Chapter Text
“We are never completely ourselves except in solitude, and perhaps that is why solitude is so often unbearable.”
— Alexandre Dumas
When he first woke up in the hospital, he wasn’t sure what was real. The second time, he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be.
Spencer had always imagined that if something were to take him out in the field, it would be something obvious—a bullet, or a knife wound. Perhaps a hostage situation gone wrong or an unsub who got to close.
Not this. Not a seizure in the safety of his own home. Not waking up disoriented, body aching, and his mind slow in a way that feels completely and utterly foreign to him.
He had been here before. Hospitals. Machines beeping, the fluttering of voices, and hurried footsteps in the corridor. Too many sounds. Too bright fluorescent lighting overhead. It reminded him of everything. The anthrax. The migraines. The prison.
But his? This was different. Despite everything he’d gone through. Every injury sustained in the line of duty, he had recovered. At least physically. This time he wasn’t so sure he would. Maybe his luck had finally run out.
He had run the calculations; he knew the probability of recovery from his sustained injuries.
He thought to himself, Statistically, post-traumatic seizures occur in 10-20% of cases. The probability of long-term complications is approximately 30%, but given my cognitive baseline, I should be able to compensate for most deficits.
Despite this, his recovery was slower than anticipated. His body wasn’t catching up to his mind, and he hated it. What’s more was that his mind wasn’t as swift as before; it now took him a few seconds longer to analyze the situation. This he hated even more.
The doctors would check up on his recovery regularly, and so did his physical therapist.
“Your muscle response is slower than before. That’s expected.”
“Yes, due to neuromuscular degeneration from prolonged immobility. My motor cortex should be compensating by now. Why isn't it?”
“Because you’re not a machine, you’re a person. Your body needs time.”
§
He despised the fact that while he was confined to a hospital bed, the world kept going around him. That he couldn’t be out in the field and help the team. He knew that none of them blamed him for it, but he was disappointed in himself. Disappointed that he couldn’t do more.
Despite his distaste of hospitals, of doctors that couldn’t give a straight answer, and his slow recovery. It wasn’t all bad. At first, people checked in. JJ. Garcia. Emily. Rossi. Even Morgan. They would come during visiting hours; they would laugh and reminisce. It made the time go faster. And it made him feel just a little bit better about his situation.
Then the visits became less frequent. Fewer phone calls and fewer check-ups. Not because they didn’t care. But because a few weeks into his recovery, the world was falling apart. Hospitals were overrun. The team was overwhelmed. And Spencer? Spencer was just one more problem that no one had time to solve. So he did what he usually did; he resigned himself to solitude.
He was discharged from the hospital, not because he was in any means fully recovered, but because the resources were needed elsewhere. A virus had spread. Rapidly. And for what felt like overnight, the whole world turned upside down. All of a sudden there was a nationwide lockdown. No more social gatherings. No freely moving about. No people. No unnecessary risk of contamination.
The world had shut down. The team couldn’t visit. Everyone was saying, "just stay home." Which was ironic. Because home had never felt more like a prison. For the first time in a long while, Spencer Reid was truly alone.
The days blurred together. Time had once been measured by cases, by flight schedules, by briefing rooms, and murder boards. Now the time was measured in headaches and sleepless nights. In the way his hands shook when he reached for a glass of water. In the number of times he picked up his phone to call someone—and put it back down.
He was still on sick leave. Still doing check-ups and therapy appointments, except now it was all done behind a screen. The world had forbidden physical contact, and so it adapted. In the worst possible way, he thought. He didn’t trust the things he couldn’t feel. He liked it tactile and real. He didn’t want to talk to a computer screen. He preferred to meet face-to-face. But that world was gone.
He had never been a very social person. He disliked small talk and felt uncomfortable and out of place in social gatherings. He usually preferred being in spaces where he was in control, but this isolation could break even the most habitual hermit. It had been five days since he last spoke aloud. His vision pulsed with pain. And the books that used to give him comfort felt more like a mockery. He had reluctantly realized that he didn’t retain information as quickly. He still read faster than most, but he could tell it wasn’t the same as before. Now it didn’t just happen. Now he needed to focus.
The worst was the silence. He had tried to distract himself by focusing on white noise. The electrical humming of the refrigerator, the sounds of the streets outside. The static from his upstairs neighbours’ TV, but failed. In the silence, in the empty hours of too much time and not enough distractions, he thought about Max. About how she had looked at him—tired, hesitant, already halfway gone.
§
“I can’t do this."
Spencer blinked. Max stood in front of him, arms wrapped around herself, looking tired.
"What?" he asked, voice quiet.
She exhaled, shaking her head.
"I thought I could handle this. Your recovery. Your nightmares. The way you shut me out. But Spencer—" She swallowed. "I feel like I’m dating a ghost."
He stiffened. She was right, of course. He was a ghost. Physically he was there. The doctors had cleared him from any lingering physical symptoms. But mentally he was somewhere else. He was lost. Directionless. And this wasn’t what she had signed up for when they met.
"That is not fair," he muttered.
"Isn’t it?" she said softly.
Silence. Then—the words he had been dreading. He knew what was coming. He had analyzed the situation, but despite a lifetime of practice of being left behind. It still stung.
"I care about you, but I don’t think I can be the person you need."
He looked down, heart pounding.
"You don’t have to do this," he whispered.
She stepped forward, pressing a hand to his chest.
"I think we both know I do."
Spencer swallowed hard. Then he let her go.
§
Winter had turned to spring. The cool winter air had been replaced by a mild pleasant warmth, and the world outside was in full bloom. Not that it mattered, not really. There was no real change. The pandemic was still raging. The news and radio kept reciting steady updates of the spread and the importance of staying home. Spencer was anxious. He wanted to check up on his mother. He wanted to see her, but he couldn’t. Not now. Right now the only thing he could do was send her letters and pick up the phone.
Spencer wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that she didn’t remember what was happening.
"You haven’t come to see me," his mother’s voice crackled through the phone, distant and fragile. "Did I do something wrong?"
His grip tightened around the receiver. "No, Mom. You didn’t do anything wrong."
"Then why won’t you visit?"
He closed his eyes. The hospital had already told him it wasn’t safe. Too many outbreaks, too many risks. But how could he explain that to her? How could he explain something she might forget tomorrow?
"There’s… a virus going around. A bad one. We’re all staying home for a little while."
"A virus?"
She sounded confused. Then, after a pause—fearful.
"Like the plague?"
His chest tightened.
"No, not exactly. It’s just—it’s safer for me to stay away right now."
"Safer," she echoed. Then, quietly, “Did I get it? I don’t remember.”
Spencer rubbed his forehead, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"No, Mom. You’re okay."
But was she? He had spent years preparing himself for her decline. But nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing had prepared him for a world where he had to watch her disappear over the phone. The facility she was staying at offered video calls. He had tried it at first, but it became harder and harder for him to activate the camera. Not because he didn’t know how. Because the last time they spoke, his mother didn’t recognize him. And to be honest, neither did he.
"You look like my son." She had smiled, pleased, as if he were just another kind stranger.
And he had smiled back, nodding along, because what else was he supposed to do? Correct her? Break her heart? Instead, he had sat there, listening to her talk about a version of himself that no longer existed. A boy who still had a home. A man who still had a purpose.
"He works for the FBI, you know. He helps people."
Present tense. He had almost corrected her then. Almost told her that the Spencer she remembered was fading, too. But instead, he just whispered, "I know."
§
The next blow had come soon after. After months of sick leave, Spencer was anxious to get back to work. To the BAU. To be of use. Once his physical health was back to normal, he thought he would be back on the team. That nothing would be different. Just like old times. He had trained his whole life to control his emotions, to keep them at bay, and the most efficient way to do that was to do the thing that mattered most to him. What he did best. His job. His purpose. His reason for getting up in the mornings. Now that was taken from him as well.
He had been through hell before. He had been shot. He had been kidnapped. He had been imprisoned in a foreign country. But nothing—absolutely nothing—felt as infuriating as being told he wasn’t allowed to work. And yet—here he was. Sitting in Emily Prentiss’ office, waiting to be benched. He had only been back in the field for two months before he got called in for a meeting.
Emily sighed, rubbing her temples.
"Spencer, we need to talk."
Spencer shifted in his chair, arms crossed.
"If this is about the last case—"
"It’s not."
That threw him. He blinked.
"Then what is this about?"
Emily inhaled. Sat forward.
And then—she said the words that made his blood run cold.
"You need to take a sabbatical."
Spencer let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.
"Emily, I’m fine."
"You’re not."
"Physically, I am."
"Physically, isn’t the problem."
Spencer clenched his jaw.
"You think I can’t do my job."
Emily’s expression softened.
"I think you’ve been holding yourself together with duct tape and adrenaline for too long. And now, with the world shutting down, you don’t have a reason to keep running."
Spencer exhaled sharply.
"So, what, you’re punishing me for that?"
"Spencer, this isn’t a punishment. It’s a chance to breathe."
"I don’t need to breathe. I need to work."
"No, you need to rest."
Spencer didn’t know how to argue with that. Because in truth, he was tired. Not in the sense of lacking sleep, which he also was. He was tired of ghosts that haunted him.
Emily folded her hands.
"I know you, Spencer. I know you think if you stop, everything will fall apart. But it won’t."
Spencer exhaled.
"You don’t get it."
"Then make me get it."
His hands curled into fists.
"I have spent my entire life being useful. If I’m not helping, if I’m not working, if I’m not solving something—"
He swallowed hard.
"Then what am I?"
Emily’s expression softened.
"You’re Spencer Reid. And that should be enough."
"You’re putting me on leave regardless, aren’t you?"
Emily sighed.
"It’s already been approved."
Spencer let out a humorless laugh.
"Wow. I don’t even get a say."
"You do. But, Spencer—when was the last time you took a break? A real one?"
Spencer opened his mouth. Stopped. Because suddenly—he couldn’t remember. Spencer stood. His hands curled into fists so hard his nails dug into the palms of his hands.
"How long?"
Emily hesitated.
"We’ll reassess in six months. Maybe more, maybe a year. The higher-ups are considering budget cuts and allocating our resources to other departments with everything going on."
Twelve months. Twelve months of not working. Twelve months of sitting still. Twelve months of no purpose. Spencer swallowed hard.
"I don’t know how to do that."
Emily smiled sadly.
"Then it’s time you learned."
Spencer left the office in a daze. His badge and gun had been turned in. His credentials were temporarily frozen. And for the first time in his career, he wasn’t an agent. He was just Spencer. And that? That terrified him. Because without his work, he had no idea who he was.
Spencer had been forced to take breaks before. When he was exonerated from prison. When he had been shot in the neck. When Maeve died, he had fallen apart in a way that no one could fix. But this was different. Because before? Before, he had still been an FBI agent. Still working. Still solving cases. Still useful. But now? Now he wasn’t anything.
No cases. No sense of purpose. Just… waiting. Waiting for the world to fix itself.
Waiting for someone to tell him he could come back.