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He bursts into the apartment, slamming the front door behind him. Shrugging off his coat, he makes straight for the bathroom, leather messenger bag in hand. He rummages through it and finds the devil’s vials he just bought on the corner. In a single rough motion he yanks up his sleeve and wrenches the belt free from his pants loops.
Reid tips his head back, eyelids fluttering as his eyes roll back in pleasure. He lets out a long, drawn-out breath, and a tickling warmth floods rapidly through his system. The empty syringe slips from his fingers and hits the tile with a dull thud. Before the high pulls him under completely, Spencer stumbles to the couch and collapses, his body meeting the cushions with a heavy thump. The crook of his elbow aches from another fresh puncture, but that fades into the background as his consciousness slips into oblivion.
At first, everything is swallowed by darkness. Pitch-black nothingness surrounds him, and he thinks he’s sinking, drifting to the very bottom like discarded ballast. Muddy water fills his lungs, and Reid chokes before he can make a single sound. No one will save him. There’s no one there. An itching, sticky loneliness awakens a primal fear deep inside him. The instinct to get up, crawl to the phone and call for help almost wins the duel in his head. Almost.
Then, without warning, everything clears. The murky abyss becomes a diffuse white light that fills every inch of space. The anxiety vanishes, replaced by purest euphoria. He goes still, weightless. It feels like he’s lying on one of the fluffiest clouds, the kind he used to watch for hours as a child.
All at once, Spencer sees himself, only half his age. He’s stretched out on velvety spring grass, gazing with pure curiosity at the cottony sky. He was already finishing his high school then, but—a fact so many people overlooked—he had never stopped being a child. He loved indulging in simple things like this, in the spaces between studying.
“I'm so little,” he drawls with a crooked smile; a shadow of nostalgia settles in the lines around his lips.
Back then, there was no death. No murders, no maniacs with a seething passion for violence. No sleepless nights spent pulling at the tangled threads of cases. He didn't have to kill to bring justice for the victims, and he wasn't in danger of becoming one himself, of some psychopath who would drive him straight into cardiac arrest. He still doesn't understand the thin line between these two things.
The vision, as if torn up by a hurricane wind, shatters before his eyes and something in his chest tightens, raw and unexpected. No, he's not going back there. He's fine here. He's fine right now.
A biting draft seeps in from somewhere. Goosebumps prickle Spencer's skin, skittering like ants. He curls into a ball, pressing bony knees tight against his hollow stomach to trap the escaping warmth.
Just as quickly, another wave of pleasure washes over him, and he goes limp. Reid feels silk gliding smoothly down his shoulders, over his calves and feet, then wrapping him completely. A sweet ecstasy, the kind a kid feels after finally nibbling an ice cream cone all the way down to the caramel core, soaks into every cell of his body.
He sees her. A blissful smile spreads across his face as her image materializes, a bright stain in his fevered mind.
“JJ,” he whispers, barely intelligible.
In his imagination, Spencer reaches for her, threads his fingers through her flowing hair, feels the silken texture of the strands. In reality, the lead weight of the Dilaudid pins his arms to the cushion, cutting off every path to that distant dream. Reality is always ugly and unfair.
But in the intoxicating haze, different rules apply. All forms of matter obey Reid. Seconds with her stretch into hours and weeks. There is no limit to the pleasure; it grows exponentially, eclipsing every poisonous feeling and memory. Nothing stops him from stepping closer and claiming her sensual lips, tracing a path of wet kisses down the delicate column of her throat, biting down in a surge of passion and leaving the mark of his teeth on the ridge of her collarbone. He loses his breath under her hands on his shoulders, under the broken moan between kisses, under the contact of their heated skin. For Spencer, this moment drips like thick, crystallising honey, heavy droplets that never hurry toward an end.
He buries his face in the hollow between her neck and shoulder and greedily breathes in the milky scent of her skin. She doesn't need any perfume when her smell is that of a goddess. For her, Spencer would convert to any faith she embodies, because the rapture she grants him feels like a sacred blessing.
She smiles back at him, and that smile illuminates everything, finding its way into the most secret, depraved corners of his consciousness. He feels like a fallen angel reprieved at the last instant before execution. Spencer bows his head and drops to his knees, pressing himself flush against her legs as if she might vanish if he loosens the grip even slightly.
“I'm sorry,” weakly slips from his lips.
Salt water blurs his vision, spills over the rims of his eyelids and runs down in charted trails. His lips, bitten raw and bloody, sting as the tears slide over them and hide beneath the chin. Reid feels her palm soothingly stroke the crown of his head.
“It's okay. You're all right,” her gentle voice reaches him.
At her mercy, everything inside him knots tight. Reid sobs even harder.
“Forgive me,” his voice cracks.
He doesn't deserve her. He disgusts himself. Disgusts the person he's become.
Spencer looks at his hands and sees straight through them. His skin is so pale that it looks transparent. A mirror abruptly swims into view before him, and a glassy stare meets him from the other side. Dark, sickly red bags frame his unfocused eyes. Greasy hair sticks to a forehead beaded with cold sweat.
“Who am I?” he asks, tracing his new face with trembling fingers.
“You're still Dr. Spencer Reid,” she says, smiling. “Come on.”
She carefully lifts him by the shoulder and looks right into his bewildered eyes. Being with her feels easy. She won't leave, not like all the others. She'll always be here.
She takes Spencer's hand, and an electric charge shoots through him. It floods his veins, dissolving completely into his essence. As if watching from outside himself, Reid notices his legs moving slowly. They walk forward, and he hopes that ahead he will finally find happiness. It will be just her and him—no problems, no blood on his hands, no agonized screaming or deathly silence after the crack of gunshots.
Spencer feels himself being shaken. He hears a frantic voice, muffled as if reaching him through deep water. The image before him melts, and the thick darkness reclaims its throne.
No, he wants to stay. Why can't he stay?
“Spencer, wake up. Please, wake up. Come on!” Someone is slapping his cheeks hard.
Reid forces his eyes open. In the dim light of a desk lamp he makes out the outline of a figure. After blinking a few times, he recognizes the familiar blond hair and worried blue eyes.
“JJ,” he croaks, his smile lopsided. “You didn't leave.”
“God, Spencer, what did you do? What did you do…”
JJ sinks onto the couch beside him and runs trembling hands through her hair. Thank god he didn't lock the door. Every window is wide open, and the room is so freezing that she hasn't even taken off her jacket. His body looks more like a corpse than something alive, and she feels her eyes begin to sting unbearably. At the sight of the purplish bruises in the crook of his elbow, she wants to howl in despair.
“It's okay. I'm all right,” he echoes the imaginary version of her.
She cries without restraint. He admires her, his lips curving in a drugged languor. Even now, she looks just like the bliss from his dreams.