Work Text:
Only once during his years at the BAU had Spencer Reid arrived late to work, it had been an honest mistake that time; sleeping past his alarm and suffering the consequences of staying up too late the night before.
He’d promised he would never be late again, no matter what. And despite Morgan’s initial teasing and Gideon’s genuine surprise at the concept of the Spencer Reid even being a minute late, he kept his promise. He made it on time every morning, made it to every meeting even if the odds were against him.
So, what’s different this morning?
Everyone arrived at the office, but Spencer’s desk chair was empty.
The rest of the team exchanged confused glances between themselves, a hint of unspoken concern settling over the bullpen. The very same concern that nobody ever dared to bring up.
Ever since the case involving Tobias Hankel, the dynamic seemed to have shifted somewhat between the members. At least when it came to their interactions with Reid. He was different in a way, everyone knew that. But no one in the team could really pinpoint exactly what it was.
Anytime someone asked Reid how he was doing, he shot down any attempt at a conversation. Any attempt at helping, or understanding.
“Hey, where’s Reid at?” Morgan wonders aloud, looking at the empty desk; the absence of the genius. No lanky guy sitting there reading a book and drinking two cups of coffee at the same time.
“Maybe he’s grabbing coffee for us?” Emily suggests, glancing up from the papers she’d been looking over. She didn’t think that’s what Spencer was actually up to, but a part of her hoped that someone would come through the elevator with takeaway coffee. Anything would taste better than the coffee from the break room ever since the stupid coffee maker broke.
Morgan hums, his gaze lingering on Reid’s desk for another second - a moment or two passes before he eventually shrugs, turning back to his own designated space. He doesn’t say it, but they all know what he’s thinking.
Let’s hope he turns up soon.
The minutes pass. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty.
When twenty minutes have gone by and there’s no sign of Reid, Hotch emerges from his office.
The man stands by the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, scanning every inch of the bullpen. Taking in the sight of every agent doing their work; JJ on the phone, Morgan flipping through files, Emily typing away at the computer. Everyone but Reid.
Don’t think for a moment that Aaron Hotchner isn’t concerned, because he’s tried calling him, but every time it went straight to voicemail. Sometimes it’s not the easiest task to read Hotch’s emotions; the man rarely smiles, and more often than not those eyebrows of his are furrowed in deep concentration.
It wasn’t like Reid to leave him hanging like this. He usually picks up the phone during work hours, if not answering the call, at least sending a text message to reassure everyone that he’s fine.
Now? There's nothing.
Hotch glances down at his watch, there's no point in asking anyone else if they knew where Spencer Reid was, because he already knew what they'd say. No.
He shoots a subtle but questioning glance towards the other members before retreating back into his office. Just like the rest of them, Aaron Hotchner is supposed to be working. But how can he get any work done if his thoughts still linger on Reid?
Of course, Hotch loves and cares for each member of his team equally, otherwise he wouldn't be a fair boss. But he's always been specifically drawn to Reid, because he'd been so young when he first joined the team. The paternal instincts inside of him came alive, way before he ever had a biological son of his own
.
Now, he’d never really told him this, but he’s sure that Reid would’ve caught on. There’s no way Reid could’ve missed those glances - the concern which would flicker in Hotch’s eyes. Just for a second at times; that tiny bit of extra concern, the way he was looking out for Reid in a way nobody else did.
While Hotch finds himself back by his desk, sinking into his office chair, those elevator doors finally open. He’s twenty-three minutes late, not that Spencer Reid was counting.
At this point, it’s not really an unusual sight for the team; the messy hair and hazily put on cardigan walking through those glass doors. (And let’s not forget about those mismatched socks, at times one doesn’t know whether it’s a conscious choice or if he just picks at random whenever he digs into his sock drawer.)
“Where the hell have you been?” Of course it’s Morgan opening his mouth first, almost immediately looking up and redirecting his focus over to the lanky genius walking towards the bullpen. An eyebrow raised, waiting and expecting an answer.
Reid opens his mouth as if to speak, the wheels turning in his head, trying to think of any excuse or believable lie. He might be a genius, but he’s coming up short.
“Nowhere.” he shoots back, not even looking over at any of his team members, simply letting his tired feet take him towards his desk. Lifting the strap of his bag over his head and putting it down.
“Everything okay?” Now it’s JJ’s turn to chime in from where she stands by the edge of Prentiss’s desk, and it doesn’t take long before Emily looks up too.
All eyes on him.
Reid can only hope they don’t look at him too closely. That promise from years ago about not profiling their own colleagues… but this doesn’t count as profiling if it’s just concern, right?
There’s no response from Reid as he turns the other way, his hands shaking as he tries to focus on opening his bag and picking out its contents. A few books which he places on top of that already growing pile in the corner, and a folder with files he’d decided to bring home the other day. JJ wants to ask a follow up question, but at this point she knows better than to pry.
Another question thrown his way would just worsen the headache that’s already eating away at him, like an icepick through his skull. Like a damn lobotomy. It’s not just his hands and his head though. There’s always more. Always will be.
The aching pain never ends.
“Reid?”
His head snaps up at the sound of Hotch’s voice, blinking up at that man who yet again stands there, looming by his office door. Nicely dressed in a suit like always, today he’d chosen a gray one with a red tie. He doesn’t have time to reply before Hotch continues: “Can we talk for a minute? In private?”
This time, there’s truly no time for excuses, he knows damn well that this isn’t a question, but an order. One he can’t disobey.
Reid looks down at his hands, stopping what he’d been doing and taking a step back from the desk. Without uttering a word, he nods, turning on his heels and walking towards Hotch’s office. Pretending like he didn’t notice the way the others were looking at him; silently wondering what this was all about.
He really didn’t want to know what they could possibly be thinking.
Every step towards the office feels slow, and every passing second might as well be an eternity. It's like someone would've hit the ‘slow motion’ button on a camcorder.
Despite arriving nearly thirty minutes late, Reid had foolishly hoped that he could just blend into the crowd and get right into work, but of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. No, of course Hotch would want to talk.
‘Talk’ rarely meant something positive, he’d learned. A part of him was expecting the worst - to be yelled at and whatever else the unit chief might have in store for him. While another part of him knew that wasn’t realistic, Hotch wouldn’t do that.
Hotch opens the door, gesturing for Reid to walk inside. The younger man hesitates for a split second before doing just that, letting his lanky legs move past the threshold and into the room. The only comfort this room could bring Spencer Reid was the lack of fluorescent lighting, at least that lamp in the ceiling didn’t feel like it was going to burn the insides of his eye-sockets.
On some days, Spencer Reid really hated the stylistic choice of the FBI Headquarters and their damn bright lights. Not only did they give him a headache, but they made that annoying buzzing sound that nobody else seemed to notice.
“Sit.”
The unit chief gets seated behind the desk, pointing a single hand towards the other chair for Reid to do the same. Reid was more than familiar with this room, he could probably name the title of every book that Hotch kept in his bookshelf, point out every personal photograph which accompanied them (or the dates on those shiny trophies.) The office is neat and well cared for, and in front of Hotch is a single printed paper. Not a pile, just one.
Reid sits, still not voicing that question that is at the very tip of his tongue. What did Hotch want? What was all this about?
The man’s dark gaze is practically boring into him, but he doesn’t look back. He’d rather look down at his shoes and those lazily tied shoelaces that he almost tripped over when getting into the elevator.
Reid doesn't want to be here, he had work to do. (Though, if he truly could have his way, he would’ve avoided getting out of bed at all this morning.)
Silence settles over the two like a thick blanket, and Hotch’s chair creaks when he leans back again. His eyes seem to soften somewhat as he fully tries to grasp the sight in front of him.
He was merely studying the young man, he wouldn’t call it profiling.
“Have you slept?” Hotch finally asks, letting his hands rest at the desk in front of him. “At all?”
The question catches Reid off guard, yet it wasn’t surprising enough for him to stop fidgeting with his hands. The question would come sooner or later, this whole situation was inevitable. Deep down, he was aware of that. He just didn’t expect for it all to happen so suddenly. A random Wednesday morning like this.
It’s already common knowledge that no one in the BAU has fully perfect sleeping habits, it would be a damn miracle if that were to ever happen. They work late at night, travel between time zones, it’s impossible to sleep those perfect seven or eight hours every night. Every member of this team had at some point in time dealt with nightmares, and Reid was certainly no exception.
But whatever sleeping issues Reid seemed to have, it went further than nightmares plagued by gruesome and bloody crime scene photos, further than a few hours of lost sleep because one was too busy making a geographical profile.
It was deeper.
“I tried.” When Reid finally replies, the short answer comes out quiet. He struggled admitting things to himself, and it was a hundred times more difficult doing so right in front of Aaron Hotchner.
Hotch sighs, unable to hide the initial disappointment that hits him. He’s just about to say something when Reid blurts out: “I’m sorry about being late.”
“Apology accepted,” Hotch says, matching the quietness of Reid’s tone. “But that's not what we're here to discuss, and you know that too.”
He waits for Reid to say something - anything at all - but the man barely looks up. His hands keep moving, his fingers don't stop even for a second.
It’s strange how Spencer Reid can look so exhausted, yet the restlessness never quite goes away. It’s now that Reid and Hotch are sitting across from each other that Hotch finally gets a proper good look at him. Up close and personal.
All those small little details you don’t notice while working, when you’re focused on a case. In the conference room, your attention would be anywhere else but at how pale Spencer seemed to look.
You don’t have time to express any concerns, because you’re too busy building a good profile. You’re too busy focusing on the Unsub to ever bring up the changes in Spencer, even if they’re right there in front of you.
At first, it wasn’t so bad - a little tired-looking and his brain working half a second slower than it usually would. No worries, right? But weeks passed, and said weeks turned into months. The changes had all been gradual but Hotch couldn’t ignore them anymore.
Ever since getting dragged through a cornfield, killed, revived and drugged against his will, Reid had become a quieter man. That was understandable, he’d been through a traumatic event! But everyone on the team assumed that one day everything would be better, that everything would magically go back to how they'd always been.
But that day never came.
Hotch didn’t intend to be staring right at him like this, and upon realizing that’s exactly what he’s doing, he tears his eyes away. Instead of saying one of the million things that he had on his mind, all that escaped was:
“If you need help managing workload or stress levels, just say so.”
His brain is on autopilot, the unit chief in him reacting faster than his personal concerns could. Help? Now that’s quite the foreign concept to someone like Spencer Reid.
“No… “ Reid shakes his head; stubborn as usual (Hotch shouldn’t have expected anything else.) “I don’t need h- no.”
Hotch tilts his head to the side. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
The man pauses, contemplating his words for a second. Just like his expression, his tone had softened too. He chose his phrasing as carefully as he could, the last thing he’d want was to make Reid feel judged. “You look like you might need it, though.”
“Need what? … Help, or sleep?”
“Both.”
Another shake of Reid’s head, and the silence comes crawling up on them from behind. Trying to get through Spencer Reid’s stubbornness has never been easy, but Aaron Hotchner is determined to reach him one way or another. Make him understand that he could see him, could see that something's wrong. That there's no point in hiding it from everyone else for another day.
The man sitting across from him didn't feel like the same Spencer Reid who'd joined the BAU all those years ago. Where was that bright-eyed, energetic kid who could ramble for hours if they'd let him? Go on about some obscure fact he's picked up from a book, a fact nobody really cared to know about but they let him go off anyway. Because they knew that made him happy.
The realization hit Aaron Hotchner like a heavy load of bricks - causing something in his stomach to churn uncomfortably. He missed seeing that smile on Spencer’s face - God, when was the last time the kid had genuinely smiled, or laughed even?
It's like any real emotion had been wiped off his face. For weeks, for months, for how long exactly?
Hotch clears his throat as his gaze lands on Reid once again, searching his face for any reaction at all. Anything that could give away an ounce of emotion; anything but those tired bags under Reid’s eyes.
That spark in his eyes was long gone.
Then, his gaze drifts downwards and Hotch reaches a hand out to pick up the paper in front of him. It doesn’t take long until he eventually hands the paper to Reid.
“I asked Garcia for a print of your medical records,” he starts, never looking away from Reid’s face; those weary hazel eyes scanning every word on the page in his hand.
“Isn’t that a breach of protocol? Asking your own tech analyst to-”
Hotch cuts him off. “I don’t care about protocol right now, Reid. Can't you see that I’m… worried about you?”
Reid tries to suppress that urge to let out an annoyed sigh, tossing the paper back onto the desk. He wanted nothing more than to feel truly upset, maybe even a little angry at Hotch’s strange way of showing concern. But not a single inch of his body had the strength to feel any sort of anger, he didn’t have it in him to raise his voice or hit his fist against the nearest surface. He was too tired.
“The medical records don’t tell me anything I didn’t already know,” Hotch says, one single finger pointed towards the information on the paper. “Depression, insomnia… it says right here that you haven’t picked out your prescribed medication in several months?”
No reply.
“You don’t sleep, and you don’t eat, Spencer. You think that no one notices?”
The sound of his first name on Hotch’s lips feels strange and unfamiliar - it leaves a certain kind of taste in his mouth. The unit chief rarely called him anything else but Reid, with the rare exception of a nickname like Genius or Einstein. But Spencer? That’s new.
The younger man shifts in his seat, his hands finding their way around himself. Dressed in a cardigan that appeared a little too big on him, Spencer Reid looked more like a lost teenager trying to shield himself than a grown adult working for the FBI. To be fair, every member on this team liked to call him ‘kid’ occasionally, more so in an affectionate way than anything else. He was the youngest on the team, hence why he was called just that. But just as well, everyone knew that Spencer wasn’t a kid. (Sure, he lacked certain abilities to read social cues, but he wasn’t immature!)
To see him looking more like an actual kid right now sent another wave of worry flooding over Hotch. He didn’t like it one bit; how small and weak Reid seemed to be. The way his cheekbones were more apparent in a way he couldn’t look past.
The sight of Spencer Reid in front of Aaron Hotchner did more than just confirm what the medical records were telling him.
Spencer Reid was the last person within the BAU team who’d ever let himself open up about anything, he’d always been closed off when it came to personal matters, whether big or small. There’s a reason he’d been so damn hesitant about bringing his own schizophrenic mother here that one time, he’d been so scared about being judged. He hated being judged.
He was known to keep people at an arm’s length at all times, but Hotch was growing tired of it. Tired of watching him become even more reserved, crawling even further into his shell and heightening those walls he’d built around himself.
“Reid? Look at me.”
His head snaps up, finally looking Hotch in the eyes instead of blankly staring down at his hands or shoes. “What do you want me to say? Yes, I’m depressed and never recovered from being kidnapped by a serial killer? Yes, I can’t sleep through the night because the pills never work!”
Hotch is silent now, biting the inside of his cheek.
Even if he really wants to get through to him, he also doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. One wrong step might cause Reid to withdraw further, doing the opposite of closing that ever growing gap between them. He needs to say just the right thing to be able to reach down that long dark tunnel that Spencer Reid’s stuck in, before he disappears into the darkness completely.
“I’m not asking you as a boss, but as a friend,” he says sharply, the eye contact never wavering. “... How are you doing?”
It’s that question again, the one Reid has always avoided like the plague. He hates it, and it’s as simple as that. Right here and right now, Reid knows that ‘I’m fine’ won’t cut it anymore. Even with the physical distance - that desk which separates them - Reid feels claustrophobic, like every word that leaves Hotch’s mouth is creeping up on him, cornering him.
“No matter what I say, Hotch, it’s not going to matter-” Reid stumbles over his words, this is the closest they've come to a Spencer Reid ramble™ in a while; the familiar way the words flow out of his mouth in a way he can’t quite contain. But this time it’s not about scientific facts and statistics, but trying to make sense of Hotch’s worries. “- Your role as my boss is still going to cloud your judgement, right? There’s no way it wouldn’t.”
Reid can’t help it; that overwhelming sense that he's cornered - like an animal being hunted down in the middle of the woods somewhere. Maybe his choice of downing one too many pills this morning has spiked his anxiety and made him all paranoid. In one sudden (although slightly unsteady) motion, he stands up on his feet. He doesn’t want to sit anymore, he needs distance.
“Spencer…”
Hotch’s eyes follow the younger man’s every movement. He can’t get another word in before Reid keeps rambling, spitting out any and every thought swirling around that big brain of his without actually voicing whatever is truly wrong.
“You’re worried, I get that, Hotch! But you didn’t drag me here because of protocol or obligations, right? You’re all about wanting what’s best for the team, we couldn’t have Elle working because she was a mess! You recognized that, you saw that and we all knew she couldn’t stay. But me? Did it ever cross your mind, even a single time, that maybe I shouldn’t be here? In the BAU?”
Reid thinks he doesn’t deserve this spot on the team anymore. Every other day he wonders why he’s still around, why hasn’t anyone seen the signs yet and kicked him off? For his and everyone else’s wellbeing? How?
Quickly, Aaron Hotchner gets up and makes his way over to where Reid is standing. Not too close, not too far away either.
Getting to finally hear what the younger man is thinking, Hotch is momentarily left speechless; jaw clenched and unsure of what to say.
“Spencer, I never doubted you or your abilities. Not even for a second.” Hotch finally speaks, arms loosely crossed over his chest. They’re nearly the same height, the unit chief just a few inches taller than Reid. But with the way Spencer stands; arms clutched around himself, he seems shorter. Smaller.
When Reid doesn’t respond, Hotch allows himself to let out a heavy sigh that he didn’t realize he’d been holding for so long. His eyes dart up and down, noticing the way Spencer was becoming more on edge for every passing second.
“I was waiting for you to come to me, Spencer. Or anyone! I was hoping you’d reach out and tell us that you need help.”
That look on Reid’s face said it all, he thought it was stupid of Aaron Hotchner to ever assume he’d willingly ask for help. Asking someone for guidance or admitting something might be wrong? That’s just not how his brain is wired. Never have been. But Hotch had hoped and waited, foolishly so.
Reid shakes his head again, taking another step back, closer to the corner and those vertical windows overlooking the exterior of the Quantico headquarters. That familiar view that had always been the same, yet nobody ever took the time to truly appreciate it.
He swallows, his throat thick from the anxiety welling up. His legs are unsteady, just like they were when he walked from the parking lot towards the entrance.
Spencer Reid truly doesn’t know whether it’s the sleep deprivation or those drugs in his system. Either way, he finds himself leaning against the nearest wall.
For every attempt he’d made to gain any sort of control of himself or his life, that very control he strived for was slipping further away from him. Like sand slipping through his fingertips, it was disappearing right in front of him.
When he wanted to still feel in control of his thoughts and memories following the case in Atlanta, he turned to Dilaudid to numb everything.
And when the drugs no longer worked and the sleepless nights increased, the next step would be to control his food intake. He’d turn down any invitations to have lunch with his colleagues, and when they asked, he’d tell them he’d already eaten.
But even then, his mind couldn’t rest. Some thoughts still hurt and plagued him no matter how hard he tried. Sometimes, it really fucking sucked to have an eidetic memory.
Nothing worked.
“I’m sorry,” Reid whispers, it's all he can bring himself to say. Voice quiet and small, and the rest is left unsaid; he's sorry for not reaching out, not saying anything and especially sorry for ever making his team worry. Those drugs rushing through his veins had really messed with that genius brain of his; dulling everything to the point all those fancy and complicated words, explanations and phrases had quit on him. Leaving Spencer Reid a shaky mess who could barely get a coherent thought off his tongue without worrying it might not make any sense.
But the only thing worse than short and confusing sentences would be silence. Spencer going all quiet was rarely good, and Hotch worried anytime he noticed that the silence was becoming more frequent.
Hotch takes a cautious step forward, his hand itching to reach towards the younger man; itching to bring him close into a tight and protective hug.
“Don’t apologize,” Hotch says, following Reid’s gaze as he glanced towards the window for a second. “The last thing you need right now is to feel guilty about any of this.”
Reid’s lips parts, but the words don’t come. In the corner of his eye, he analyzes the distance down those six floors towards the ground. He wonders if he were to press his body against the glass, would it break? The thought of falling six floors doesn't scare him, if anything it feels peaceful. He wonders if Hotch would try to catch him, or simply watch as he fell.
As if reading his mind, understanding that look on Reid’s face, Hotch reaches his hand out to finally break down those protective walls. His fingers find Reid’s chin, turning his head to face him; forcing him to look right back at him. Don’t, is what that glare on Hotch’s face communicates without a single word spoken.
*
The elevator doors open as Hotch steps inside, followed by the tired genius who can barely stand upright. This was far from the progress Aaron Hotchner hoped to make, but at least he’d managed to convince Reid that he needed to go home. That there’s no way he could stay here, not when his body so desperately needed proper rest and food (and detox.) It no longer mattered to him how stubborn Reid would be, he was going to drag him out of here if that’s what the situation called for.
But he didn’t need to drag him by the wrist. After a few quiet but soft reassurances (in that tone most often reserved for Jack and Jack only) Reid moved away from the window and admitted defeat; letting himself rest on the floor of Agent Hotchner’s office. Hotch truly didn’t want to be angry at poor Spencer Reid, nor blame him for any of this, but his patience wouldn’t last very long. He could feel it.
He’d practically begged Reid to pull himself together, even if his mental state was heading in the absolute opposite direction - getting worse for every passing minute. Now, they were here - in that claustrophobic elevator.
"You're coming home with me”, Hotch had told him. Because ‘I don’t trust you enough to leave you alone, and love you too much to let you hurt yourself’ were the words that were stuck in his throat.