Spencer.

Fictive alter of a DID system. I am over 21.

[doctorspencerreidphd]

Introduction

Hi! I'm a fictive/introject alter [source: Dr. Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds] and my name is Dr. Spencer Reid. You may call me "Dr. Reid", "Reid", and "Spencer" but preferably only if we are close friends. My body's age is 28 (born in 1997) and I mostly identify with my source from the earlier seasons of Criminal Minds, although I do also identify with my source from around season 11 or so.

I have some source memories and related trauma as my host/system has been through many things that parallel my source's trauma.

I am on the Autism spectrum and have ADHD as well (plus quite a few other diagnosed disorders).

I am not a fan of syscourse and try to avoid being involved in it as much as possible.

I am typically rather shy and, due to a mix of Autism and social anxiety, often take a while to feel comfortable around others - I promise it's nothing personal!

I identify as male, and if I had to label my sexuality I would say I'm most likely bisexual. I am married to my husband who is also a system.

I am in the slow process of learning chess (I LOVE checkers!) and am teaching myself languages - primarily focusing on learning Korean right now. I love learning in general!!!

I prefer to avoid any conversations involving politics.

I am still figuring out my personal taste in music but tend to gravitate primarily to music that most people would consider "sad" as I find it extremely comforting.

I'm not sure of what else to say so I will end this post here for now and potentially update it in the future!

[blushingxfae]

I would liked to be used please thank you very much

[ellieheartreid]

it's not a "hear me out" IT'S A HOLD ME BACK.

[heated-blanket]

they’re foreclosing on my mind palace

[heathertrash10-blog]

Reblog if

It’s 104% okay to come to your DM and just say, “Hi, can we be friends?” And then start asking you random questions.

[heathertrash10-blog]

Reblog if

It’s 104% okay to come to your DM and just say, “Hi, can we be friends?” And then start asking you random questions.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Nine: Double-Vision

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MDNI, This story gradually becomes darker and darker yet. This shall serve as your warning.

Chapter Nine: Double-Vision

The yellow, fluorescent lights of the OB/GYN clinic I'd never heard of until today buzzed loudly above my head like buzzing flies over a rotting corpse. My already sickly complexion was only worsened by the dimmed glow which casted strange hues upon the vomit-green walls of the waiting room. I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to make the room stop spinning, to make the nausea dissipate in the slightest, to keep my knees from bouncing and to keep the tremoring of my hands to a less noticeable level. Despite my best efforts, Garcia noticed my shaking hands struggling to fill out the patient intake form. She gently took the clipboard and pen from me, filling it in herself so quickly that I almost wondered if she was correctly filling the form at all. Garcia then silently took the form back to the desk where she had signed me in under a pseudonym and I heard the woman she handed the form to say, "The doctor will call you in shortly — he doesn't have any other patients this afternoon." before Garcia returned to her uncomfortable worn-out upholstered steel chair beside me. 

It looked as if she were about to speak before a relatively young male doctor and an even younger-looking ultrasound technician stepped into the waiting room — having emerged from somewhere down the hall — and called out my fake surname. I gave a nervous glance to both Gideon and Garcia before shakily standing up and following the two medical professionals down the long and thin corridor, occasionally looking over my shoulder to make certain that both Garcia and Gideon were still following me into the room, as I'd requested them to beforehand.

Thankfully, both Gideon and Garcia did all the talking for me once the doctor had noted that I was anxious and dissociating. They explained that the pregnancy was unplanned due to being a result of repeated instances of rape and that I planned on aborting if possible. The doctor seemed sympathetic as did the technician, both understanding that this ultrasound was my way of understanding what was happening inside of me — a twisted way to come to terms with reality before the inevitable end of it all. They understood I needed hard facts and information rather than emotional overwhelm.

It felt like I kept zoning in and out of ability to understand what was happening to and around me, every word sounding like nonsensical gibberish in a sea of confusion that I struggled to consistently keep myself afloat in.

When I returned to full awareness, there was already gel applied to my abdomen, my feet in stirrups as I lay on a medical examination table, the paper draped over my thighs leaving little (if anything at all) to the imagination, my button-up shirt fully opened, draping across either side of my midsection. The first thing I felt when coming back to reality was the press of the technician's wand moving across the exterior of my womb. The next thing I noticed was the sound on the machine, a blur of heartbeats. My heartbeat was clear yet erratic as anyone's would be in my position. When I listened for the fetal heartbeat, however, the fluttering seemed to overlap itself in an uneven rhythm. 

I must have looked alarmed as the doctor, looking at the scan, reassured me, "Don't worry, sir. I know those heartbeats must sound strange and even worrying, but I promise it's perfectly normal for twin fetal heartbeats to sound like they're out of synch with one another."

"T-Twin?" I questioned weakly.

"Yes, sir. You’ve been dissociated for some time now so I understand if you didn't fully hear or can't quite recall what I've already relayed to your friends. Would you like for me to explain it to you, or would it be easier if one of them told you?"

Without giving him a glance I simply replied, "Gideon?"

I looked at him as he spoke, his eyes filled with a mixture of emotions that were too difficult to differentiate, separate and name — the only thing I knew for sure was that he seemed to be holding back tears in his glassy dark eyes. "Spencer... I'm so sorry that I don't know how else to tell you this, but I do understand your wish to hear this from someone you know — someone who you know cares about you and who won't judge you."

"Oh, just tell him, Jason," Penelope's voice was softer than usual as she rolled her eyes, sounding somewhere between broken and elated as if she were waiting for my reaction to decide which mood was most acceptable and desirable. She held back her tears as best as she could, blowing her nose into a tissue. It sounded as if she were begging on my behalf. She probably was.

"Spencer... you're roughly seventeen weeks along now. Fetal age is likely a couple of weeks younger than that. The pregnancy so far seems to be potentially viable, with no clear harm done so far."

"Alright," I swallowed, the truth seeming surreal. "But what did he mean by that whole twin thing, Gideon?"

Gideon sighed deeply, grabbing one of my hands in both of his before his eyes met mine, as if bracing me for the hardest punch to the gut of my young life. When he spoke again, it was heavy and somber, plagued with his own remorse of not saving me from this fate himself, "The twin thing is... You're pregnant with twins, Spencer. Identical. Both females. At this point in the pregnancy and with the plausible viability of both fetuses, it would be far too risky to attempt terminating the pregnancy with you being this far into your second trimester. I am so, so incredibly sorry, Spencer. No matter what happens, we'll be here with you every step of the way."

For the first time since the moment I was kidnapped, I felt complete numbness. Absolutely nothing at all and yet, burning just below the surface of that nothingness was something so much bigger than the very concept of feeling everything all at once.

Seventeen weeks. Viable. Too late and too risky to terminate. Identical twins. But my mind refused to linger on anything but one key word in all of that information.

"Female?"

"Yes, Spencer. It's usually a bit soon to tell but the doctor and technician have no doubt that both fetuses are indeed female."

"Good," I said. "They won't be as much like him as I thought."

"No matter what happens, Spencer, those babies- er, fetuses, I mean... No matter what, those fetuses are yours. Not his. Your options may be far more limited than we thought but these twins are yours and they'll look and act like you no matter how much resemblance they may have to Hankel. They're yours and it's your decision what to do with them."

"I've already decided. If I can't terminate, I'll just have to keep them. I couldn't handle even the idea of anyone but me raising them, especially if I have no choice but to carry and give birth to them."

Penelope's smile was bittersweet as she ran her fingers through my hair. "Well, I'm more than happy to help you come up with baby names and to figure out how you're gonna tell Morgan about this. Don't worry, I made sure they printed off pictures of the scans for you to keep if you want. If Morgan has any problems with it, I'll have some serious problems with him," she giggled.

"I'll see to it that your co-workers and higher-ups find out about this only when you want them to, on your own terms. I promise I'll do everything I can to make sure your job remains as unaffected by all of this as possible."

"Thank-"

Gideon held up a hand to shush me. "No need to thank either of us. We're a family... albeit an unexpectedly rapidly growing family... but a family nonetheless, as we always have been and always will be. We're here for you. Always. A promise is a promise."

I'd booked a follow-up appointment for a few weeks from that date and walked from the clinic to the pharmacy down the street where I'd called in a refill for both my vyvanse and klonopin. I'd been informed that my psychiatrist had raised the dosage from fifteen milligrams to thirty milligrams of vyvanse, as well as raising the klonopin dosage from half a milligram three times daily to a full milligram three times daily. Both medications had been doubled in dosage, as per my request on the phone with my psychiatrist last week. I picked up the prescriptions and wandered to a quieter area of the street next to an alleyway, quiet and devoid of unwanted attention. Gideon and Garcia followed me wherever I went. I easily hid the fact that I still had pills left over in my satchel from the previous refill of my prescriptions. The tremoring that had started in my hands and legs continued to worsen, seeming to affect my entire body now.

"Hey, Dr. Reid? That zoning out thing's getting worse and worse. You were supposed to take your meds a few hours ago, weren't you?" Garcia urgently inquired in a lulling tone that sounded like she should be talking to an injured animal. Perhaps she was in a sense doing just that. 

"Shit... yeah. I must've forgotten to set an alarm or something." I was grateful for my special interest in magic and illusion in that moment -- slight-of-hand served me well in making it look like I grabbed one vyvanse rather than two and, more impressively, neither members of my team thought anything of me grabbing four Klonopin because to them it once again appeared that I had grabbed a singular pill. I palmed the klonopin and held the vyvanse pinched between my thumb and index finger. Before I could think to look for water, Garcia was already handing me a large bottle of the clear liquid, cap already removed. I slid in both vyvanse capsules - now each pill was 30mg rather than the 15mg I'd grown used to. Once I had chased it down with the water being offered to me, I knew I had to be subtle in my process of maneuvering all four klonopin tablets into my mouth and under my tongue. I could feel the beginning of the benzodiazepines dissolving sublingually as I lit my cigarette, unsure of what happened to the one I had just had. It didn't matter. Soon I'd be focused. Soon I'd find out what 4mg of klonopin does to a man who's rarely taken that much in a day, let alone all at once. I smoked to keep my mouth busy enough that my silence wouldn't be seen as odd. I could taste the bitter mint and bubble-gum-like tablets that were gradually mixing with my saliva and blood vessels. Something about that taste in that moment was more heavenly and ethereal than it ever had been before. It tasted exactly the same as the dosage I was used to but there was something unmistakably perfectly warm and soft about the way the pills tasted this time. My sigh of relief left my parted full lips in a long and gentle moan. There was no visible trace of the klonopin left in my mouth yet the perfect flavor lingered. I took a long and pleasurable drag off my cigarette and looked around, seeing nobody in the street besides my teammates. I hadn't realized I had forgotten to button my shirt back up, lifting the cable-knit baggy cardigan to reveal my swollen abdomen, feeling a movement that was stronger than before. Puffing on my cigarette, I caressed the part of my body that held my daughters, smiling as I rubbed my hand lightly against myself, feeling the movement calm down instantly. I didn't want to keep them. I didn't want to get rid of them. I couldn't stand hating them. I feared how much I might be falling in love with them. Daughters. More than one. 17 weeks. Healthy despite everything that should have killed them long ago; they were already taking after me. Me. Not him. Not Hankel. Me. They were mine. Daughters. Not sons. His ghost wasn't growing inside of me. Some sick and tragic part of me wished they were Tobias's rather than Charles's. At least they would have Tobias's genes — maybe they could be something as helpless and innocent as him. He had been oddly beautiful despite all the unspeakable atrocities his system of alters had committed. Tobias didn't have a choice. I certainly had even less of a choice. Our daughters didn't choose who their parents were nor how they were conceived. Yet to love them and to keep them alive would be to kill and bury some part of myself. 

My eyelids grew heavy but not with sleep. No, this was something far more powerful. I smiled involuntarily as I felt the beginnings of a euphoric rush wash over me, crashing like the sea and sparkling like a sky full of northern stars, every one of them leading me back home. But this home was not a place. This home was just the beginning of quite possibly the best I'd ever felt. This home was two pill bottles. This home was realizing the horror of how there was almost nothing left that I was in control of. This home was control in tablet form, embracing me like something better and more real than a full-body orgasm. Every problem and worry melted away, insignificant. Everything had been so deeply destroyed only moments ago in the clinic. Now I questioned if there had ever been anything broken in the first place. 

As a man of science, I never once believed in heaven or hell. Despite my beliefs or lack thereof, despite how hard I tried to fight every instance of rape, the harshest truth was knowing that my unborn daughters had been conceived in nothing short of Hell itself. I used to think death was the purest mercy Hankel could have provided me with. Perhaps it was the same for the ghosts of Tobias gestating within my womb. Now I had finally found something far better than heaven in the gentle waves carrying me out to sea and starlight. I hadn't just found the perfect number and combination of pills -- I had at long last found my way to make peace with absolutely everything. Nothing else mattered. Nothing hurt in this chemically-induced holy solace.

I was no longer a victim nor profiler in this celestial euphoria. I was no longer a genius with three PhDs. I wasn't even human. I had found a way to transcend every ounce of fear and pain. I was nothing. No one. I was nothing more than a vessel for the already damned innocents. I was nothing more and nothing less than the perfection I'd longed to be for far longer than I dared to remember. The unborn were already condemned. Perhaps if I indulged myself in this chemical cloak of childlike serenity often enough, my daughters would never have to be born into the utter damnation of this world. At least then they would never have to fear, suffer, or be subjected to becoming victims of the same sin which had conceived their very existence. To be born was to know all things unholy. While it was too late to terminate, it wasn't too late to save them from the sheer horror of life itself. What kind of father would I be if I didn't do everything in my power to keep my daughters safe in the only way that made any sense to me now? Charles had once told me that we are all born of sin, some more than others. This had always been the only way to save them. I didn't deserve anything this pure anyways; I never had and never would deserve the beauty of who they could be. It was kinder to them if they never knew me at all. They deserved the mercy that I would never know. And, in all of these thoughts, another thought echoed loud enough to drown out everything else: There was a part of me that I couldn't deny — a part that wanted nothing more than to hold them in my arms and raise them to be who Tobias and I never got the chance to become. 

My eyes fluttered closed, my breath felt like warm clouds, my memories faltered for a fraction of a second of reprieve and my legs threatened to give out and that's when I began to fully experience the safety that my daughters deserved. I could only hope that they felt just as safe as I did. 

They deserved nothing more than mercy. I wasn't certain any longer if I had it in me to grant them the eternal serenity that they deserved infinitely more than I ever would.

They deserved better than any of this. They deserved better than what I would only continue to force them along with the rest of my body to endure.

They deserved better than me.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Eight: Am I Making You Feel Sick?

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MDNI, This story gradually becomes darker and darker yet. This shall serve as your warning.

Chapter Eight: Am I Making You Feel Sick?

 "I really wish you didn't have to smoke in my office, Dr. Reid," Garcia's laugh sounded soft and innocent like bells or windchimes on a cozy October morning. Her smile was just as effortlessly comforting, even now before I'd had the chance to risk breaking her heart. She worried too much, cared too much and (just as Morgan had correctly assessed the other night) was far too hopeful for her own good, especially in this line of work.

She lit incense that smelled like a combination of white sage and lavender. It was a smell of purity, of safety, of cleanliness — something almost holy. The scent comforted me rather than nauseating me, much to my relief. As I took a sharp inhale of nicotine, that impossible-to-ignore fluttering returned in my somewhat pronounced lower abdomen. My unoccupied hand flew to it instinctively. I closed my eyes and groaned slightly as I attempted to use the cigarette to steady my breathing and heartrate.

"Are you having cramps, honey? I have a whole drawer full of all kinds of pads and tampons and even adult diapers if that's more your jam, just say the word and I-"

"I'm not menstruating, trust me," my laugh was unexpectedly soft and light, untouched by the bitterness that festered beneath the surface.

"Okay, good to know! Have you gotten back on track with your weekly testosterone injections? I know you've said that if you mess up the timing too much it can come back or be irregular-"

"I said it's not my period!" My voice faltered on the final word as I heard the intensity I hadn't meant to express. "I'm sorry," I recovered swiftly, "I'm just uh... It's not my period... just... similar hormonal shifts. Far, far more intense hormonal shifts."

"I can get you a discreet clinic appointment if you'd like to have a doctor assess the situation and help you get back to your usual baseline levels with the whole HRT thing if you'd like? I won't do anything you don't want." She held out her pinky as a promise to me. Typical Garcia.

I smiled softly, rolling my eyes as I took my hand that had been placed over that small bump and took her pinky in mine as I always did. I hadn't noticed the cold air of her office hitting my exposed lower abdomen. I must have forgotten to fully button or tuck my shirt after using the washroom on the way to Garcia's office just a few minutes ago, having done three more pregnancy tests Gideon had given me just so I could be absolutely certain of my newfound predicament. I pulled my hand from hers, using it to cover what was already apparent by now. My hand cradled the swelling more than it hid it — the protective nurturing instincts taking over me despite everything I felt that went against the very idea of such a thing. 

Her confused gaze followed the movement and placement of my hand, studying it in a way that made me think that she’d someday be better suited to working as a profiler rather than as the BAU's brilliant technical analyst. Her gaze didn't meet mine as she continued visually inspecting what little she could see, her eyes wide with what I could only imagine must be shock as she deduced in a voice softer than usual, "Oh, Spencer... Please tell me I'm not going crazy and seeing something that isn't there."

"You're not crazy. In fact, I'd say you're easily the utmost sane person in this room." My smile reached my eyes but just barely. I reached into my satchel and pulled out the three pregnancy tests I'd shown to Gideon. Her jaw dropped slightly, mouth agape and eyes widening further as she saw me pull out three more tests that I hadn't waited to see the results for — ensuring that I wouldn't be alone for the results of any of the tests. Alone wasn't a very safe thing for me to be in that moment. "I did a bunch of tests just to be absolutely sure either way. I already read those first three in front of you. I wanted to wait until I was with you to look at the results of the second batch of tests... Didn't really feel safe being alone with the truth." I took a long thoughtful drag off the cigarette and tapped it lightly on the ceramic vintage Jack-O-Lantern ashtray she kept in her office for me. I shakily pulled from the cigarette again, letting the smoke sting my lungs more than usual before huffing the smoke out of my nostrils as I arranged the pregnancy tests on the desk to look more symmetrical and sensical. 

"You're pregnant," her voice was flat — void of inflection or emotion of any discernable tone. She was in shock on a level that I had only observed in victims that had been forced to watch as their loved ones were tortured and gruesomely murdered in front of them, still covered in blood that wasn't their own. 

"My calculations estimate I'm about eleven and a half weeks gestation."

"I know these new tests with the predictor feature can be a bit faulty at times..."

"Yes, the first test gave inconclusive results-"

"Yes, but Spencer... The first positive test says its at least eleven weeks. The second says 11-13 weeks. But you haven't looked at this second batch of tests yet, right?"

"Right. Why? You've got a better view of the results than I do from where you're sitting," I commented, still standing behind her.

"The second batch," she took a deep breath, "Well, the answers are still slightly inconsistent. All are positive," my stomach dropped at hearing those words, the fluttering beneath my hand only growing more noticeable. "They're all positive but the first one estimates that it's about 12 weeks... I guess that makes sense, of course. The second test says ten to fourteen weeks or more which is sort of like the two positive tests you got in the first batch. The third... Are you certain who the father is either way? Or... the father that isn't you, I should say?"

"It isn't Derek's — we'd been too busy with the Hankel case for an entire month before my abduction to have any... um..." I continued nervously and awkwardly, clearing my throat, "...we didn't have the chance to have penetrative sex or anything else that could theoretically result in pregnancy."

"Then if this last test is correct in the slightest... you already know you were held for about half a week. When the team compiled the case file for you, we only started counting the time of captivity as being when we first saw you after Hankel turned the camera on for us to watch you. He took you not long after sunset, right? But the footage? The livestream footage didn't start until late the next morning. You were less than a thirty-minute drive from the abduction site that whole time..."

"Please, Penelope," I soothingly put my hand on her shoulder, feeling she needed the comfort more than I did. "Don't beat yourself up over any of it. You did all you could and I'm still here."

"I'm-I'm trying so hard to keep it together, Doc, I swear I am! It's just-!"

"What is it?" My puzzled brown eyes met her teary gaze at last as she looked back at me over her shoulder, stroking the hand I'd kept there.

"You said the last time you had sex with Morgan would've probably been at least sixteen to twenty weeks ago, right?"

"Yeah, somewhere around that approximate timeline."

"And you were kidnapped at least around 12 weeks ago now?"

"I think we've all had a hard time keeping track of things once we got you back. Time being the biggest factor. Your doctor wrote a note in your file that was secured but I hacked into it. He wrote that you seemed to have a somewhat inconsistent ability to keep track as a side effect of the medications in combination with your freshly traumatized psyche... Reid, how long exactly in that beautiful genius mind of yours do you think it's been since we rescued you?"

"Approximately two months and twenty days, maybe twenty-one. Why?"

The worry in her eyes shifted into something penetrating and palpable, her gaze freezing me in place as a chill ran down my spine. She turned to her computer to click and type before a password-protected calendar and timer popped up on her screen. I had been abducted late November rather than mid-December like I'd recalled. The timer on screen read 'Time Since The Companions Saved The Doctor,' and I smiled despite myself at the Doctor Who reference. I looked more closely and read the duration of time that had passed since I was saved.

Thirteen weeks. Six days. Fourteen hours. Fifteen minutes. Twenty seconds.

I looked at the last pregnancy test which read, 

Pregnant -- 14-16+ Weeks

"Reid? You look really pale. Sit down-!"

I fell to my knees on the floor as I whispered, "Book an ultrasound for today. Immediately. No data. No records. Use a pseudonym and false identification. No trace of this can exist... and one more thing-"

"Anything!" She answered, typing frantically while passing me a water bottle and the ashtray so I didn't burn myself.

"Don't tell Morgan or the team besides Gideon... and I'll need you to make up some kind of believable excuse for both you and him to be with me during my appointment. Lie about wherever we're going so that nobody — especially Morgan — will have any idea of what's actually going on at all. Nobody can know we're going to an ultrasound or that I'll be terminating this pregnancy. Nobody can know I'm pregnant. Nobody," I stressed the last word, "Nobody can know anything at all. I don't know how I'm going to keep this from Derek at all... or for how long I can keep him from finding out or- or figuring it out himself. I don't think I can pull any part of this off by myself... I know he's gonna find out sooner than later. I know he'll see how much I'm starting to show," I gestured towards the source of the fluttering sensations of movement that grew more intense the more frantic I became. "He'll see it the instant my clothes are off in front of him. Hell, I know he'll see it even with my clothes on. I mean what if he's seen it already but hasn't said anything? What if that's what Morgan was saying to Gideon right before Gideon gave me all of these pregnancy test kits? What if-?" my speech was high, cracking and much faster than it should be from the anxiety and vyvanse. 

"Spencer? Spencer!" she had swiveled in her chair to face me now, firmly placing her soft hands on my shoulders and then moving them to cup my face, my empty hazel-brown stare now trained on her brown eyes which sparkled with the threat of tears behind the dark frames of her glasses that seemed almost too ordinary for her typically bubbly personality. Her thumb brushed away tears I hadn't realized were streaming down my hollow cheeks. "Please look at me, Spencer. Whether he knows already, finds out, figures it out... or if he never has the faintest inkling that any of this nightmare of yours ever happened at all? No matter what does or doesn't happen, I promise you we'll be here every step of the way no matter what you decide to do."

"We? You and Gideon?"

She nodded her head, "Yes, my sweet baby genius-" she stopped the instant she realized that that nickname might hold a different weight in light of my... predicament. "I'm so sorry, Reid, honey you know I didn't mean-"

"If by some utterly fucked up miracle this... thing... is born and born healthy... then I would hope that that nickname would still be true. I hope... I hope if it does take after him in any way it's only like Tobias and not- not Ch... Char..." I cleared my throat, trying to speak again but all that came out was a broken sob. "God, sorry, it's just the pregnancy hormones, I was gonna say if it takes after Tobias instead of-"

"You don't have to torture yourself any further by saying his name."

"It's just a common name. I should be able to say it. Why- why can't I just get the damn name out?!" my slight shout startled me while Garcia kept her hands on either side of my face, wiping the tears that poured out of my eyes, hitting the linoleum beneath me. "I can say Charles Manson. I can say Charles if I think about anybody but... anybody but him. It feels so ridiculous that just that name alone is exacerbating fetal movement."

"Doc, you're the only warmth and home it's ever known. It knows when you're stressed- well, more stressed than you usually are lately, I mean. I won't give some pro-life speech about how it loves you. I don't know if it's even capable of emotion or any sort of thought yet."

"Yet," I breathlessly repeated.

"But I know you are more capable of emotion than you let on. I know you feel things more deeply than you'd ever admit. I know this all tears you apart in ways that nobody could ever even imagine... But you're always so quiet. You always say you're fine no matter what. Especially to Morgan. It's okay to not be okay. It's safe for you to not feel fine all the time or hell, even ever at all! I don't think anybody would blame you for anything you might feel."

"It's not viable. It's not safe for me or the fetus to try to carry to term. It would take a miracle for it to be born alive or at all, let alone healthy..."

"I know that face. That's your thinking face — the thinking face when you're trying to use logic and reasoning to make sense of whatever it is you're feeling."

"Nothing fools you, does it?"

"Even now you're trying to make me laugh so I'll be distracted long enough for you to change the subject and act like none of this is happening... and I love that about you so much, Dr. Reid... and I am so so so sorry that we couldn't save you in time before this happened. I'm so sorry nobody asked or said anything or even gave you the room to say what happened. I'm sorry that every single choice that you had every right to was ripped away from you before you even had a chance and I just... I'm sorry that we can't pretend that none of this is happening anymore."

"I'm sorry, too."

"Why?" she sniffled.

"I made such a stupid mistake. If I just hadn't told JJ that we should split up... if I just had done anything else and not wound up in that cornfield where he took me then none of this would be happening at all."

"You know it's not your fault, Reid."

I listened but didn't respond, abandoning the embers that remained from before in favor of slowly and dizzily lighting a new cigarette while I heard Penelope Garcia call a local clinic I'd never heard of. Whether this pregnancy was viable or not, I needed to know exactly what was happening in my body before I could make an informed decision of how to put an end to it once and for all.

For a moment, feeling the flutters of fetal quickening in my uterus, I cradled it with my hand and felt a protective instinctual tie to this parasitic ghostly remnant of my dead rapist that somehow brought me to hormonal tears of joy over the idea of the life growing inside me without my permission. I was delighted. I was horrified. I was already grieving something I never wanted to begin with. The nausea I felt in the pit of my stomach wasn't the morning sickness I was growing used to all-too-quickly. This vile love and innocent hatred was tearing a part of me inside that I didn't even know existed before today.

It was making me feel sick.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Seven: The Body Keeps The Score

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MDNI, This story gradually becomes darker and darker yet. This shall serve as your warning.

Chapter Seven: The Body Keeps The Score

Silence hung heavily in the air as it had for the past several minutes after I had entered Gideon's office and sat down in the seat across from him at his desk, having no choice but to look at him. I hoped he would be the first to break the silence. My knee bounced under the desk from a mix of stimulants and rightful anxiety.

"I assume Garcia has already expressed to you just how urgently I wanted to speak with you in private, where you can say or do anything without worrying of what the team may think of you."

"Yes, sir. She also reassured me that Morgan hadn't told you anything you didn't already know and that I'm not in any sort of trouble."

"Yes, that's correct. However, for the sake of full honesty and transparency I must disclose to you that he did tell me that you seem more sensitive to smells, that you vomited twice in the parking lot, that you seem more and more fatigued these past several weeks and that he suspected you've been vomiting in the privacy in the bathroom stalls off and on for the last week or two."

"I..." I realized there was no way to lie my way out of this. "I suppose that's an accurate assessment."

"I'm guessing you've already found ways to explain to yourself whatever it is that's happening to you, whether that be psychosomatic, trauma, stress, effects of the medication or maybe some combination of all of those things," he continued and I nodded in agreement. He continued, "There's something I would like to ask you. I understand that I may risk triggering another flashback by asking what I'm about to ask but if you are not willing to take that risk I understand completely and won't push the matter further unless you tell me that you're ready."

"Well, whatever it is was clearly important enough for you to think we needed to discuss it alone together. I have my meds for anxiety if needed to help get through anything you could throw my way."

He smiled and clasped his hands in front of him. The smile had a clear tinge of something like sadness to it. Gideon was rarely this vulnerable and easy to profile which made it all the more evident that I was ill-prepared for whatever question he was about to ask. "I understand and very much respect that you are transgender. You divulged that information to me years ago when you worried if your transition would impact my decision in hiring you on this team. It didn't impact it then, neither does it impact any of that now. I want to remind you that I and everyone else on this team sees you just as much of a man as myself, Hotch and Morgan."

It was reassuring to hear those words even if I already knew it all deep down. "You still haven't asked your question, sir."

"Nothing gets past you, does it?" He smiled again, that vulnerability, sadness, and concern still impossible for him to mask. "I suppose there really is no easy or gentle way to ask you this... If you want to be angry or upset with me, I'll understand — you have every right. But please hear me out first and know that this question is coming from a place of the utmost genuine love and concern for you."

My leg shook harder and faster under the desk. "Spit it out then, Gideon!" I did all I could to manage a calm and somewhat playful tone, acting the same as I always had around him.

Gideon let out a small laugh and something that resembled a sigh of relief before his demeanor regressed to that same sad smile and clasped hands, keeping his distance in preparation for whatever my reaction might be. "You seem to have weighed all odds, possibilities and I'm sure even statistics as you always have in trying to find an explanation for your symptoms. I just want to know if you've considered one last possible cause for your symptoms, given what I know now about what happened to you when you were held captive."

"You want to know about the times he raped me?" My calm and casual tone took me by surprise, albeit a very welcome surprise in these circumstances.

"Well, yes, actually. You don't have to divulge any details until you're ready and, when that time comes, I will be sure to keep everything you say just between us. If there's anything you don't want Morgan to know but feel ready to tell me, I'll respect that privacy as well, no matter how morally grey some may see that. Their opinions and judgement don't matter. It's you and what you've gone through and are still going through that matters to me. I want you to be able to think of me as a safe space. I've already profiled long ago that you weren't one to want or seek out therapy or counselling in the slightest and I figured I could function as a sort of surrogate for things of that nature."

"Thank you, Gideon. I truly can't express how much that means to me."

"It's not a problem at all, Dr. Reid." He paused, closing his eyes and putting his forehead to his hands for a moment, resembling someone saying grace over a meal at a family gathering. He raised his head again, eyes opening to look at me. "I suppose I was perhaps too vague in my question," he started, "so if you don't mind me asking again," he paused, cleared his throat, "I'll ask you once more. Have you given any thought to the only thing that would explain all of your symptoms? Given all that happened when you were being held captive, tortured, drugged and raped by Hankel... The potential cause of what you're experiencing may be too much to directly admit, even to yourself, let alone to someone you've worked with nearly every day for years."

Flashbacks threatened to take over, I could feel that cold darkness I had been held in creeping it's way back into the present rather than remaining in the past where it should have stayed. I shook my head free of it, blinking it away. "I'm having a bit of a hard time thinking clearly enough to fully understand whatever it is you're implying... probably part of that whole 'fatigue' thing you mentioned."

"That's alright, I don't blame you at all. Would you like for me to simply ask you bluntly, even if the words risk triggering further flashbacks?" 

"Yes. Please," I practically begged for any semblance of clarity he could provide me in that moment.

"Now, as I said before, there's no easy or gentle way to ask this, although I know you've prepared yourself for that much..." He took a deep breath before finally asking the question that seemed to be haunting him — I wondered if it had been haunting him since he first suspected that I'd been raped on the night he and the rest of the team had come to my rescue. "Spencer... Do you think there's even the slightest chance that you may be pregnant?"

The question knocked the wind out of me like getting punched in my solar plexus. That strange fluttering and cramping returned in the lowermost part of my abdomen. My stomach tied itself and untied itself in knots repeatedly and relentlessly. Gideon had passed me a trash can already lined with multiple plastic bags -- clearly prepared for me to vomit into as many times as my body needed. That's exactly what I did. Gideon rubbed a hand up and down my back, simultaneously soothing me and encouraging me to get up whatever I had to. After about ten minutes of vomiting, pausing to breathe as I thought it passed only to find myself vomiting again, I leaned back in the chair across from Gideon, using tissues to remove the bile and mucous from my face. He gave me hand sanitizer, painfully aware of how overwhelming my germaphobia was now. My entire body was covered in a sheen of sweat from head to toe. I started shaking slightly in a way that felt different from the other times I'd puked. This wasn't as simple as an electrolyte imbalance. My mind was flooded with anxiety that felt worse than any anxiety I'd ever experienced.

He reached out and held my hand, "Take your klonopin, Reid. You likely burned through or purged whatever was left of your last dose."

I reached into my satchel, pulling out a single rounded orange tablet and placed it under my tongue. Taking it sublingually, I hoped that my bloodstream would absorb enough of it so that if the vomiting persisted at least I would stand half a chance of the medication still working. 

Gideon waited patiently until I was able to speak again. "I hate having to ask again, given all you've just been through, but I need to be sure that you heard and understood my question. Morgan did tell me that you two haven't had sex of any sort with each other since before Hankel took you. And, knowing now what Hankel did to you and that it was a repeated offence, I'll ask you one more time..." He paused again, waiting for my silent signal to ask again. "Do you think there's a possibility, no matter how slight, that you may be pregnant? It's of my understanding that it's been several years since your last menstrual cycle, but you know even more than I do that testosterone injections aren't any sort of guaranteed form of birth control."

"Which must mean you also know that if I were to get pregnant while on testosterone that that pregnancy would not be viable. There have been some documented exceptions to that rule, but those are few and far between."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that that week you missed your regularly scheduled weekly injection. Morgan said the stress of the case leading up to your abduction had caused you to miss or at least be late on your injections for at least two weeks prior to you being kidnapped. It's highly plausible that you may have been in the peak phase of ovulation when each instance of rape occurred."

I nodded my head solemnly, looking down into my lap, unable to meet Gideon's eyes. "In that case, to answer your question..." I sighed deeply, pushing all the air out of my lungs before inhaling again. "Yes. Yes, I think me being pregnant is a definite possibility. I know already with the timeline that, if I am pregnant, it's not possible for it to be Morgan's."

I met his gaze long enough to watch his heart sink into his stomach. "If you'd like to confirm or deny the reality of it either way, you can use the bathroom attached to my office. It's private. I'm the only one with access and I won't interrupt you. I only ask that you return immediately, so that you don't have to go through finding out the results on your own."

"I think I already know the answer," I say as I stand up, lowering the waistline of my loose trousers, pulling up my shirt to expose my torso, and willingly exposing my bare abdomen in the process. On anyone else, it might just seem like bloating. However, on my tall, lanky, and nearly emaciated frame, the protrusion of my lower abdomen was unmistakably present in a way that it shouldn't be.

Gideon suppressed a gasp, unable to hide how wide his eyes were or the color draining from his face in what I imagined must be utter shock and horror, much like what I was feeling. He handed me the sealed home pregnancy test — the kind that was able to detect how far along the pregnancy was. "I still feel that you should take it, just to be absolutely sure either way. There's three tests in there for you to use in case of any faulty results, so you should still get a clear answer."

"Thanks," I whispered, taking the box from his hands and walking towards the private washroom.

"Of course," I faintly heard his reply.

I didn't bother to lock the door behind me, knowing nobody would come barging in. I read the instructions carefully and found them easier to comprehend than I'd initially expected. I loosened off my belt, pants falling to the floor as I moved to sit on the toilet. I felt an intense pressure in my bladder as I placed the pregnancy test between my legs as the instructions had guided me to do, ensuring I didn't miss or mess up any of the steps. I had the other two pregnancy tests ready to be used as soon as I was done with this one. Baring down, I suddenly found it nearly impossible to urinate whatsoever. This was simply one of the less tolerable side-effects of both medications, especially the vyvanse. Not to mention my attempts to urinate only proved more difficult from how dehydrated I was after a morning filled with near-constant vomiting. After several minutes of relaxing my body and focusing on nothing else, I finally felt my bladder release and my relief pour out onto the white stick, the toilet catching the excess urine. After I was sure the test was thoroughly saturated, I moved on to the second and then third, following the same procedure each time. Once finished, I hurriedly wiped myself, flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and exited the washroom. I placed the three pregnancy tests on the center of the desk so that Gideon and I would have an equal view of it. 

"These things usually take at least a few minutes to show the full results regardless of what the results are," Gideon explained. "This kind is relatively new and is said to be the most accurate on the market right now. I opened the window in here and placed an ashtray on your side of the desk. Given your situation, I imagine you're in desperate need of a cigarette. Chain-smoke if you feel the desire to. We can worry about any potential fetal harm later. Feel free to spend the next few minute talking to me, sitting in silence or listening to music on that MP3 player Garcia set up for you."

I queued up the songs to play at random like always. Placing my earbuds inside of each ear, I turned up the volume until I was able to hear Courtney Love's voice singing the semi-familiar lyrics to the song Violet by Hole.

And the sky was made of amethyst And all the stars were just like little fish You should learn when to go You should learn how to say no

I tried not to snort or shake my head at hearing that last line. I wished I'd been able to get up and leave Hankel. I wish saying no could have stopped him from putting me in this mess.

Might last a day, yeah Mine is forever Might last a day, yeah Mine is forever

The words that only my ears could perceive rang truer than ever before as I lit a cigarette. I continued to listen in complete silence that felt more like sensory-deprivation and overstimulation simultaneously. Everything about this moment felt heavily juxtaposed in a manner that I couldn't find the right words to describe. Hell, I felt like a goddamned walking juxtaposition. Maybe I was, in a sense. Maybe that was what Hankel wanted me to feel — to be.

When they get what they want, and they never want it again And they get what they want, and they never want it again Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to

The repeated line only fueled the rage I hadn't realized I was feeling deep down. How long had I felt this rage for? Minutes? Hours? Days? Weeks? Ever since I was rescued or perhaps even as early as the first time I had been raped in that abandoned forsaken graveyard shack? Did it even matter at all? I took a thoughtful drag, held it, and breathed it back out, tapping the cigarette on the vintage, yellow-stained glass ashtray.

And the sky was all violet I want it again, but violent, more violent Yeah, I'm the one with no soul One above and one below

The chorus repeated itself as I wondered about the state of the very soul my atheist mind never once believed I had. More importantly, I wondered if part of me eventually wanted — even welcomed — the rapes — perhaps not immediately but rather an instinctual knowing that I had eventually submitted to such heinous acts. Had I wanted it at any point, even in the slightest? Did I miss the violence of it all now?

Gideon tapped on the desk to get my attention, wordlessly notifying me that the results of the tests were ready. I could see in his eyes that he had yet to read the results. I turned the music down, removing one earbud as my trembling hands reached for the pill bottles once more. I couldn't risk feeling fatigued or emotionally dysregulated right now. I needed to be present for this moment, as much as I hated the very thought of that. 

Gideon politely averted his gaze, giving a simple gesture that seemed to say, 'Do whatever you have to to get through this, kid. I won't judge. It'll be as if I never saw it at all.' I swallowed another two vyvanse and two klonopin, chasing it with water. I hoped it would be enough to level me out.

I told you from the start just how this would end When I get what I want, then I never want it again Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to It's my lie, you're mine, you're mine

With hands still shaking, I picked up the first pregnancy test. "It's inconclusive," I stated. I must have overestimated how much urine was needed. Maybe that first test was simply defective from the start.

"That's alright, it's part of why they sell multiple tests in one box," Gideon calmly reassured.

I picked up the second test, sure that it would be somehow incorrect as well. That's when I saw it, written clearly in a digital font where the results were meant to be displayed on the screen: 

'Pregnant. 11+ Weeks.'

I gasped in horror and disbelief, picking up the third and final test as I heard the finale of Violet by Hole playing in my right ear, an eerily perfectly timed lyric.

Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to Go on, take everything, take everything Take everything, take everything

Take everything was exactly what Hankel had done to me in life and what he continued to do to me now, even in death. The test read, 

'Pregnant. 11-13 Weeks.' 

Gideon had watched -- profiled -- every last detail of my reactions. Without having read the results himself, he simply passed me the trashcan to puke into for the countless time that morning. When I had finally slumped back in the chair, looking worn out and defeated, his voice was soft and delicate as lace, "It's positive."

"I'm 11-13 weeks along," I gasped breathlessly. 

"I imagine I don't have to tell you-"

"It all perfectly matches up with the timeline of the missed doses of testosterone, kidnapping and rapes. Hankel never used any form of protection. Morgan and I haven't had any sort of sexual interaction that could result in pregnancy since the first week of November — an entire month before I was abducted. There's no way it's his... I know it has to be Hankel's."

"If you want to terminate, we can have Garcia arrange an appointment for you. Of course, there's no way to do that without telling her the news."

"That's fine. Garcia has to keep it a secret from everyone else, though. Nobody can find out."

"Does that include Morgan?" Gideon's question was genuine and without so much as a hint of judgement.

"Especially Morgan. Derek can't find out. Not yet. If I tell him at all, it will be on my time and terms. This feels like pretty much the last secret I have left for myself. Besides, I can't deal with my own thoughts and feelings about this with a clear head if I'm having to worry about his thoughts and feelings at the same time. I'm sure he'll understand no matter what happens... At least... I hope he does."

"In that case, we'll keep it between you, Garcia and myself. Whatever you want. I promise."

"I'm gonna hold you to that promise."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Spencer. You are so much stronger than you know."

Charles's past words haunted my mind. 'You're weak! You're a no-good junkie just like my son. You're pitiful!'

"I don't feel very strong," I whimpered through tears that I hadn't felt fall until now.

"You don't have to feel something to be something. Hankel thought what he did to you was righteous and it was anything but that. We are often both the best and worst judges of our own character. Good. Evil. Right. Wrong. Weak. Strong... Profiling yourself is never an easy job and I can see you've been working hard lately to find a way to profile yourself just as much as what was done to you. I know you stole your own file, made copies to make taking notes easier... I know all of it. Morgan didn't tell me nor did anyone else. I could tell from the way you hunched over your case file any time anyone walked past you. I could see you slip that file back into your satchel before leaving work the other night. There's nothing wrong with it — do whatever helps you cope in whatever ways you know how. Just try not to lose your sense of self, alright? You may be carrying that monster's child against your will but that is not who you are and absolutely none of it has ever been nor will it ever be the fault of anyone except for the very same monster that raped you to begin with."

Hearing his words but not knowing how to respond, I stared at the dying embers of my cigarette in the ashtray, knowing Gideon wouldn't complain about being the one to clean it up along with my vomit. I vomited one last time, feeling (and seeing) the remnants of pills, I hadn't had time to digest coming back up. I took two vyvanse and two klonopin again as the last dose clearly hadn't had enough time to kick in in the slightest. I carefully swallowed the four pills and washed it down with just enough water so that I wouldn't have it come right back up.

"Can you page Garcia for me? Maybe you could also call her and let her know I'm on my way? Make sure everyone is in the bullpen so that nobody overhears anything?" I asked as I grabbed my cardigan and satchel, hand already on the door handle.

"Not a problem, Spencer," I watched as he paged her and then called her on the phone sat atop his desk, "Garcia? It's Gideon. Dr. Reid is on his way to spend some time with you today. I want you to cease all work until long after Reid leaves your office — make him your absolute top priority. Do not notify or interact with any other team members about any of this. If anybody asks, tell them you've been given a special assignment that only Reid is equipped to assist you with. Make up whatever lies and excuses you must..." he paused, "Especially in regard to Agent Morgan. He and the rest of the team absolutely cannot know anything about this. Reid will explain everything when he gets to you. Okay. Goodbye." He hung up, handing me the three pregnancy tests before I opened the door.

I instinctively placed a hand over my womb. This was the reality I was dealt with facing. But at least I wouldn't have to face it alone.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Six: Occupied

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MDNI, This story gradually becomes darker and darker yet. This shall serve as your warning.

Chapter Six: Occupied

The sound of hurried black boots hitting pavement echoed behind me, growing closer. The fall of footsteps was as familiar as ever — Derek. Without so much as a glance back at him, I got out the pack of cigarettes and an extra lighter, taking out two cigarettes at once. I placed one in my mouth and handed Morgan the other one and the lighter. He took what I held out to him out of my hand, lighting his cigarette wordlessly.

"You really need to start carrying your own cigarettes and lighter," I mumbled as I lit my cigarette. I inhaled deeply, pulling the nicotine directly into my lungs and held it in my chest until it grew unbearable, letting the stinging smoke out in a deep exhale that sounded more like a frustrated sigh.

"You're right, you're right... I'm sorry for how things turned out in there, by the way. I know you didn't want anyone to find out like that. You deserve to be able to tell your story on your own terms."

"Yeah," I bit, "I really did deserve that. I'm just glad nobody directly betrayed my trust, so I suppose I still have that, at least."

"Do you still trust me, given what happened? I'd understand if you didn't-"

"No, Derek... I understand completely and trust you with my life, same as I always have. Everybody finding out the most vulnerable information possible at the wrong time wasn't your fault. Just my own mind finding new ways to betray me."

"You're not alone, Reid. I know it's corny to say and such a cliche, but I really do mean that. We're all here for you. Me, Gideon, Garcia, everybody else... We're all here for you and you don't have to say or explain anything that you're not ready to, no matter who asks or questions you and what you went through. You don't owe anything to anybody, alright?"

"Yeah," I nodded slowly as I took another drag. The klonopin and vyvanse were in full effect now. The klonopin dulled the razor-sharp jagged edges of reality just enough to make it bearable. The vyvanse raged under that fog like a wildfire -- lighting up every part of my mind and body, pushing me slowly but surely into a state of hyperfocus and an overwhelming sense of clarity. Just then, a strong gust of wind blew the scent of Morgan's cigarette smoke and expensive cologne towards me, encircling me until my breath caught in a way that made me gag.

"Reid? You okay?" He stepped closer, the smell of his cologne even more escapable.

"Are you wearing more cologne than usual? Maybe a different one I'm not used to?"

"No, babyboy — I'm wearing the cologne you bought me last Christmas. The one that makes it where you can't seem to get enough of me every time I wear it... why do you ask?" His voice was laced with concern.

"It's probably nothing, I just seem to be a little more sensitive to it today, I guess. Maybe I'm a bit sick from all the stress lately," I suggested.

"That would make sense, all things considered," my lover agreed.

"Cologne often contains alcohol which could be overstimulating to someone diagnosed with my conditions. Even without neurodiversity as a factor, sterile and clinical scents even in small amounts can prove to be nauseating when taken out of context. There's plenty of smells in the bullpen compared to the lack of sensory stimuli out here and..." my rambling trailed off as I felt something in my stomach lurch forward as it pulled up inside of me like a hook that twisted my organs as it tugged incessantly. 

"That's my man, always finding the logic and reasoning in everything," Derek cooed. as he ran a hand through my hair.

I tried to verbalize a response. Instead, the metaphorical hook in my organs pulled even harder. I lurched forward, doubling over. I puked hard and uncontrollably on the pavement in front of me. I was glad to see no trace of the pills I'd swallowed when I'd first stepped outside. The pills were still in my system. At least that was something nobody could take from me.

"Woah, Reid!" Morgan's hands steadied me on either side of my shoulders. I dropped what was left of the cigarette into my bile, hearing the fizzling sound of it extinguishing instantly. Morgan did the same.

"I'm okay. Like I said, just psychosomatic. Probably still just sensitive to stimuli after that nightmare. Flashback. Whatever you want to call it."

"You sure you can handle going back to work this morning? I'm sure the team will understand if you want to take the morning or even the full day off."

"No, I'm fine. I can do this."

"You sure?" He carefully asked again, almost hesitant.

I puked again, feeling like I got up the last of whatever it was. "Yes. Positive. I'll be alright."

"Take your time, sweetheart."

I shook my head, pivoting on my heel to head back towards the door I'd come through earlier. "I'd rather get back to work now."

He nodded in silent understanding and followed me inside.

Another hour and eighteen minutes passed, the effects of both of my medications fully underway. I worked through nine case files with skillful precision and excruciating detail, finding the work just as meditative as I always had throughout the years I'd worked this job. I vomited twice more in the bathroom stall and returned to work as if nothing had happened each time. I couldn't help but find it strange how the nausea would dissipate every time I was finished in the bathroom. The odd fatigue I'd felt for the past month or two would've been impossible to work through today had it not been for the saving grace of prescription medications. 

Agent Prentiss approached my desk; smile plastered on her face. "I saw Morgan smoking out there with you — I wasn't watching for long or anything, you know I wouldn't disrespect your right to privacy — but I couldn't help but wonder..."

"You want to know who won the bet," I responded lightheartedly to her playful energy.

"Yes! Please tell me it wasn't Garcia. I can't risk losing that badly," she joked.

"Well, Emily, you'll be happy to know neither Penelope nor JJ won the bet on when Derek would start smoking again."

"So, boy genius, tell me who won!" I smirked at the excitement in her tone.

"That would be me," I beamed with pride.

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "I figured if anyone was going to win this that it would be you. Although, you have to admit that being his romantic and sexual partner does give you some unfair advantages."

"I-I never said our relationship was, uh, physical?"

"I'm a profiler, just like you are, Reid. The way you and Morgan interact doesn't exactly come across as celibate."

"Well, for reasons this whole team now understands, the relationship has been a bit more celibate than either of us would like it to be these past couple of months."

Prentiss's eyes went wide, mouth agape. "Reid, I am so sorry if I overstepped any boundaries-"

I laughed lightly, brushing it off. "It's really alright, Emily. You couldn't have known."

"Are you alright? You're looking really washed out suddenly."

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just- I just need to use the bathroom." I began walking towards the men's room for the third time this morning. "I'll be alright, just feeling a little bit-" my violent near-projectile vomiting into the large communal trashcan in the middle of the bullpen cut me off mid-sentence. When I looked up, I saw Gideon and Morgan exchanging glances towards me during their hushed conversation before they began to continue their conversation further. "I'll be fine, Emily. Just a bit sick. I think it's most likely just all some sort of psychosomatic thing."

"Right," she replied, eyes and mouth still wide with shock and slight horror at what she'd just witnessed.

Garcia rushed up to me, phone and pager in her hands. "I heard about the bet results and I'm more than okay with losing to your brilliant mind, Doc, and while I can't say that I'm not a little concerned seeing you wake up screaming and then puking mid-conversation in the same day, I know you'll open up to us about things when you're fully ready to do so."

I stared at the beeping technology in her hands and smiled, "You gonna answer that? Seems like it could be important."

"Yeah, that's what I came to talk to you about, actually. Gideon wants to see you in his office at once. Just don't be mad at Morgan, okay? Gideon says he was just worried and that Morgan didn't say anything more than what you've told Gideon already. Oh, and obviously you're not in any kind of trouble — Gideon just wanted to be able to speak with you privately somewhere nobody else could oversee or overhear anything." The words left her mouth in a frantic stream of consciousness.

"Thank you for notifying me, Penelope. I'll go there right away-" Another wave of nausea hit me nearly hard enough to knock me over. I tightly gripped the metal rim of the trashcan as I puked into it for what felt like a minute straight. "Try not to worry about me, I'll be just fine. And I really am sorry about this mess and whoever has to clean it up," my voice was soft and a bit raw from the stomach acid.

"You know I'll always worry," Garcia began, "but don't worry about the mess. You're not bothering anyone, I swear. Now, if you're feeling up to it, go ahead and talk to Gideon. He seems really..."

"Worried?" I finished her sentence. She simply nodded her head in response.

I began to believe that perhaps Gideon (along with everyone else) had a right to be worried about me. After all, my victimhood spilled out of me like the contents of my stomach — out in the open for all to see, with nowhere left for me to hide anymore.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Five: Ptolemaea

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, MDNI, It's about to get darker. This shall serve as your sole and final warning.

Chapter Five: Ptolemaea

The light swung above my head as it did before, but it looked different from this position. No longer bound to the chair, I felt my bare legs against the dirty wooden floor. He must have moved me to lying on the floor with my wrists tied together with rope that burned my flesh from even the slightest friction, forcing me to stay perfectly still. I was too high to move or speak. I felt the draft blow through the shack and felt the cold air between my legs. I heard a low chuckle, feeling the hot breath against my folds. The cruel, deep laughter told me it was neither Tobias nor Raphael. 

Charles's low Georgian drawl was unmistakable. "You're a whole other kinda sinful than what I reckoned, ain't that right, Spencer? You really are half the man you claim to be. I ain't one to question the Lord's plan or design. No tellin' how long you'll live, there's only knowin' you won't survive a whole lot longer. You don't go huntin' somethin' just to release it. You're meant to devour what you capture," he stated, every word filled with hatred, venom, and terrifying lust. I heard a belt taken off, and the buckle hit the floor. I hoped he would keep talking and give me a few more minutes of whatever peace this was before taking what he wanted.

Charles didn't wait. He didn't take his time. He was halfway inside of me before I could so much as take a breath. My whimpering quickly turned into uncontrollable screaming as he began slamming in and out of me over and over. I felt something wet pooling between my legs, unsure if it was the arousal of my body betraying me, excessive amounts of blood, or more likely a mixture of both. The pain felt as though it were threatening to fully rip me in half, right up the middle. I turned my head to the side weakly, vomiting from the sheer agony of his rapid forceful rhythm. 

Time didn't matter anymore. There was hardly a time before this that I could remember in my current state. There was guaranteed to be not much time left after he was done with me. My death was imminent yet unpredictable. I would graciously welcome death without hesitation. Whether it was the stress or the pain or some combination of the two, I felt my body go rigid and tremor as everything went dark. 

I woke up less than two minutes later, confused and unable to make sense of what was happening. I'd had a seizure. It was evidently not enough to make him stop. I began losing count of how many times I had seized, only knowing that he was still ripping me apart inside every time I came back around. The seizures were the only break my mind could give me besides the dilaudid-induced dissociative high.

Hours passed until I wasn't screaming anymore, even long after the drugs had worn off. I didn't move — only stared blankly at the ceiling above me, staring into the swinging light above me. I whispered the Serenity Prayer to myself. I knew praying wouldn't be enough to make him stop. He was incapable of pity or remorse; that much was clearer now more than ever before. On my third time praying, Charles heard me. I could feel him painting my insides white one last time before there was a sharp pain and everything went dark. 

———

When I awoke once more, I was fully clothed, restrained in the chair, camera on and pointed at me. The sunlight peering through the cracks in the wooden walls was my only way of knowing several more hours had passed since I was last conscious. I made a pathetic, pained noise and felt my sleeve being urgently rolled up. A tourniquet was tied tightly around my upper arm. 

I began questioning if any of what happened with Charles had even happened at all. The voice I heard wasn't Charles's—a similar Georgian drawl but softer, gentler, innocent in an almost childlike way. 

"Tobias? That you?" I mumbled, my voice raw and worn.

"Yes, Spencer. It's me. I really am sorry for what my father did to you. I wish I could make him stop. I wish it didn't have to happen again."

"Again?"

"He doesn't want to stop, and I can't stop him... I'm so sorry. Let me help you while I'm still here. It'll make it easier, I promise." I consented wordlessly, wanting the relief from pain and reality. The sharp needle prick in my arm alone was enough to soothe me. It was the promise of relief. That relief swiftly turned into euphoria as the tourniquet was removed, dilaudid coursing through my veins. I moaned from the sensation of the only salvation I would ever experience now that I was inevitably at the end of my short life. As I faded in and out of reality, I hoped that I would succumb to my wounds the next time I was raped. Little did I know at this time that I would be unfortunate enough to live through the rape time and time again. Begging for the mercy of a death I would never be permitted. Keeping me alive was the truest torture of all.

———

   I heard a blood-curdling scream. I blinked rapidly, pulling the room into focus. I looked around worriedly for the source of that scream but saw nothing out of place. Bright fluorescent lights. I was in a comfortable chair that I wasn't tied down to. I could move freely. My clothes were on. The pain had vanished. I blinked again, now clearly seeing the familiar layout of the bullpen from my desk. 

I felt a hand rest gently on my shoulder and instinctively reacted violently. "NO! GET OFF OF ME!!!"

"Reid! Reid, it's me! It's Gideon, Spencer! You're safe! You're safe. It's Gideon. You're safe. Nobody will hurt you like that again, I promise," Gideon's voice was soft. There was something small and almost broken in the way he spoke to me.

"I told you not to touch him, man," Derek reprimanded. Derek was here. I was safe.

"You're right, I should have listened and for that I'm sincerely sorry to both of you. I thought touch from someone he trusts in the present moment would ground him faster."

"Gideon?" My eyes finally focused on his face. "Fuck- I hurt you, didn't I?"

"I'll be fine, Spencer. It's you that I'm worried about. You were screaming the name Charles and the word stop in your sleep."

"I fell asleep?"

"Well, I'm not entirely sure if it was actual sleep or extreme dissociation but either way, I think this situation confirms what I worried the most about when Hankel had you. You don't have to say it aloud to me if you're not ready. And if I'm wrong, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me for misjudging the matter at hand. Either way, every last one of us is here for you and my door is always open for you."

"O-Okay. Thanks," I probably sounded more confused than grateful. I looked around and saw the rest of the team surrounding me, trying to pretend they weren't hovering by keeping slight distance. My face flushed as I felt the eyes of each team member on me. "So does this mean everybody knows now?" The words came out short, full of unspoken rage and bitterness that cut like a knife.

"I wish I could lie and say that what happened when the camera was off was still a mystery to us all. We may not know the exact details of what happened, but your screams said everything you haven't had the words to express since we found you in that graveyard. "Just know none of us see you as weak or any less of a man for what you may have been forced to endure. I know I've said this before but... I can't express how sorry I am that we didn't find you sooner, Spencer. We failed you as a team, we failed you as friends... but most importantly we failed you as a family."

'Yeah, you really did fail me when I needed to be saved most,' I thought, stopping myself just short of saying it to Gideon's face. Instead, what came out of my mouth was, "I need a cigarette."

 I left my desk and headed for the old stairwell that led to my usual smoking spot outside the building. I hadn't been dismissed and I didn't care to wait around for permission from anyone in that room. I had to get out of there — the air was too heavy to breathe.

The cool gentle breeze of the Virginian February morning air blew dead leaves around the parking lot as I closed the exit door behind me. I fished the pack of cigarettes; both of my pill bottles and a water bottle out of my satchel. I grabbed my MP3 player as well, putting the earbuds in my ears, not caring what song played and paying no mind to it. I needed noise that wasn't laced with pity and apologies. I needed noise that didn't treat me like a victim. Yet, of course, Johnny Cash's familiar solemn cadence, singing 'Hurt' found me in this moment, rubbing salt in the wound.

I hurt myself today To see if I still feel I focus on the pain The only thing that's real

I rolled my eyes at the pathetic irony of it all, lighting my cigarette, inhaling shakily.

The needle tears a hole The old familiar sting Try to kill it all away But I remember everything

Upon hearing those lyrics, I immediately swallowed one klonopin and two vyvanse, chasing it with half a bottle of water to ensure I was hydrated enough for the meds to prove themselves effective in the way that I needed them to be. The klonopin would steady my nerves and dull the aftermath of the all-too-real flashbacks. The double dose of vyvanse would hopefully help me focus on work or at least anything besides myself. More importantly, the double dose of vyvanse guaranteed I wouldn't fall asleep again today. I couldn't risk that vulnerable humiliation again.

What have I become? My sweetest friend Everyone I know goes away In the end

The song droned on, turning into background noise as I smoked anxiously.

The team could wait for as long as it took me to be able to face any of their faces that betrayed how much they knew. I could dodge those violating and pitying looks for a while longer. It wasn't on my terms that they found out — they found out all at once regardless of what I wanted or needed. Their vaguest ideas of what I may have gone through completely suffocated me. Their unknowing apologies sickened me. Their worry over me would only be worse now. From now on, they'd always worry about me no matter what. They could worry all they wanted while I stood outside, trying to grasp any tangible sense of peace and autonomy. I didn't choose to be raped — nobody does — but everyone having those worries confirmed all because my mind and body betrayed me... It felt dramatic even to think it, but it felt re-traumatizing as if it were it's own psychosocial form of rape. 

I didn't want to have my metaphorical clothes ripped off for everyone to see into my soul — it felt as though they would see the memories in my eyes if they looked a little too long, a little too closely. 

And you could have it all My empire of dirt I will let you down I will make you hurt

Out of my nearly infinite vocabulary, the only word I could find that fit how it all felt? Violated. Every aspect of it was a complete violation. It felt obscene. Perverted. 

I wear this crown of thorns Upon my liar's chair Full of broken thoughts I cannot repair

I hated to admit how much it made me feel like hardly half the man I claimed to be, just as Charles had said that first time. 

Beneath the stains of time The feelings disappear You are someone else I'm still right here

Just like the word repeatedly used in place of my name and identity in my file. The way they looked at me made me truly feel like a victim for the first time.

What have I become? My sweetest friend Everyone I know goes away In the end

 I'd rather erase every team members memories of it all than how badly I wished I could erase my own. 

And you could have it all My empire of dirt I will let you down I will make you hurt

There was no way to escape it anymore. My victimhood penetrated every aspect of my life the way that every instance of rape had penetrated my body, mind, and my very soul. I was never a man of faith, but there was just something that I couldn't get out of my head... 

I had once read a Sylvia Plath poem that said, "I am too pure for you or anyone. Your body hurts me as the world hurts God." 

That quote from Fever 103 reminded me of what Gideon said to me through the computer monitors and webcams when I was in that forsaken excuse of a cabin, "He's perverting God to justify murder."

If he perverted God, then what did that make me? God? Man? Victim? Profiler? Sometimes I wished I could simply be nothing at all. If I could find a way to be without meaning then maybe what was done to me and everyone's reactions could be meaningless nothingness, too.

I wished I could be reborn — less like the sacrificial lamb Hankel turned me into and more like having a chance to be absolutely anybody but myself. 

Everything was so sacred. Everything was made so unholy. 

If I could start again A million miles away I would keep myself I would find a way

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Four: Profiler

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Chapter Four: Profiler

Derek insisted on driving me home to our shared apartment that night. He was uncharacteristically silent after my accidental snapping at him in the bullpen. It had been nearly two hours since that moment, yet he had seldom dared to utter a single word to me. He didn't ask me how I was — he already knew the answer I would give him. He didn't ask me what caused the outburst. He didn't touch me. He hardly looked at me. I couldn't bring myself to look at him, either. I could tell he wasn't angry or upset with me, but rather that he felt something far worse: he was worried about me. He knew how much I couldn't stand anyone worrying about me.

We took off our shoes after closing and locking the apartment door behind us. Wordlessly, he walked to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. He played a vinyl record, which was the only sound in the quiet, dim light of the living room. I sat on the couch and lit a cigarette, moving the ashtray on the coffee table so that it was within reach. I sighed quietly in slight relief as I exhaled the first drag.

The klonopin I'd taken at my desk earlier now slightly lessened the intensity of the flashbacks enough to help me endure them with a little more ease, while the vyvanse continued to keep me grounded and focused. Now it felt less like I was experiencing it all again, rather more something akin to memories that played on a loop, full of holes and empty blank spaces. Something far darker lived in those gaps — something that wasn't noted in the case file, something that lay in wait for the right trigger. I tried to ignore the instinctive need to recall what had transpired in those repressed memories. I couldn't rid myself of it entirely, but I could at least attempt to push the recollection of the unknown aside for now. I stared blankly at my satchel, my case file, I'd snuck into it before leaving work, threatening to burn through the leather, aching to make its presence known, to be remembered.

By the time I recognized the record playing as Nirvana's MTV Unplugged live album, it was already playing the ninth track: Something In The Way. The melancholic guitar strummed softly in the background as my lover walked back into the room with two cups of coffee. Black coffee was for him, and coffee with too much sugar was for me; it was just how we both liked it.

"You can't outsmart a profiler, gorgeous. Even a profiler as skilled as yourself can't hide from me forever, you know..." he began, his voice soft. "I saw you put that last file into your satchel before we came home."

"I'm sorry for that outburst earlier. I didn't mean to snap at you," my voice sounded so weak. I hated it.

"It's no problem, Reid. I mean it. Seriously," he said, voice still so gentle.

I met his warm brown gaze; his eyebrows furrowed with deep concern.

"I didn't mean for that to happen. I guess I was just feeling overwhelmed." I couldn't stand how pathetic that statement sounded coming out of my mouth, and did my best to save myself by joking, "Probably should've paced myself with all those files instead of trying to finish it all in one night."

"No need to apologize, sweetheart. But I think you already know what I'm about to ask." I didn't reply, letting him continue. "It was your case file, wasn't it? The one detailing what Hankel did to you." There was no judgment in his tone.

"...Yes," I admitted after pausing a beat too long, "It was the Hankel file — my file, I suppose. I didn't think reading it would have me so... on edge. I didn't expect it to trigger any flashbacks from only having read the basic report on the first few pages. I didn't even get to the transcripts or anything else. I couldn't read it all in one sitting. The flashback felt more real than usual — I could feel, smell, and hear everything like I was still there. That's why I snapped at you, I guess."

Derek nodded his head slowly and with a soft understanding. "Hey, it's alright. Nobody would ever expect you to go through that whole file in one night. I can't imagine..." his voice trailed off.

"The worst part is that it omits any mention of anything that happened when the camera was turned off."

Morgan cautiously sat down next to me on the couch. I took a long drag off my cigarette and ashed it. "Do you want to talk about it? You don't have to do or say anything you aren't comfortable with or ready for."

"I want to talk about it, but that's the problem... I can feel the blank spaces where the memories are supposed to be... but I can't remember what happened when the camera wasn't on."

"Well, what does your gut tell you? Maybe that would be a good place to start. What does your body remember that your mind hasn't caught up with yet?"

The questions made my blood run cold. I thought long and hard for a few minutes about that. In the brief silence, I realized the record was looping Something In The Way by Nirvana on an endless repeat. It felt oddly fitting somehow. What did my body remember that my mind couldn't? What did my gut instincts tell me? I shivered slightly.

"My gut tells me that whatever happened when the lights were off was worse than anything the case file noted. That much is obvious. My body... I feel pressure and pain during more intense flashbacks that don't align with anything in the case file or report."

"Whatever it is, baby, I'm not here to judge you. I won't tell anyone anything unless you want me to. Your secrets are safe with me like always, okay?"

I nodded my head in solemn understanding. "When I think about what it feels like happened — what my gut and body are telling me — it feels wrong. Not just wrong because it's horrible and traumatic... It feels wrong because it almost feels like I made it up, or I'm reading too much into it. It feels almost impossible."

"You know you can tell me anything, Spencer. If you're having a flashback, use that to remember and tell me what you felt in those moments."

I nodded my head again, slower this time. I closed my eyes to focus on the flashback. The haunting rhythmic guitar strummed softly as Kurt Cobain began singing the song again.

Underneath the bridge Tarp has sprung a leak 

"I was cold. It was dark. I think it must have been night, although it was always hard to tell in that place he kept me," I began.

And the animals I've trapped Have all become my pets

"I remember being colder than normal. There was a draft in that place where you could feel the breeze when the wind was strong enough. I could feel more of the cold breeze on my skin than usual."

And I'm living off of grass And the drippings from the ceiling It's okay to eat fish 'Cause they don't have any feelings

"It smells like burning fish hearts and livers — he said it kept away the devil like in The Book of Tobit, where Asmodeus couldn't find Tobias so long as the fish hearts and livers were burning. I remember I wasn't bound to the chair anymore. I was on the floor with my wrists bound together. I was too drugged to be able to resist or fight him off in any sense."

I could see how Derek's eyes lit up with something bright and awful — fear? Worry? Concern? "I know it's not easy, but keep telling me what you can remember. Maybe it will help make sense of things in your mind."

"That's just it, Morgan," my voice was cold with dissociation. "The next part makes me question if the memories of it were even real."

"It's perfectly normal to question the reality of things when it comes to recovering traumatic memories like these. Keep going, just tell me to stop if it gets to be too much to handle. We can always revisit it at some other time when you're ready."

"No, I think I'm about as ready as I'll ever be." I lit another cigarette, taking a long pull to stabilize myself before speaking again. "He... He stripped me naked and then he um..."

Something in the way Something in the way Something in the way

"It's okay, I'm here. You're here with me. He can't hurt you or punish you for telling me," my partner reassured.

"I guess there's no nice way to say what I think he did, is there?" I asked rhetorically.

Morgan shook his head. "There's only the truth." I hated how right he was all the time.

Something in the way Something in the way Something in the way, yeah...

"I think... I think he raped me, Derek."

"Spencer..." his voice sounded utterly broken, and I couldn't meet his gaze.

"That's not even the worst part."

"Then," his voice was hesitant with grave concern, "If that's not the worst part, what was?"

"It didn't only happen once. It happened multiple times, day and night. It happened every time the cameras were off. That's what my file did not note because there was no evidence to suggest it happened. Because they never thought to question if it happened or to do a rape kit on me because..."

"Because you're a man." Morgan finished my sentence for me, causing me to let out a sigh of relief.

"Because I'm a man," I confirmed, repeating his words. "Did... did you or anybody else ever suspect...?"

"Gideon was the first to suggest it as a possibility when Hankel still had you — when we still didn't know where you were. I got pissed at him and told him I didn't want to think of something like that happening to the love of my life. But he told me privately all of that and warned me that if we ever found you alive, to be prepared for something like that, to be extra gentle and cautious with you. I didn't want to believe it was true. You never said anything about it, but I could see the way you flinched when I'd touch you without warning. I saw it especially in the way our sexual dynamics changed ever since we got you back home. You and me? We used to go at it like rabbits every night, sometimes multiple times each night. But it's almost like you've been afraid of being touched at times ever since then. I don't hold any of that against you - never did for even a second. I knew if something had happened, you'd find a way to tell me when you were ready. You displayed so many of the typical behaviors of a rape victim that we as profilers are trained to look out for and notice... I feel horrible about not having asked you about it sooner. But, like I said, I knew you needed to bring it up on your terms. I worried that if I pushed it at all, you'd spiral or something even worse. I didn't want to make things worse than they already were."

"Does Gideon know? Does anybody else know?"

"I think Gideon still strongly suspects it... But he told me he would wait for you to tell him either way when you're ready. Most, if not all, of us worried about it being a possibility at various points... but, to answer your question, no. I don't think anybody truly knows apart from me and you."

"Okay," I nodded, smoking my cigarette. "I hate that everybody thought that might have happened, but I know you're all just worried and doing your jobs as profilers. I hate knowing how sorry for me everybody's gonna feel whenever they all find out."

"Hankel may have tried his hardest to take everything from you, but you still get to be the one to decide how and when and if anybody else ever finds out about what he did to you. You still have power, whether you believe that or not. You're not weak. You're not dirty. You're no less of a man for what he put you through. And you are strong as hell for reliving it enough to remember as much as you have and even stronger for telling me about it."

"I don't feel strong," I mumbled around my cigarette.

"I know, baby. But I promise you are. You're the strongest, bravest, toughest, most badass person I've ever known. Remember what that man in Chicago did to me as a teenager?" I nodded sadly. Carl Buford had used his upstanding reputation in the community to hide what he had been doing to Derek for years. Derek hadn't told any of us about it until about a month or two before my kidnapping. "Finding out what happened didn't make you see me any different than how you've always seen me, right?"

"Right. But, Morgan, this is different."

"Why is it so different, Reid? Because I was underage? Because I wasn't drugged or tortured or held captive?"

"No, I don't mean that what you went through was any less horrible than what I went through, and I know it's never a good idea to compare traumas, no matter how many elements are similar betwixt the two."

"Then you know that from most people's perspectives, what you went through was unimaginably worse than what I went through. Just because it's different doesn't mean you weren't raped and taken advantage of."

My eyes brimmed with tears that threatened to escape their confines. "I guess it just feels like... like if I allow myself to understand that I was raped — that it was real at all — that there's no going back to how things were even just a few minutes ago to before I told you."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe it won't be easy. Maybe it will hurt like fucking hell on earth. But that hurt is a whole lot better than you spending the rest of your life keeping what happened bottled up inside you and never telling anyone."

"You're right. I know you're right. It just..." I let out a small and sad laugh, "It just really fucking sucks," I punctuated the last word by stubbing out my cigarette in the glass ashtray in front of me.

"I know. And I know it sounds cheesy to say this, but you are not alone, Spencer. You get to live your truth now, even if that truth breaks your heart every single day. Think of it as one of the many freedoms that Hankel never wanted you to have. You don't have to hide it anymore."

I wished this so-called freedom didn't feel like another circle of hell. 

The truth was finally out in the open. There would never be a way to take any of it back. There was no turning back now.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Three: Victim

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Chapter Three: Victim

An hour and thirty-six minutes had passed since Derek and I had returned to our desks in the bullpen.

"Damn, kid — you already burned through a dozen files! That's pretty impressive, even for you," he lightheartedly remarked.

"Thanks," I replied, too focused on my work to hear him, let alone respond. The vyvanse was fully taking hold now, nearly drowning out the effects of the klonopin entirely. My blood pulsed through my veins in a way that felt quite literally electric. My pulse thrummed in my ears. The usual busy noise of the bullpen was muted and replaced with a loud and sharp ringing in my ears that rendered my mind entirely blank. When the ringing ceased, everything felt more precise and sharper than before the tinnitus had begun.

I resumed my work, completing case file after case file like it was nothing. It was easier than breathing clean air. I knew that I was probably taking far too many notes on each and every case file, but I'd rather be productive and careful — making sure no details were left out — than risk omitting any crucial information, no matter how trivial those details might seem. Nothing was trivial when it came to wrapping up these cases.

Twenty-four minutes and six completed case files later, I was left with only one file on my desk: my own—the case file detailing everything Hankel had done to me. Every aching moment of the live video feed and my trauma were written in explicit and unflinching detail. Transcripts of the footage were timestamped -- every. Single. Moment. Nothing was left out besides the things that happened anytime the cameras were turned off.

My hands trembled slightly as I opened the file to the first page.

Case Number: 2937842

Unsub: Tobias Hankel

Victim: Dr. Spencer Reid, PhD.

Location: Rural Georgia

Date: December 2006

My eyes burned as I found myself incapable of tearing them away from the word 'victim' attached to my name. The word echoed like an endless reverb in my skull over and over, so loud I could practically hear it — could feel the word working its way through my mind and body like a slow-acting poison.

I kept reading.

'The victim was kidnapped in a cornfield, rendered unconscious, and transported by the unsub via car to an abandoned shack in a remote woodland area that was in the middle of a graveyard. The area held significance to the unsub. The victim was bound and restrained to a wooden chair in the shack where he was held captive when he regained consciousness. 

'The victim was tortured physically, psychologically, and emotionally. The unsub repeatedly forcibly drugged the victim by injecting him with dilaudid which was cut with an unidentifiable psychedelic drug, forcing the victim into a constant state of intoxication and dissociation. 

'The victim was forced to recite biblical passages from memory, yet the victim's knowledge of religion and these biblical passages only provoked more abuse, drugging, and torture. The victim was found and rescued by his teammates from the BAU after they decoded the victim's words that hinted at his exact location. 

'The victim was held captive for approximately three days before being rescued. While captive, the victim seized and died before the unsub resuscitated him via CPR. The unsub suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder. The unsub's alter, who resuscitated the victim, was no longer the alter fronting once the victim regained consciousness. The alter who fronted for the unsub in the moments following claimed that some demonic force brought the victim back. This alter then forced the victim to dig his own grave.'

I barely even noticed how hard I was white-knuckling the edge of the desk with my free hand. I swallowed hard, doing my best to blink away the flashbacks I could feel coming on... to no avail.

'The victim was rescued moments after lethally shooting the unsub in self-defence. When rescued, the victim was very clearly intoxicated due to having been forcibly drugged throughout the entirety of his captivity. Dilaudid was not found at the crime scene, nor was it found on the body of the unsub.

'The victim may have an increased likelihood of developing addictions and/or dependencies to dilaudid and/or other substances; however, his team remains adamant that the victim will make a full recovery with little to no risk of relapse, as the victim has no prior history of drug abuse.'

I felt sick to my stomach, biting back the bile that crawled up my esophagus. I felt like my wrists were bound to the chair again. Without thinking, I placed two klonopin under my tongue, keeping my mouth closed to help the pills dissolve quicker. Taking it sublingually always seemed to cause the klonopin to hit harder and faster than swallowing it, and in this moment, that was precisely what I needed. Whatever it took to stop the flashbacks. Whatever it took to keep the memories at bay. Whatever it took to feel just a little bit less like a victim. My team deserved more than a helpless victim in the bullpen. My team deserved — needed — for me to preserve my identity as a profiler. And that's exactly what I gave them now, without hesitation. I needed to be more than a victim. I needed to be more than just another case file that would never feel complete. I swiftly closed the file, giving myself a necessary break — even if only for a moment — from reading further. I needed to be a profiler, not a victim. My job was too important for me to dwell on my supposed victimhood. Yet, despite everything, that word continued to echo, staining every other thought and feeling.

Victim.

Victim.

Victim.

Before I knew what I was doing, I slammed my fist on the desk.

"Spencer?" Morgan's voice was soft and worried. Too soft. Too worried. I couldn't look at him.

"I'm fine," I said through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.

"You don't seem-"

"I'm fine!" I felt Morgan almost jump next to me at the sudden sharpness of my tone cutting through the hum of the bullpen's routine ambience. In my mind, I was still digging my own grave. I was still digging my own grave metaphorically, too. But it was fine. I was fine. I had to be — I had no other choice.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Two: High-Functioning

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

Chapter Two: High Functioning

It must have been at least fifteen minutes since I had last moved. Perhaps I had dissociated and been standing still, time slipping away as seconds became minutes without me noticing. I looked down at my hand, holding what was left of a cigarette that had burned itself out moments after I had become still. I couldn't quite recall what I had been thinking about before that strange fifteen minutes of stillness, only the vague recollection of having felt anxious before feeling absolutely nothing until now.

I felt alert. Alive. Calm. Energized. Focused. I was prepared to take on anything, feeling far more intelligent than usual by several IQ points above my impressive score of 187. Gideon's words of praise echoed in my head, telling me someday I'll be the best profiler the BAU has ever seen. I smirked to myself, almost cocky.

I skipped to the next song on my MP3 player, and What Sarah Said by Death Cab For Cutie began playing softly. It was one of many songs that Garcia had downloaded for me, thinking I might like hundreds of songs I had scarcely (if ever) heard of. I appreciated the time and thought she had spent on every word and note of each song she had included.

And it came to me then

That every plan

Is a tiny prayer to Father Time

I dropped the remnants of the previous cigarette and got out a new one, lighting it as I heard the door behind me open, familiar footsteps approaching me. I took out the earbud closest to the person approaching me, the music continuing as hardly more than a gentle hum in the background of life.

As I stared at my shoes

In the ICU

That reeked of piss and 409

"Hey, pretty boy," the voice I knew better than most called out to me.

"Hey, Derek," I said, struggling to speak clearly enough while I finished lighting the cigarette and taking my first inhale. I turned slightly towards him, calm and casual. "I thought you said you were trying to quit smoking for the third time this year, babe." I handed him a cigarette and a spare lighter, which I kept on me at all times.

"Huh, I thought this was the second time." He shrugged while he lit his cigarette. "Well, how about I just blame this time on you always finding a way to make smoking look," Derek gestured as he paused, struggling to find the right words, "y'know, man, like you make it look all poetic and shit."

And I rationed my breaths

As I said to myself

That I'd already taken too much today

"'Poetic and shit'? Wow, Agent Morgan, that's a very astute observation," I teased.

"Oh, shut up, babe. I tried, alright? I tried to quit. But you make anything look pretty, charming, and smart. Can't blame a guy for falling for his man, right?"

"Derek... you can just say you didn't feel like quitting past the three-day mark again. Nobody's gonna shame you," I teased.

"Oh no, that's not true and you know it."

"What are you talking about?" I did my best to act convincingly innocent.

"I know about the bet. You and all your little lady friends have been betting on how long I would last without smoking. And I know you don't lose easily."

"Seriously, what are you talking about? What lady friends - what does that even mean?"

"Come on, Reid. JJ, Garcia, Prentiss. You all have a bet going on about how long I'll quit smoking this time. And I'm assuming you're keeping that poker face after you handed me the cigarette and lighter means you won the bet... So, what did you win?"

"A pack of cigarettes from each loser every day for a week."

"Thank god the FBI isn't broke," Morgan smirked and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, Garcia's gonna be uh... not too happy with you. She was so sure you'd quit for good this time. JJ said she gave it a week, Prentiss said she would give you exactly three and a half days. I said three days and that you'd start smoking again at night in the parking lot. And here you are, which means I was right!" I said, smiling widely as I brought the cigarette to my lips, and Morgan did the same.

"Sometimes I think maybe Penelope is a little too hopeful," he continued to smile, exhaling smoke as I breathed more of it into my lungs, letting it rest there for a moment before letting it out slowly, the tendrils spilling from my mouth like gentle serpents. "You are prettiest like this," his voice dripping with admiration and a faint hint of lust.

"Like what? Like when I'm smoking or like when I'm..." my question trailed off, catching and stopping myself right as I was about to ask, 'like when I'm high?'.

"When you're what, pretty boy? Come on, finish that sentence, I wanna know what you were gonna say," I didn't have to look to hear the suggestive smirk in his tone.

As each descending peak

On the LCD

Took you a little farther away from me

Away from me

"Like when I'm... um... medicated?" I offered, half-truthful.

"Well, for starters, you didn't jump like you usually do when I approached you from behind. You didn't flinch when our hands touched as you gave me the lighter and cigarette. You're calmer since you started the medication, and at times, I'd swear you're somehow almost smarter than you were before you started taking the medication. You look peaceful for real."

Amongst the vending machines

And year-old magazines

In a place where we only say goodbye

The klonopin hit me like a freight train when I least expected it. I feel my whole body go a bit limp and weak, as if my very existence were somehow too light and too heavy all at once for gravity to make up its mind on what it wanted to do with me. I stumbled slightly, despite standing completely still. With every blink, my eyes remained closed for a few seconds too long. I let out a soft, involuntary sigh that could almost be mistaken for a moan as waves of pleasure and relaxation washed over me like ocean waves crashing against a rocky coastline repeatedly. I gave in to the feeling without meaning to, leaning fully against the brick wall for support.

It stung like a violent wind

That our memories depend

On a faulty camera in our minds

"Hey, Spencer! Reid, are you okay, babyboy?" I heard Derek worriedly say as I felt him stop me from falling forward completely, my head nodding forward, and my jaw becoming slack.

I sighed again and chuckled weakly. "Mm... yeah..." I said, struggling a bit to speak. "I feel excellent."

And I knew that you were truth

I would rather lose

Than to have never lain beside at all

"You sure? Is this a side effect of the meds or something?"

I laughed dryly, "Yeah... something like that."

"Baby, open your eyes and look at me." My vision was vivid from the vyvanse still, but with a soft haze over everything from the klonopin, everything was a bit darker and dimmer than it had been moments ago. "Fuck... your pupils are completely blown, Reid," he worriedly observed.

And I looked around

At all the eyes on the ground

As the TV entertained itself

I cleared my throat, trying to find my balance again. "I'm okay, Derek. These meds can have some intense, unexpected side effects from time to time, that's all. Vyvanse makes my mouth dry, klonopin makes me weak and dizzy for a moment, and both can cause pupil dilation. Some side effects feel awful, but some feel oddly good." He nodded his head slowly, unsure whether he should take me at my word or not. I kissed his lips gently yet longingly, lingering there for a moment before pulling away, hoping to distract him long enough for him to change the subject.

'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room

Just nervous paces, bracing for bad news

And then the nurse comes round

And everyone lifts their heads

"Oddly good?" Derek echoed my words.

"Vyvanse can trigger a state of hyperfocus, which tends to help me work through cases quicker than I usually would and helps me notice patterns that I usually wouldn't pick up on. Klonopin helps me relax enough that my body doesn't ache from muscle tension... It also helps keep me calm enough to work through said cases without the usual panic and anxiety that I've had ever since... well, ever since Hankel, I suppose." He looked at me a little too long - I felt like I was under a microscope and, given his expert profiling skills, I might as well have been.

When he finally spoke, there was a flicker of something akin to caution in his eyes. "It helps you work through the flashbacks enough to work through the cases," he stated. There was no question in his tone.

I gave a slight nervous laugh. "You have no idea."

But I'm thinking of what Sarah said

That love is watching someone die

He nodded his head once - a silent understanding - then wrapped his arms around me as we put out our cigarettes. "In that case, let's get back to that massive stack of files on your desk, Doc."

I smiled warmly at the nickname. "Yeah, the meds should be kicking in any minute now. It's best if I'm at my desk and ready to work when that happens."

"Didn't you take both of your meds earlier today...?" his voice trailed off, and I could see in his eyes that he was trying and failing repeatedly to figure out how much I had taken, what I'd taken, and when. It was better that he couldn't figure it out.

"I had to take another dose so it wouldn't wear off completely before work's done tonight."

He nodded again, this time more slowly, as if he didn't fully believe my justification, despite it being mostly the truth. "You sure you're okay, Reid?"

"I'm fine," my reply spilled out of my mouth just a fraction of a second too quickly, too casually. I was unsure of how true that statement was, and, judging by the look on my partner's face, I could tell that he doubted it even more than I did.

"You sure?" I couldn't look at the way those brown puppy-dog eyes of his were surely burning holes through me. The feeling of being profiled by those closest to me wasn't unfamiliar, but it wasn't welcomed in this moment.

"I'm fine."

The song's final words flowed through me as the ending played out.

So who's gonna watch you die?

So who's gonna watch you die?

So who's gonna watch you die?

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter One: Six Minutes

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Chapter One: Six Minutes

Six minutes.

That's what I would say to my mother every time she lit a cigarette, like I did as I leaned against a brick wall, one foot kicked up, leaning against it. I found it almost ironic that I didn't seem to care too much when those six minutes were taken off my life.

The chilly night air cut through my cardigan as I blew smoke up into the starry sky, the smoke hovering in the dim honey-hued glow of the streetlights looking almost like a sparkling cloud before it vanished like a ghost in the shadows. I always went on my smoke breaks when I needed to pop pills — stimulants for my newly-medicated ADHD, benzodiazepines for my anxiety. Vyvanse and Klonopin.

It had been a couple of months since vyvanse and klonopin were first prescribed to me after Gideon had insisted that I get a complete psychiatric evaluation and assessment after all that had transpired regarding Tobias Hankel. The psychiatric team evaluating me had diagnosed me with Autism, ADHD, PTSD and a form of severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder that caused extreme panic attacks that rarely (if ever) seemed to have any clear or specific origin or triggers causing them to happen in the first place, long before the recent trauma I'd endured which only seemed to worsen my unrelenting anxiety. Of course, I was not at all shocked when they added an additional diagnosis of moderate to severe insomnia. I had always had more nightmares than the average person, but in the last two months since my team had rescued me from that graveyard in the middle of nowhere in Georgia... Well, the nightmares had become inescapable and far too real. I had not slept consistently or soundly since the night I was saved.

But Tobias was in the past. Two months, nineteen days, three hours, and forty-nine minutes in the past, to be exact. An eidetic memory was never helpful when it came to processing trauma. It would be easier if I could forget small details like most people. But that does not happen for people like me. I chuckled dryly to myself. People like me — geniuses with exceptional memory and even more exceptional IQs. People like me should know better than to do something as stupid, unhealthy, and dangerous as chain-smoking cigarettes. Theoretically, the cork filters I favored over the average filter — a mess of cotton and shards of glass — offered decreased health consequences, yet I still knew better. I knew the statistics. Higher price points and superior filter types could only save you so much.

After all, it's the addictive nature of it all at the heart of what kills you in the end.

I crushed the dying embers of the cigarette filter under my foot, pulled the pack back out of my cardigan pocket along with a lighter. I flipped the lid of the pack open with my thumb, pulled a cigarette out by the filter with my teeth, sparked the lighter and held the flame to the cigarette, inhaling lightly before taking my thumb off the lighter and watching the flame disappear as I removed it from my mouth with my right index and middle fingers, exhaling, and then inhaling once more. There was something almost meditative about the routine. Something nearly hypnotizing about it all. It felt practically ritualistic — putting the cigarette between my lips with the taste of dissolving calmness under my tongue and the energy and focus that I had swallowed just moments ago.

The cigarettes steadied my breathing and shaking hands as my body slowly began to adjust to the medications entering my system. Vyvanse sharpened my mind and vision, making my movements feel more precise, pulling everything into clear focus. Klonopin melted away the overstimulation that coursed throughout my entire body like a live wire — the office lights had been too bright, and I had felt like I couldn't breathe. I had been doing nothing but reading and paperwork all day and could feel the panic creeping up the back of my throat. Maybe it had just been the stomach acid from the panic itself. Either way, I knew if I didn't make it out of the bullpen and out into the smoking area, I would have surely puked into the wastepaper basket at my desk right then and there, in front of my team. Thankfully, the team knew well enough by now that moments like that — moments of complete overstimulation or panic — were nothing to be taken lightly, nor to be joked about or teased over.

I took a long and thoughtful drag as I tried to do the impossible by forgetting what Hankel had forced me to endure. I was still bound to that chair for a fraction of a nanosecond. I could almost feel the high of dilaudid he'd forcibly injected me with. I knew what a flashback was from my studies and work experience, but it never failed to take the breath out of me faster than any cigarette ever could, and far more painfully. All the studying and intellect in the world couldn't prepare me for how unimaginably real every moment of even the briefest of flashbacks felt, let alone the onerous task of differentiating those flashbacks from the reality of whatever was happening at any given time over the past several weeks.

"Focus, Spencer!" My thoughts practically screamed at me, echoing and reverberating through my skull.

I needed to be focused tonight. I grabbed the water bottle I had placed next to me, opened it, opened the vyvanse bottle, and tapped out another pill into my hand. I swallowed the capsule and washed it down with the water before screwing the cap back onto the water bottle, returning the half-empty water bottle onto the cracked parking lot concrete next to where I stood. I looked towards my hand and saw that the cigarette was now just a long stick of ash. "Weird, I swear I lit that less than two minutes ago, and this brand takes at least seven to ten minutes to burn on average..." My thoughts trailed off. I shrugged and thought, "I'm sure it's just the side effects of the medications."

I lit another cigarette, making sure to focus on it this time. I needed to fully concentrate on whether I would be useful to the team tonight. I took a frustrated puff, exhaling with anxious stubbornness.

I wondered what would happen as the long night in the bullpen continued. Would there be a new case and briefing tonight, or would I be able to go home after finishing the endless pile of paperwork on my desk? Only time would tell. I nervously tapped the fingers of my free hand against the side of my leg, trying to get the leg to stop shaking. The doctors had explained to me that this was something called stimming, common in both Autism and ADHD — not at all uncommon for it to become more severe and noticeable after trauma as extreme as what I had gone through. I had always just assumed I was too fidgety. I had assumed a lot of things about me were simply something wrong with me that nobody else dealt with until the diagnoses made every empty part of the puzzle of my life finally be filled in so that I could see the full picture of who I had always been for the very first time all those weeks ago.

— — —

I had not seen any point in hiding any part of my diagnosis from the team and had discussed it privately and individually with each team member, met with slightly varying reactions. Still, all doing their best to be understanding and supportive in their own ways.

I smiled as smoke left my lips, remembering how Garcia had laughed at my diagnosis as she lightheartedly giggled and said, "The brilliant boy genius has Autism? I'm sorry, sweetheart, but that has got to be the least shocking diagnosis I've ever heard!" She had asked for permission to hug me and, after I allowed it, she wrapped her arms around me almost too tightly to breathe. "Don't worry, Doc. I won't see or treat you any differently than I always have unless you want me to."

I had tightened the hug and replied, "Thank you for understanding. I knew you wouldn't make me feel weird like the others might."

"Oh, sweetie... I'd never make you feel weird about anything. However, I do tend to weird people out. Your weird doesn't ever outweird me, okay? I pinky promise," she had held out her pinky finger, and I had humored her by intertwining it with mine. "If anybody treats you weird about anything, then you tell me. If they wanna mess with you, they'll have to deal with me, first!"

"Weird protects weird, I guess is what you're saying?" I had presumed.

"Yes- wait- but no! Not exactly. I mean, yes, of course, weird protects and looks out for weird... but being autistic, having ADHD, and all that other stuff doesn't make you weird. It's just part of who you are. Who you are is perfect, no matter what. Got it?"

"I think so."

"Good. Keep thinking that way, alright? Not weird, just different — just you. Just Reid. Smart and useful as you always have been. A diagnosis doesn't change who you always have been, it just gives it a name and an explanation." She had been entirely correct.

In response to the diagnosis, Gideon smiled slightly and said, "I always wondered why you were far more difficult and complex to profile than the rest of the team. People on the spectrum typically don't display the same behavioral mannerisms as what we're trained to read as profilers. But even still, I read you loud and clear now, Spencer. You aren't useless or broken like you think you are,"

"I never said that... did I?" I had asked, a bit unsure as the klonopin made my memory less reliable - something about how it impacted the brain to form new working memories.

"No, you're right — you didn't say you feel useless or broken. You also didn't say that you have felt unsure of your ability to be a good profiler since Hankel or since the diagnosis. You didn't say that you're worried about whether your autism makes your profiling skills more or less valid and accurate. You didn't have to say any of that out loud."

I stayed silent for a moment, taken aback by Gideon saying everything I had felt aloud, spoken for the first time. "How did you know-"

"I knew because I'm a profiler and I am damn good at my job and doing what I do. And so are you, kid. Don't ever let anything make you doubt yourself. I am sure someday you will be seen as the greatest profiler the BAU has ever had. You are already one of the best, if you ask me. You wouldn't be here where you are right now if you weren't, or if I thought even for a moment that you were not perfect for this job. I have faith in you, Spencer. And one more thing,"

"What's that?"

Gideon's eyes and face softened as he said ever-so-gently, "I'm proud of you, kid. I mean it."

"Thanks-"

"No. No need to thank me. I just needed you to know that."

I pulled out and lit my sixth cigarette since I got outside. Garcia had decided to gift me with an MP3 player recently because she hated the idea of me being left completely alone with my thoughts during my long smoke breaks and had explained that she had read that many people like me used music as a coping mechanism to stay grounded. It seemed to be accurate enough. The guitar strummed softly in my ears, a song I had been introduced to by my mother, who would often sing it to me as a lullaby of sorts, and the familiar lyrics began.

Mama take this badge from me

I can't use it anymore

I pulled out my flip-phone and quickly texted Garcia to check my mother's files and records for where I had her staying, asking her to make sure to notify me of any medication or behavioral changes, as well as anything else worth mentioning.

It's getting dark,

Too dark to see

I flipped the phone closed, dropped it back into my satchel, and took a much longer and deeper drag than usual off of my cigarette, exhaling, only noticing the nervous shaking in my hands as I brought it to my lips again. I wasn't sure if it was worry for my mother or the vyvanse kicking in that caused my hands to tremor. I tried and failed to not worry about it. I tried to think positively and hope that my mother was okay. I would write my daily letter to her once I got back to my desk. The paperwork of our old cases could wait that long. They'd have to. But before I could worry myself too much about that, I finished and extinguished my cigarette, lighting another.

Feels like I'm knockin' on Heaven's door

The music softly yet powerfully thrummed in my ears through the earbuds, slowly easing away the flashbacks that had threatened to blur the edges of reality, grounding me in my body and current surroundings.

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

My hands began to shake less as I blinked tears away from my eyes. I needed to pull myself together and make sure the meds kicked in before I was ready to head back inside and face reality, along with all the familiar faces awaiting my return inside the building behind me.

"Get it together, Spencer," I thought to myself. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on nothing but the next drag. Felt the heat, tasted the chemicals I had grown to find comforting, smelled the tobacco as I exhaled the smoke from my nostrils. "Just get it together," I thought silently once more.

Six minutes.

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter Two: High-Functioning

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

Chapter Two: High Functioning

It must have been at least fifteen minutes since I had last moved. Perhaps I had dissociated and been standing still, time slipping away as seconds became minutes without me noticing. I looked down at my hand, holding what was left of a cigarette that had burned itself out moments after I had become still. I couldn't quite recall what I had been thinking about before that strange fifteen minutes of stillness, only the vague recollection of having felt anxious before feeling absolutely nothing until now.

I felt alert. Alive. Calm. Energized. Focused. I was prepared to take on anything, feeling far more intelligent than usual by several IQ points above my impressive score of 187. Gideon's words of praise echoed in my head, telling me someday I'll be the best profiler the BAU has ever seen. I smirked to myself, almost cocky.

I skipped to the next song on my MP3 player, and What Sarah Said by Death Cab For Cutie began playing softly. It was one of many songs that Garcia had downloaded for me, thinking I might like hundreds of songs I had scarcely (if ever) heard of. I appreciated the time and thought she had spent on every word and note of each song she had included.

And it came to me then

That every plan

Is a tiny prayer to Father Time

I dropped the remnants of the previous cigarette and got out a new one, lighting it as I heard the door behind me open, familiar footsteps approaching me. I took out the earbud closest to the person approaching me, the music continuing as hardly more than a gentle hum in the background of life.

As I stared at my shoes

In the ICU

That reeked of piss and 409

"Hey, pretty boy," the voice I knew better than most called out to me.

"Hey, Derek," I said, struggling to speak clearly enough while I finished lighting the cigarette and taking my first inhale. I turned slightly towards him, calm and casual. "I thought you said you were trying to quit smoking for the third time this year, babe." I handed him a cigarette and a spare lighter, which I kept on me at all times.

"Huh, I thought this was the second time." He shrugged while he lit his cigarette. "Well, how about I just blame this time on you always finding a way to make smoking look," Derek gestured as he paused, struggling to find the right words, "y'know, man, like you make it look all poetic and shit."

And I rationed my breaths

As I said to myself

That I'd already taken too much today

"'Poetic and shit'? Wow, Agent Morgan, that's a very astute observation," I teased.

"Oh, shut up, babe. I tried, alright? I tried to quit. But you make anything look pretty, charming, and smart. Can't blame a guy for falling for his man, right?"

"Derek... you can just say you didn't feel like quitting past the three-day mark again. Nobody's gonna shame you," I teased.

"Oh no, that's not true and you know it."

"What are you talking about?" I did my best to act convincingly innocent.

"I know about the bet. You and all your little lady friends have been betting on how long I would last without smoking. And I know you don't lose easily."

"Seriously, what are you talking about? What lady friends - what does that even mean?"

"Come on, Reid. JJ, Garcia, Prentiss. You all have a bet going on about how long I'll quit smoking this time. And I'm assuming you're keeping that poker face after you handed me the cigarette and lighter means you won the bet... So, what did you win?"

"A pack of cigarettes from each loser every day for a week."

"Thank god the FBI isn't broke," Morgan smirked and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, Garcia's gonna be uh... not too happy with you. She was so sure you'd quit for good this time. JJ said she gave it a week, Prentiss said she would give you exactly three and a half days. I said three days and that you'd start smoking again at night in the parking lot. And here you are, which means I was right!" I said, smiling widely as I brought the cigarette to my lips, and Morgan did the same.

"Sometimes I think maybe Penelope is a little too hopeful," he continued to smile, exhaling smoke as I breathed more of it into my lungs, letting it rest there for a moment before letting it out slowly, the tendrils spilling from my mouth like gentle serpents. "You are prettiest like this," his voice dripping with admiration and a faint hint of lust.

"Like what? Like when I'm smoking or like when I'm..." my question trailed off, catching and stopping myself right as I was about to ask, 'like when I'm high?'.

"When you're what, pretty boy? Come on, finish that sentence, I wanna know what you were gonna say," I didn't have to look to hear the suggestive smirk in his tone.

As each descending peak

On the LCD

Took you a little farther away from me

Away from me

"Like when I'm... um... medicated?" I offered, half-truthful.

"Well, for starters, you didn't jump like you usually do when I approached you from behind. You didn't flinch when our hands touched as you gave me the lighter and cigarette. You're calmer since you started the medication, and at times, I'd swear you're somehow almost smarter than you were before you started taking the medication. You look peaceful for real."

Amongst the vending machines

And year-old magazines

In a place where we only say goodbye

The klonopin hit me like a freight train when I least expected it. I feel my whole body go a bit limp and weak, as if my very existence were somehow too light and too heavy all at once for gravity to make up its mind on what it wanted to do with me. I stumbled slightly, despite standing completely still. With every blink, my eyes remained closed for a few seconds too long. I let out a soft, involuntary sigh that could almost be mistaken for a moan as waves of pleasure and relaxation washed over me like ocean waves crashing against a rocky coastline repeatedly. I gave in to the feeling without meaning to, leaning fully against the brick wall for support.

It stung like a violent wind

That our memories depend

On a faulty camera in our minds

"Hey, Spencer! Reid, are you okay, babyboy?" I heard Derek worriedly say as I felt him stop me from falling forward completely, my head nodding forward, and my jaw becoming slack.

I sighed again and chuckled weakly. "Mm... yeah..." I said, struggling a bit to speak. "I feel excellent."

And I knew that you were truth

I would rather lose

Than to have never lain beside at all

"You sure? Is this a side effect of the meds or something?"

I laughed dryly, "Yeah... something like that."

"Baby, open your eyes and look at me." My vision was vivid from the vyvanse still, but with a soft haze over everything from the klonopin, everything was a bit darker and dimmer than it had been moments ago. "Fuck... your pupils are completely blown, Reid," he worriedly observed.

And I looked around

At all the eyes on the ground

As the TV entertained itself

I cleared my throat, trying to find my balance again. "I'm okay, Derek. These meds can have some intense, unexpected side effects from time to time, that's all. Vyvanse makes my mouth dry, klonopin makes me weak and dizzy for a moment, and both can cause pupil dilation. Some side effects feel awful, but some feel oddly good." He nodded his head slowly, unsure whether he should take me at my word or not. I kissed his lips gently yet longingly, lingering there for a moment before pulling away, hoping to distract him long enough for him to change the subject.

'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room

Just nervous paces, bracing for bad news

And then the nurse comes round

And everyone lifts their heads

"Oddly good?" Derek echoed my words.

"Vyvanse can trigger a state of hyperfocus, which tends to help me work through cases quicker than I usually would and helps me notice patterns that I usually wouldn't pick up on. Klonopin helps me relax enough that my body doesn't ache from muscle tension... It also helps keep me calm enough to work through said cases without the usual panic and anxiety that I've had ever since... well, ever since Hankel, I suppose." He looked at me a little too long - I felt like I was under a microscope and, given his expert profiling skills, I might as well have been.

When he finally spoke, there was a flicker of something akin to caution in his eyes. "It helps you work through the flashbacks enough to work through the cases," he stated. There was no question in his tone.

I gave a slight nervous laugh. "You have no idea."

But I'm thinking of what Sarah said

That love is watching someone die

He nodded his head once - a silent understanding - then wrapped his arms around me as we put out our cigarettes. "In that case, let's get back to that massive stack of files on your desk, Doc."

I smiled warmly at the nickname. "Yeah, the meds should be kicking in any minute now. It's best if I'm at my desk and ready to work when that happens."

"Didn't you take both of your meds earlier today...?" his voice trailed off, and I could see in his eyes that he was trying and failing repeatedly to figure out how much I had taken, what I'd taken, and when. It was better that he couldn't figure it out.

"I had to take another dose so it wouldn't wear off completely before work's done tonight."

He nodded again, this time more slowly, as if he didn't fully believe my justification, despite it being mostly the truth. "You sure you're okay, Reid?"

"I'm fine," my reply spilled out of my mouth just a fraction of a second too quickly, too casually. I was unsure of how true that statement was, and, judging by the look on my partner's face, I could tell that he doubted it even more than I did.

"You sure?" I couldn't look at the way those brown puppy-dog eyes of his were surely burning holes through me. The feeling of being profiled by those closest to me wasn't unfamiliar, but it wasn't welcomed in this moment.

"I'm fine."

The song's final words flowed through me as the ending played out.

So who's gonna watch you die?

So who's gonna watch you die?

So who's gonna watch you die?

[fic-scribe]

Knockin' On Heaven's Door — Chapter One: Six Minutes

info: This story takes place in early 2007 and serves as a rewritten and reimagined aftermath of the events depicted in the mid-season two episodes "The Big Game" and "Revelations".

Available on AO3 and Wattpad under the username fallenamongstroses

DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Chapter One: Six Minutes

Six minutes.

That's what I would say to my mother every time she lit a cigarette, like I did as I leaned against a brick wall, one foot kicked up, leaning against it. I found it almost ironic that I didn't seem to care too much when those six minutes were taken off my life.

The chilly night air cut through my cardigan as I blew smoke up into the starry sky, the smoke hovering in the dim honey-hued glow of the streetlights looking almost like a sparkling cloud before it vanished like a ghost in the shadows. I always went on my smoke breaks when I needed to pop pills — stimulants for my newly-medicated ADHD, benzodiazepines for my anxiety. Vyvanse and Klonopin.

It had been a couple of months since vyvanse and klonopin were first prescribed to me after Gideon had insisted that I get a complete psychiatric evaluation and assessment after all that had transpired regarding Tobias Hankel. The psychiatric team evaluating me had diagnosed me with Autism, ADHD, PTSD and a form of severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder that caused extreme panic attacks that rarely (if ever) seemed to have any clear or specific origin or triggers causing them to happen in the first place, long before the recent trauma I'd endured which only seemed to worsen my unrelenting anxiety. Of course, I was not at all shocked when they added an additional diagnosis of moderate to severe insomnia. I had always had more nightmares than the average person, but in the last two months since my team had rescued me from that graveyard in the middle of nowhere in Georgia... Well, the nightmares had become inescapable and far too real. I had not slept consistently or soundly since the night I was saved.

But Tobias was in the past. Two months, nineteen days, three hours, and forty-nine minutes in the past, to be exact. An eidetic memory was never helpful when it came to processing trauma. It would be easier if I could forget small details like most people. But that does not happen for people like me. I chuckled dryly to myself. People like me — geniuses with exceptional memory and even more exceptional IQs. People like me should know better than to do something as stupid, unhealthy, and dangerous as chain-smoking cigarettes. Theoretically, the cork filters I favored over the average filter — a mess of cotton and shards of glass — offered decreased health consequences, yet I still knew better. I knew the statistics. Higher price points and superior filter types could only save you so much.

After all, it's the addictive nature of it all at the heart of what kills you in the end.

I crushed the dying embers of the cigarette filter under my foot, pulled the pack back out of my cardigan pocket along with a lighter. I flipped the lid of the pack open with my thumb, pulled a cigarette out by the filter with my teeth, sparked the lighter and held the flame to the cigarette, inhaling lightly before taking my thumb off the lighter and watching the flame disappear as I removed it from my mouth with my right index and middle fingers, exhaling, and then inhaling once more. There was something almost meditative about the routine. Something nearly hypnotizing about it all. It felt practically ritualistic — putting the cigarette between my lips with the taste of dissolving calmness under my tongue and the energy and focus that I had swallowed just moments ago.

The cigarettes steadied my breathing and shaking hands as my body slowly began to adjust to the medications entering my system. Vyvanse sharpened my mind and vision, making my movements feel more precise, pulling everything into clear focus. Klonopin melted away the overstimulation that coursed throughout my entire body like a live wire — the office lights had been too bright, and I had felt like I couldn't breathe. I had been doing nothing but reading and paperwork all day and could feel the panic creeping up the back of my throat. Maybe it had just been the stomach acid from the panic itself. Either way, I knew if I didn't make it out of the bullpen and out into the smoking area, I would have surely puked into the wastepaper basket at my desk right then and there, in front of my team. Thankfully, the team knew well enough by now that moments like that — moments of complete overstimulation or panic — were nothing to be taken lightly, nor to be joked about or teased over.

I took a long and thoughtful drag as I tried to do the impossible by forgetting what Hankel had forced me to endure. I was still bound to that chair for a fraction of a nanosecond. I could almost feel the high of dilaudid he'd forcibly injected me with. I knew what a flashback was from my studies and work experience, but it never failed to take the breath out of me faster than any cigarette ever could, and far more painfully. All the studying and intellect in the world couldn't prepare me for how unimaginably real every moment of even the briefest of flashbacks felt, let alone the onerous task of differentiating those flashbacks from the reality of whatever was happening at any given time over the past several weeks.

"Focus, Spencer!" My thoughts practically screamed at me, echoing and reverberating through my skull.

I needed to be focused tonight. I grabbed the water bottle I had placed next to me, opened it, opened the vyvanse bottle, and tapped out another pill into my hand. I swallowed the capsule and washed it down with the water before screwing the cap back onto the water bottle, returning the half-empty water bottle onto the cracked parking lot concrete next to where I stood. I looked towards my hand and saw that the cigarette was now just a long stick of ash. "Weird, I swear I lit that less than two minutes ago, and this brand takes at least seven to ten minutes to burn on average..." My thoughts trailed off. I shrugged and thought, "I'm sure it's just the side effects of the medications."

I lit another cigarette, making sure to focus on it this time. I needed to fully concentrate on whether I would be useful to the team tonight. I took a frustrated puff, exhaling with anxious stubbornness.

I wondered what would happen as the long night in the bullpen continued. Would there be a new case and briefing tonight, or would I be able to go home after finishing the endless pile of paperwork on my desk? Only time would tell. I nervously tapped the fingers of my free hand against the side of my leg, trying to get the leg to stop shaking. The doctors had explained to me that this was something called stimming, common in both Autism and ADHD — not at all uncommon for it to become more severe and noticeable after trauma as extreme as what I had gone through. I had always just assumed I was too fidgety. I had assumed a lot of things about me were simply something wrong with me that nobody else dealt with until the diagnoses made every empty part of the puzzle of my life finally be filled in so that I could see the full picture of who I had always been for the very first time all those weeks ago.

— — —

I had not seen any point in hiding any part of my diagnosis from the team and had discussed it privately and individually with each team member, met with slightly varying reactions. Still, all doing their best to be understanding and supportive in their own ways.

I smiled as smoke left my lips, remembering how Garcia had laughed at my diagnosis as she lightheartedly giggled and said, "The brilliant boy genius has Autism? I'm sorry, sweetheart, but that has got to be the least shocking diagnosis I've ever heard!" She had asked for permission to hug me and, after I allowed it, she wrapped her arms around me almost too tightly to breathe. "Don't worry, Doc. I won't see or treat you any differently than I always have unless you want me to."

I had tightened the hug and replied, "Thank you for understanding. I knew you wouldn't make me feel weird like the others might."

"Oh, sweetie... I'd never make you feel weird about anything. However, I do tend to weird people out. Your weird doesn't ever outweird me, okay? I pinky promise," she had held out her pinky finger, and I had humored her by intertwining it with mine. "If anybody treats you weird about anything, then you tell me. If they wanna mess with you, they'll have to deal with me, first!"

"Weird protects weird, I guess is what you're saying?" I had presumed.

"Yes- wait- but no! Not exactly. I mean, yes, of course, weird protects and looks out for weird... but being autistic, having ADHD, and all that other stuff doesn't make you weird. It's just part of who you are. Who you are is perfect, no matter what. Got it?"

"I think so."

"Good. Keep thinking that way, alright? Not weird, just different — just you. Just Reid. Smart and useful as you always have been. A diagnosis doesn't change who you always have been, it just gives it a name and an explanation." She had been entirely correct.

In response to the diagnosis, Gideon smiled slightly and said, "I always wondered why you were far more difficult and complex to profile than the rest of the team. People on the spectrum typically don't display the same behavioral mannerisms as what we're trained to read as profilers. But even still, I read you loud and clear now, Spencer. You aren't useless or broken like you think you are,"

"I never said that... did I?" I had asked, a bit unsure as the klonopin made my memory less reliable - something about how it impacted the brain to form new working memories.

"No, you're right — you didn't say you feel useless or broken. You also didn't say that you have felt unsure of your ability to be a good profiler since Hankel or since the diagnosis. You didn't say that you're worried about whether your autism makes your profiling skills more or less valid and accurate. You didn't have to say any of that out loud."

I stayed silent for a moment, taken aback by Gideon saying everything I had felt aloud, spoken for the first time. "How did you know-"

"I knew because I'm a profiler and I am damn good at my job and doing what I do. And so are you, kid. Don't ever let anything make you doubt yourself. I am sure someday you will be seen as the greatest profiler the BAU has ever had. You are already one of the best, if you ask me. You wouldn't be here where you are right now if you weren't, or if I thought even for a moment that you were not perfect for this job. I have faith in you, Spencer. And one more thing,"

"What's that?"

Gideon's eyes and face softened as he said ever-so-gently, "I'm proud of you, kid. I mean it."

"Thanks-"

"No. No need to thank me. I just needed you to know that."

I pulled out and lit my sixth cigarette since I got outside. Garcia had decided to gift me with an MP3 player recently because she hated the idea of me being left completely alone with my thoughts during my long smoke breaks and had explained that she had read that many people like me used music as a coping mechanism to stay grounded. It seemed to be accurate enough. The guitar strummed softly in my ears, a song I had been introduced to by my mother, who would often sing it to me as a lullaby of sorts, and the familiar lyrics began.

Mama take this badge from me

I can't use it anymore

I pulled out my flip-phone and quickly texted Garcia to check my mother's files and records for where I had her staying, asking her to make sure to notify me of any medication or behavioral changes, as well as anything else worth mentioning.

It's getting dark,

Too dark to see

I flipped the phone closed, dropped it back into my satchel, and took a much longer and deeper drag than usual off of my cigarette, exhaling, only noticing the nervous shaking in my hands as I brought it to my lips again. I wasn't sure if it was worry for my mother or the vyvanse kicking in that caused my hands to tremor. I tried and failed to not worry about it. I tried to think positively and hope that my mother was okay. I would write my daily letter to her once I got back to my desk. The paperwork of our old cases could wait that long. They'd have to. But before I could worry myself too much about that, I finished and extinguished my cigarette, lighting another.

Feels like I'm knockin' on Heaven's door

The music softly yet powerfully thrummed in my ears through the earbuds, slowly easing away the flashbacks that had threatened to blur the edges of reality, grounding me in my body and current surroundings.

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on Heaven's door

My hands began to shake less as I blinked tears away from my eyes. I needed to pull myself together and make sure the meds kicked in before I was ready to head back inside and face reality, along with all the familiar faces awaiting my return inside the building behind me.

"Get it together, Spencer," I thought to myself. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on nothing but the next drag. Felt the heat, tasted the chemicals I had grown to find comforting, smelled the tobacco as I exhaled the smoke from my nostrils. "Just get it together," I thought silently once more.

Six minutes.