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He doesn't expect it to work.
His pickpocketing skills are lackluster at best, even with his experience in magic tricks, after however long being tortured and drugged in captivity.
He crouches down next to the prone body and grasps the two remaining vials like a lifeline, knowing they'll be found, and confiscated, once he's taken to the hospital - or maybe even before then, in the ambulance. He knows that, he does, but...
His hand slips into his pocket and wraps around the comforting chill of the glass, and he can't bring himself to hand them over.
His head feels fuzzy and his legs feel heavy and his mouth feels like its full of toffee; he strains against it, but the slight gap he manages soon snaps shut with a sharp clack of enamel against enamel, and his grip only tightens on the vials.
He knows it won't be long - his teammates profile people for a living, for god's sake, and yet...
And yet.
Spencer Reid is a creature of logic and statistics; he clings to numbers like he's clinging to the vials, now - they make him feel sane, tie him to a reality he constantly fears losing track of. They are the thing he reaches for when fear and irrationality attempt to breach his defences like a tidal wave, leaving him drowning amidst a sea of unknowns.
But not even he can escape the futile human instinct to defy logic.
And he curses that instinct, because it works.
Somehow, despite the overwhelming odds against him, Spencer sits on his bed not even a week later, the vials sitting on his bedside table like a taunt as he stares, feels the itch deep under his skin that he knows is withdrawal but feels is death.
And there's only one way to alleviate it.
Because he's just so damn tired.
The thing about an eidetic memory is he remembers every second of his captivity - including how the Dilaudid took away the pain.
How it made everything so distant and fuzzy, made his constantly busy mind quiet, made things not matter anymore.
He hasn't slept in three days.
He's barely eaten.
He's just been sitting, alone, in his apartment. Staring at the walls. The blank TV. The ceiling. Those damn vials.
He is so. Damn. Tired.
Still, he reaches out and grasps at his phone, telling himself he'll leave it to chance; Hotch answers his phone about 70% of the time, less if he's with Hayley and Jack. Those are favorable odds.
If Hotch answers, Spencer will tell him everything.
If he doesn't, well.
He scrolls with shaking fingers and clicks on the icon, waits as his phone rings. He's holding his breath, but he doesn't know what he's hoping for.
It rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four-
"You've reached the voicemail of Aaron Hotchner, please leave a message."
Something washes over him, though he still doesn't know what. There's a lump in his throat as he hangs up and tosses his phone to the side, eyes sliding back to the bedside table.
Now, he just has to follow through.
--
After a few months, he's fallen into a pattern.
Spencer Reid is a creature of logic, and of patterns - they sooth him, give him a structure to hold on to as the world crumbles around him. He hates when they are broken, because it feels like the entire world has splintered around him, and he hates walking on broken glass.
So he finds a discreet dealer - more expensive than most, but who keeps a clean supply for an extra buck - and visits him once a month, stocks up, and stores his supply in the fake books he keeps among his real ones.
He shoots up once every three days, then every other, then every day-
He sits on the bathroom floor, because he doesn't want to dirty the rest of his home with this- this thing he's doing.
(Confess, Tobias whispers in his mind - but it dulls and quiets as the high washes over him, makes it all seem so far away. And that's why he's doing this. It's all he wants. Peace.)
He slides the needle in the crook of his arm with practiced, shaky movements, depresses the plunger, watches it bruise the skin around it, stares at the track marks peppering his elbow.
Wonders how the hell the team hasn't noticed.
(Knows they have - they have to know, they're the best of the best at what they do - and wonders if they're too scared to lose their jobs, if they think Spencer would prefer this to unemployment, and he doesn't know what his answer would even be.
Wonders if they just don't care. If they think genius Spencer Reid should be able to handle this on his own.
He can't.)
After a few months, he's breaking apart.
--
Spencer Reid is a creature of logic, of patterns, and of rules.
He draws lines in the sand, tells himself he's in control as long as he doesn't cross them.
He twists his own words as his guts twist in his body, makes exceptions and excuses.
The rules go as follows: keep the needles clean (even if he's desperate, even when he's sweating and shaking, he can't bear the thought of cross-contamination in such a way), no using more than once a day (if he can't go twenty-four hours, then he's addicted, he tells himself, doing his best to ignore the many definitions his mind produces).
And, most importantly, do not, under any circumstance, use at work.
Within a month, he's using needles twice because he just doesn't have time to buy more, and surely it's fine since it's only himself using them, and for the same thing, right? (Statistics flood his brain - it's a miracle he hasn't gotten an infection.)
A week later, he's using every eighteen hours, at least. Still, it's only a six hour difference, and that's basically a night's sleep, which means it's a new day. (He barely sleeps more than three.)
It takes longer to- bend rule three, but after seven weeks he's showing up to work on the decline of his highs, coming back down to Earth as he walks into the bullpen - which means he's sober by the time he's on the job, and it's fine. (His mind is still foggy when he gets in, and he's arriving later and later, and he doesn't know when the line blurred this far-)
Rules are hard to maintain when the lines are self-imposed, when the tide can come and wash smooth the sand, and he can draw them a little closer to the water, pretend it was an accident, and wait for the tide again.
Watch it creep closer and closer, until the ocean laps at his feet.
Until he's wading through it, clothes drenched to his waist, fish nibbling at his fingertips.
Until the lines are so fleeting they might as well not be there at all.
Until he's struggling to stay above water, no idea how he got in this deep, too far in the depths for help.
Breathing in lungfuls of water until he's too heavy to resurface.
Spencer is drowning, and he has no idea how to help himself.
The lines have been drawn, but the tide is coming in.
And, the thing is, no one else seems to notice. He's screaming but there's water in his lungs, fighting but he's sinking, and all his rules still apply but lines don't matter at the bottom of the ocean.
...
Can anyone hear him?
Can anyone see him?
Is he even real?
--
He tries to pull himself up, to escape this watery trap he's found himself in, tries to claw himself back to the light.
It's been nearly half a year of suffocating on dry land, of snapping at his friends and shaking violently on long cases where he can't use - half a year of telling himself he's fine, when it's obvious to everyone that he's not.
(He's lost so much weight - he's always been a skinny guy (lanky, Morgan would say), but this is different; he's taken to wearing a minimum of three layers at all times to cover up the way his ribs stick out too far, and because he's just so damn cold, all the time.
He's barely smiled in weeks, his brain is slower than ever, and his tolerance is building up so high he's cutting into his savings just to keep up.)
It should be obvious that he's not okay.
It is.
He sees the concerned stares, to sideways glances, the too-innocent texts asking how he is.
But none of them reach out, not in the ways that matter.
Well, that's not fair.
They try, sometimes, but Spencer always ends up snapping at them, biting at their offering hands like a feral stray. And then they stop, and he feels emptier than ever.
He's so tired.
The Dilaudid doesn't even help anymore - he spends four hours a day staring at nothing, and the pleasant high is all but gone, replaced by numb apathy.
He's halfway to buying something harder, something more effective, something that'll quiet his ever-slowing mind and give him a moment of peace, before he realizes what the hell he's doing.
If he goes down this road, there's no coming back. End of.
So he pushes himself to his feet, goes home, and grabs his vials from the bookshelf. Goes to the bathroom, opens the toilet. Stares at them.
His hands are trembling.
His breathing is shaky.
And then all-consuming, red-hot rage takes over the apathy in a wave of anger, and he lifts the vials high above his head, throws them to the ground.
They shatter, sending glass flying across the room and through the open doorway.
Dilaudid sprays across his feet and the tiled floor, seeping into the grout, dripping down his ankles.
He sinks to the floor, sits in the glass and the drug, and stares.
--
(His sobriety lasts less than a month.
This time, when he gives in, it's even worse than the first - it's with shaking hands and sweat dripping down his brow, with the feeling of ants under his skin and fire in his gut.
This time, when he falls, it's further than ever.
He looks up, and he can't even see the sky anymore.
He goes to scream, but he doesn't even have the strength to open his jaw.
It's quiet, this far down.
And so, so dark.)
-
His fall is probably why they notice, this time - or at least why they finally reach out; it's so bad, they can't even pretend to ignore it.
Spencer Reid is a creature of. Something. He's not quite sure what, anymore. He is made of broken glass and silent tears and the vials that sit in his bookshelf, but he doesn't belong to them. Maybe he isn't a creature of anything, anymore; his logic cast aside, his patterns twisted and cracked, his rules bent to breaking.
He's living in the bottom of the ocean, in the very depths of the Mariana Trench, which is-
He can't even remember the numbers anymore, his mind is too fuzzy, too slow, like syrup dripping down, down, down.
The case hasn't even been that long - three days, with a few more to go. Not long ago, he could've held out. Not long ago, he could've quoted stats at the team and pretended not to understand their questions just to deflect the attention.
Not long ago, he was Dr Spencer Reid.
He's not sure what he is anymore.
They're on a case in the middle of nowhere, and there's only one hotel - more of a motel, really - and yet, somehow, by the time they arrive it's 2am and there are only four rooms left. Hotch and Rossi pull rank and get their own, JJ and Prentiss bunk up in the other, and then it's just Spencer and Morgan.
Two days later, and there's been no time nor reason to organize more rooms, and Spencer is pulling apart at the seams.
He used the brief respite the night before to curb his urges - used the time the others were sleeping, waited until Morgan was snoring on the bed to creep into the blackness of the shitty ensuite and slide a needle into his arm.
But it wasn't enough.
His hands are shaking and his eyes have bags the size of dinner plates, and he's just barely managing not to scratch at his track marks when other people are looking, but it's a close thing.
(He stopped exposing his arms a long time ago - so long he can't even remember the last time he casually bunched his sleeves above his elbows in a nervous gesture, or wore a short-sleeve on a hot day.
He can't risk it, not anymore. His skin is taboo, now - it is twisted and pale, so wretched that he showers in the dark, when he has the energy to shower..)
He's holding himself together with blutack and pure force of will.
Just a little longer, he tells himself, as he and Morgan get back to their room after a long day running around collecting evidence.
Not long, he thinks, as Morgan opens the file on their most recent suspect and reviews the new data.
He'll sleep soon, he half-prays, as the clock ticks 1am and Morgan is still. Not. Asleep.
"Are you ever going to sleep?" He spits, shooting up from where he's been lying on his side on the couch, pretending to sleep, and counting the minutes.
Morgan startles, and looks up. "Woah, man," he lowers his pencil and frowns, "sorry, I didn't think I was making that much noise."
"You weren't. Just." Spencer swallows his words - he's never been a good liar when it comes to his friends, but his mind is like syrup nowadays. They've kept quiet to keep his job, so sure he could deal with it, and look where that got them.
He's self-destructing, slowly but surely, and soon he'll be left with nothing but an apartment he can't afford, a letter of dismissal, and a crippling addiction. "Nevermind," he mutters, and goes back to counting the seconds until Morgan sleeps.
And Morgan- furrows his brow. Like he's worried. Like he cares.
(If he cared, he'd have taken those vials from Spencer on the ride to the hospital. Instead, he sat there and just... stared. And now.
Now.)
"What's been going on with you, man?" Morgan asks, frustrated and tired, "You've been acting off for- for months!"
Spencer just huffs a humorless laugh.
"I'm serious, Reid. What is it?" He insists, and Spencer can hear the rustling of the sheets as Morgan shifts around. "You know you can talk to me, right? I'm here for you."
He's not sure whether to laugh or cry, anymore, because Morgan sounds so damn sincere, in the way Derek Morgan always does.
God, he's a mess.
He closes his eyes so hard it hurts and there are stars dancing in the darkness of his head.
He's lost. He's lost and he's killing himself and he's been screaming for so long that he's not even sure if he's making any noise anymore.
He's forgotten what it's like to be happy, to be normal, to take a deep breath and not be afraid to drown.
And then Morgan says, "I can... I can help, Spencer. Just- tell me what to do."
And something cuts loose in Spencer's chest, the last string pulled taught and torn apart. He sits up fast enough that his head spins and his eyes sting and he wants to hurl, but he knows his stomach is empty and his veins and full of-
"You want to help me? You- you want to know what you can do?" He spits out, holding himself up with the arm of the couch. "You should've talked to me seven months ago. You should've found me sooner. You should have valued me more than this damn job-"
He's stepping forward with everything he says, barely aware of the concern and the pain on Morgan's face.
"You-"
He just-
He-
"You should-" his voice falters.
Weak, like him.
"You should have searched me before I got in that fucking ambulance," he whispers, anger dissipated on the non-existent wind, and then the only sounds in the room are his labored breathing, the AC, and the traffic on the road outside.
Spencer realizes how close he is. Steps back.
Again.
Stumbles.
Sinks to the floor, Morgan's arm gripping his own as he's led, gently, to the ground.
"Why..." he whispers, burying his face in his hands.
He's not sure what the question is.
He doesn't know if he wants the answer.
There's a long, long silence. Morgan slides down next to him, fidgets.
Waits.
Then,
"Spencer."
Silence.
Again,
"Spencer, what..." a deep breath, steeling himself, "what do you mean...?"
Spencer chuckles weakly. Wonders if it was such a small moment to Morgan that he barely remembers it, even as it looms over Spencer's every waking (and sleeping) minute. "Tobias Hankle," he says, "After- after. He still had a few vials on him."
Silence.
"I took them."
He can see Morgan looking over at him from the corner of his eye, and he braces for the questions, for the accusations, for the I thought you were strong enough to handle it on your own-
"Vials?" Morgan asks, instead.
And Spencer looks over, because Morgan sounds so genuinely confused, and-
"Fucking hell," Spencer says, and then starts laughing hysterically. Morgan flails for a minute, unsure, eyes darting to the door and his phone intermittently.
Finally, Spencer has mercy on him. "You know Hankle was an addict, right?" Morgan nods, slow. "An opioid. Dilaudid. When he..." he swallows, thickly, "when I was with him, he injected me. To help with the pain."
And then, because he's tired or maybe because some part of him still blames Morgan for not noticing, not helping- he waits. Waits and watches as the realization dawns.
"Kid-"
"I had rules," he says, cutting Morgan off and looking away, so he doesn't have to acknowledge the disappointment he's sure to find, "and- and I was... but then I stopped. And now..." he sighs, heavy, "I'm just so damn tired, Derek."
"Spence, please-"
"And you wanna know the funny thing?" He doesn't wait for a response. "I thought you knew! I figured you were just... just waiting for me to shake it off and move on. Be smarter, yknow? But- but here's the thing," he drops his head, feeling tears prick at his eyes, and stares at the dirty motel carpet.
There's a time where sitting on this floor would have sent him into a spiral from the dirtiness alone.
None of that seems to matter as much anymore.
He's empty, hollowed out.
Spencer Reid hated germs and followed rituals and rules and-
He's not sure who he is anymore.
"The thing is," he continues, voice quiet and low, "I don't think I can, Derek. I- I think I'm done, and I'm either gonna climb out of this hole or I'm gonna rot down here, and I can't do it alone, I tried, I swear I did, but I just- just can't-"
His voice breaks, weak weak weak, and suddenly Morgan's pulling him in, wrapping him in strong arms and a warm body. And Spencer Reid didn't like hugs, but now? Now he's just glad for the warmth, and the company, and the-
"You're not alone, Spencer," Morgan says, sounding on the verge of tears, "I'm so damn sorry. I swear to god I didn't know, and I should have- fuck, I wish I had, but I didn't and I can't change that-" he takes a deep breath, and, when he speaks again, it's quieter. Softer.
Gentler.
(Spencer forgot what it was to be warm. To reach out and touch something gentle instead of hard and cold and glass)
"I swear to- to anything that exists, kid. You're not alone anymore, okay? I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."
And-
He-
Spencer lets himself collapse, lean into Morgan's heat like his strings have been cut, and cries.
He can't remember the last time he cried.
(It's hard to tell if you're crying when there's water all around.
And he might not be back on dry land yet - might not even be anywhere close, might still be floating in the middle of the ocean, but Morgan's here, and he dove down and pulled Spencer up to the surface, and he's holding him there while Spencer breaks apart.
And he's not quite done drowning yet, but he's maybe not hopeless, anymore.)
"I'm here," Morgan mutters.
And Spencer lets himself believe it.
--
(Spencer Reid is made of everything he has ever touched - of logic and facts and routines, of lines in the sand that wash away when the tides come in, and of water and Dilaudid and blood.
He is a creature of habit - of logic and patterns and rules.
But he's made of other things, too. Of things that are soft and gentle and kind.
And, one day, he will look down at his arm and see nothing but faded scars.
And he will be alive.)