs— narcotics, dilaudid— gave him, pulling him out of his body, his head, his eyes glazed over as he floated above it all.
The grief couldn’t reach him, drugs filling the void with a chemical warmth Derek’s death deprived him of.
He barely remembers getting discharged, too strung out after lying about his pain to think clearly— to grieve.
His doctors sent him home with a prescription for his respite, back to a house that already knew mourning, pain, and the desire to disappear; he was nothing new.
“You’ve reached Derek Morgan–”
The drugs quelled his hunger, reducing it to another low ache in his body, falling in place beside the injuries and trauma.
He would crush the pills between his teeth before swallowing them; it made them take effect quicker, and he needed it.
He needed the escape.
He needed to be gone.