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One of the unfortunate realities of Spencer Reid’s life is the fact that he has to prove himself wherever he goes. He’s always been the underdog, the youngest, the least experienced. Everywhere he goes, no one can look past his age; at least, they can’t until he forces them to view him as an equal.
They called him ‘the baby’ in high school. Sure, he was young, but he was a league above the rest of them. Head and shoulders shorter than even the shortest senior, he struggled not to get lost in the crowd. He had to prove himself by not only keeping up but outstripping them academically. It worked. The name-calling got worse, but that didn’t matter. He proved himself to be more than just a kid.
Again, in college, he had to prove himself all over again. The looks from his peers, the disbelief, the “gosh, who let that thing in? It hasn’t even hit puberty, it doesn’t belong here” whispered about him in the halls as he went about his day. It grated him. He’d earned his place here, dammit. But, he proved himself. He excelled where they failed, and ended up tutoring kids almost twice his age. No one doubted him then.
He even feels like he has to prove himself in his relationship. He’s dating two of the most badass men he’s ever met. Hotch is older, wiser, and more accomplished. His career spans decades, from unit chief all the way back to star prosecutor. He’s out of Spencer’s league, for sure. And then there’s Derek. Derek is hot, and an FBI legend. He’s the literal definition of tall, dark and handsome. Next to them, Spencer feels like a middle-school nerd. He knows they love him, but he can’t figure out why. He’s just not as cool as they are. Still, he tries to prove he’s good enough.
And now, working for the FBI, he has to prove himself all over again - more than ever this time. He’s too young and too weak, and nothing like any other agent he’s ever met. He’s hyperaware of all the accommodations they’ve had to make just to let him in there. On top of that, to consider him for an elite team? He’s got to prove he can hack it, can profile just as well as everyone else, and maybe even better. He’ll do anything to fit in. He’ll prove his worth here, even if it kills him.
That’s probably how he ended up in this mess.
It had started small.
Speed-reading was a useful skill for any BAU agent - the ability to absorb files at a fraction of the speed gave him a head start on cases, allowing him to get the profile rolling before the others even knew what was going on. Not only that, it was good for paperwork.
Each case called for stacks of forms and reports - anything from a profile transcript, to witness reports, to accommodation expenses reimbursement forms. His eidetic memory made filling these out a cinch, and his love of paperwork only increased his speed. He could knock over his after-action forms in under twenty minutes, his files always the first on Hotch’s desk.
That warm smile and impressed head shake it earns him only eggs him on. He’s the fastest, but that’s not enough. If he’s going to prove himself, he has to be indispensable.
So, when he finds Derek’s mileage reimbursement form on his desk, he fills it out. He and Derek were in the same car, after all. It’s practically the same information. A quick glance at Derek’s driver’s license for the information he doesn’t know yet, and he’s set. He fills it out with ease, slipping it back into Derek’s file before his boyfriend is even finished with his first form.
It’s good. It makes him feel special. It makes him important. He’s working harder than Derek, even doing some of Derek’s work for him. If that doesn’t earn him his place, he doesn’t know what will. And when the rest of the team start slipping him forms? Well, that could only prove his worth more. He does it with ease. He feels more like a member of the team now.
It would’ve been fine if that had been all.
However, everything got more complicated when Strauss found out.
Strauss called him into her office one morning, the day after they arrived back from a case. Spencer was sweating bullets; getting called into your boss’s office is never a good thing, couldn’t possibly be. It’s worse when he sees the team’s recent paperwork in a neat stack on her desk.
“Dr Reid, would you care to explain why Agent Morgan’s milage reimbursement form is in your handwriting?” She asks coldly.
“Um,” he answers intelligently.
“Or perhaps Agent Jareau’s expense report? Or Agent Gideon’s? Or even Agent Greenaway’s evidence report, which has your signature on the bottom?”
He fumbles for an excuse, clearing his throat and choking on his tongue. He can tell he’s in deep trouble, but that isn’t helping his cause. His brain just won’t give him an adequate answer. After struggling for a minute, Strauss holds up her hand to stop him.
“Is there a good reason why you’re not focussing on your own work, and instead doing everyone else’s?” She sneers.
Thankfully, there is a good reason.
“Actually, Agent Strauss, I only chip in when I’ve completed all my work,” he explains, “and technically I only assist with forms that don’t need to be filled out by a specific person. There’s nothing in the field agent’s guide that specifies that a reimbursement report must be filled out by the person being reimbursed, it only states that it must be submitted as part of that agent’s report, which they have been. Seeing as I had completed all my own work, and it was still within my rostered work hours, I saw no reason not to do work that fits within my job description. So, that’s why, and I don’t think I should be disciplined.”
He tacks on a ‘ma’am’ at the end, realising how disrespectful his little rant appeared. Strauss doesn’t seem mad though, smirking at him fondly.
“At ease, Dr Reid. I appreciate your boldness, but I can assure you, you aren’t in trouble.” She says, “I’m not impressed with your teammates, as they should be more than capable of doing their own work, but I’m glad to know that you are finding your work easy enough to complete that you can spare time to assist other. You’re a good team player, and you could be a real asset to the team.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“In fact, if you have that much free time, I’d be willing to let you have unrestricted access to the FBI’s cold case stores,” She offers, “Maybe you can put that mind to good use, get some good work done instead of helping other’s slack off?”
“Really?” He asks.
“I never kid, Agent Reid.”
“Wow,” he smiles, “I’d really like that.”
“Good,” she smiles, “I’ll see that someone pulls some files for you.”
True to her word, the next time they return from a case, a cold case file lays in his in-tray, alongside his paperwork.
He’s so thrilled with his extra work that he speeds through his paperwork in only fourteen minutes. It’s a little messier than usual, but it’s more than passable. He even brushes Derek off when he tries to slip his own forms onto his desk.
“Sorry, Derek,” he grins, wiggling his new case at him, “Special assignment.”
“Oh, pardon me, Mr. Detective,” Derek jokes, looking impressed nonetheless, “Since when do you work cold cases?”
“Since Strauss decided I’m a valuable member of the team.” He says proudly.
“That you are, Pretty Boy.” Derek praises. “Enjoy your file, then.”
And he slips away, finishing his own work for the first time in a long time.
Spencer pours over the file for the last hour and so of his shift. It’s decades-old, back from the early days of criminal profiling, and before there was reliable DNA science. He thinks if it had been more recent, it would’ve been easily solvable. He can see flaws in the methodology, officer bias, and many other failings that mean that it got shelved rather than solved. He’s even sure that the perpetrator is listed in the original file.
He doesn’t even realise that it’s knock-off time until Hotch comes to usher him to the garage. The file waits in his desk drawer, a handful of notes scrawled on the inside cover. He’ll be able to write up a report about it the next week, and it may even be solved.
It fills him with giddy pride. He’s good enough and skilled enough to be trusted with these cases. He knows that this will allow him to finally prove himself.
His hard work pays off. He submits his report on his cold case the following Wednesday, complete with a new offender profile, a review of the original case, and an official request to reopen this case. Strauss is impressed with his work, and his speed. He’s glowing by the time he gets back to his desk.
Strangely, even after solving the first case, he still doesn’t feel like a real member of the team yet. Sure, he’s working circles around them, but he just doesn’t think they see him as one of them. He’s sure it will pass, so long as he keeps pushing himself to do better, and work harder.
The next time day, there are two cases instead of one.
If he felt special before, it has nothing on how he feels now. He’s over the moon - one case to work on now, and one he can start as soon as the other is finished. It’s more work, sure, but more work means more chances to prove himself.
He has more free time than usual, seeing as they arrived back from their last case earlier than anticipated. It’s early afternoon when he polishes off his file - and one of Derek’s forms because old habits die hard, and Derek couldn’t understand the interstate gas taxes even if he wanted to - and he practically runs from Hotch’s office to his desk to start his next file.
The first case is easy. It’s a matter of running some DNA and getting some restoration on the CCTV, but it’s pretty solvable. He includes a criminal profile, just for kicks, and prepares it to be submitted for review. The second case is much the same, and only needed a fresh set of eyes. He dusts it off quickly, the reports even better than the first file he submitted.
He hand-delivers them to Strauss as he prepares to leave.
Her surprise is welcome. She goes over the files critically but comes up with nothing to change. She nods pleasantly, placing them in her out-tray.
“I’m very impressed with you, Dr. Reid,” she says evenly, “You’re doing great work here.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he smiles, “I’m really enjoying it. The extra work is a challenge, but it’s also great fun.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she replies, “It’s clear to see you take pride in your work. These reports are pristine. It’s clear that you relish the opportunity, and that is very good to see.”
He nods, “I do. Actually, I was almost disappointed when I finished.”
She laughs at that, a contemplative twinkle in her eye. She squares him with a coaxing look.
“You know, if you enjoy it so much, I see no problem with you taking some files home with you to work in your off-hours. No pressure, just a little brainteaser,” she assures, “It would be a shame to see your mind go to waste, and I think the higher-ups would be very pleased to see you working to your full potential. It’s shows that you really value your position here, and all that we’ve done for you. And if you enjoy it, well, all the more reason.”
He feels like that cat that got the cream, the milk, and a belly scratch. This sounds too good to be true - he always loved homework, and he loves casework more than anything. The chance to combine those things makes him borderline elated. Also, if it helps him prove his worth, that just sweetens the deal. He’s too excited to question the motivations behind it.
He bounced down to records to collect a take-home case. He shows it off proudly to Hotch and Derek, who have been waiting for him since he scurried off the Strauss’ office.
“Strauss said it was okay for me to take some work home with me,” he smiles.
This was the moment that Hotch should’ve intervened. He doesn’t know that Strauss is the one who suggested it, so he can be forgiven for not flagging it. Taking case files home is a slippery slope, he knows that. It’s the first step towards being owned by the job, to spending every waking hour in your office. It’s the ticket to broken relationships, a corner office, and a sparse funeral. He doesn’t acknowledge it though. Spencer’s got light in his eyes, smiling brightly and talking animatedly about his extra work, about his homework, and just seems too happy for anything to be wrong.
He’s young, Hotch supposes. Young and full of energy, still thirsty for the job. If he wants to work outside of office hours, I won’t stand in his way.
Spencer starts working on his file as soon as he gets in the car. He zones in on his work, leaving the world behind. The conversation in the car just fuels his background noise, the words getting lost in the coroner’s reports, witness statements, and his own thoughts. He doesn’t even notice that the car has stopped until Derek shakes his shoulder.
This is the moment Derek should’ve intervened. When it became clear that Spencer would work 40 hours a day if he was given half a chance. He should never have let him get this reckless about what was work time and what was personal time. Still, the little twink looks so cute all curled up in the backseat, covered in papers. If it looks normal, it must be harmless, he decides.
They’ll kick themselves later, but for now, they just laugh and drag him inside. The file is forgotten in favour of dinner, cuddles, and falling asleep in front of the television.
Aaron wakes up at five on the following Monday and readies himself for work. His hours start slightly earlier than the rest of the team, so it’s normal for him to leave his boyfriends in bed as he heads to the office. However, today, Spencer wakes up with him.
“I think I figured out my case,” he declares proudly. It wouldn’t be surprising, seeing as he’s working on it in short bursts all weekend. “I want to come in with you so I can finish the report before you have to head off today.”
There was a call for a case in the night, and they’re leaving first thing. Of course, Spencer wants to finish his work before they leave. Still, Aaron isn’t sure about taking him in early; he knows how hiding at work can ruin your life. But, looking at Spencer’s face softens his resolve. His expression is one part hope, nine parts puppy dog eyes.
“Okay,” he smiles.
Spencer lights up like a Christmas tree and rushes off to get dressed. They eat breakfast, Spencer pouring over his file as he eats, and it’s so painfully cute that Aaron sneaks a candid shot of his to show Derek. They leave at the normal time, arriving just after seven-thirty, a whole two hours before the rest of the team.
They dive straight into their work. Aaron sorts through his files, signing off reports and readying to get on the jet at a quarter past ten. He sneaks glances at Spencer. His lovely partner works earnestly to finish his case file. Aaron doesn’t see him slip off the gets another one from records. He’s too focused on how watching him work, a cup of coffee in hand and a smile on his face. He doesn’t think too hard about how Spencer would normally be asleep at this time, about how he usually wouldn’t need caffeine until eleven, or how these things could be connected.
He should, but he doesn’t.
The new case is abandoned in Spencer’s desk, forgotten as they board the jet. He’s not quite at the point where his work consumes him, but he’s closer than he realises.
Reid coming early becomes an unconscious standard practice.
The next time they get back, Spencer goes right back to his side cases. He finishes all his normal work - his consult profiles, and his paperwork - in record time. He breaks for a short lunch, only half of his scheduled hour before he dives back into it. As always, he gets immersed in his task. Case facts swim around him as he works to quantify the intricate details of the case.
He gets so lost in the work that it startles him when Hotch drags him to the car at five-thirty. He wants to pout, to beg for five more minutes, but he goes willingly enough.
Hotch ignores the warning sign which is Spencer’s irritability. It’s the first sign of sleep deprivation, and also the first sign of work dependence. Instead of reading it that way, he reads it as dedication.
“Your work ethic is contagious, Reid,” he praises, “Even Garcia has noticed it. Everyone’s struggling to keep up with the standard you’re setting. Even I don’t work this hard.”
Spencer beams. He spends the whole ride home telling Hotch the intimate details of his case. Hotch misses the tired edge of his voice and the way he sounds afraid of not solving it before they return to the office the next day.
Months pass just like this. Reid solves cold cases like it’s his sole purpose in life, in no small part thanks to the extra hours he’s putting in outside of the office. It’s not without its consequences.
His sleep suffers the most. Late nights spent pushing his limits just to wrap up cases mix dangerously with his now earlier mornings. He finds himself learning to function on only five hours, sometimes less, with all-nighters peppered in here and there. He wasn’t even this bad in grad school. To cope, his three cups of coffee turn into five, and even that doesn’t feel like enough. His under-eye bags grow steady, darkening to the same hue as his irises. He doesn’t really notice anymore, and his partners don’t complain, so it doesn’t seem to do any harm.
Still, it starts to weigh him down.
One Friday morning, he stays up until four-thirty working on a lead that comes to nothing. This case is dense and requires a lot of focus, and he knows he won’t be able to give it the attention it deserves in his current state. He leaves a note for Hotch on the kitchen whiteboard: had a late one, sleeping in today. Will come in with Derek. Love you <3. In his eyes, this was the healthiest choice.
Derek doesn’t seem to agree. When Spencer rolls out of bed at nine-thirty, Derek ribs him.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he smirks, “Didn’t expect to see you until I got to work.”
It’s playful, teasing, but Spencer’s too tired to discern that tone.
“I slept in,” he replies, still foggy.
“Getting up late now? Wow, I didn’t expect that from Mr. Extra Credit over here. Looks like you’re losing you edge.”
It scares Spencer. He can’t lose his edge, not now. Not when he’s worked so hard. The panic grips his throat as he stumbles for a good answer. Derek doesn’t recognise it as panic, his back turned so he misses the terror on his boyfriend’s face.
“I- um - It’s not like that-”
Derek chuckles, ruffling his hair dismissively.
“C’mon, we gotta get going,” he says, “Don’t want to get there any later than you already are.”
It’s a joke. If Spencer wasn’t already so sleep deprived, he’d know that. Hell, if Derek had been looking more closely, he’d have known that his joke didn’t land as he’d expected. A comedy of error, more of a tragedy, really, but neither of them knew the other didn’t see it from their eyes.
Spencer takes Derek’s teasing to heart. He knows he can’t lose his edge. It’s the only thing keeping him in the FBI. His job, his life, is on the line here. If he lets up and stops putting in the extra effort, he won’t be worth keeping it anymore.
He never sleeps in again.
All in all, his hard work is paying off. His cases start getting reviewed. One by one, they get flagged, reopened, and slipped into the hands of active caseworkers. Some of them even get solved. His leads create convictions and peace for the families. It’s amazing.
On Friday, as he moves to head home, he drops his freshly-finished case file to Strauss. He’s walking on air.
“I hear that the Lincoln Street stabbings have been closed,” Strauss says, by way of a greeting.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very impressive,” she muses, “Have you picked up your weekend work? If not, I’ve flagged a case with records that I’d like you to look over.”
“Oh, actually,” he corrected, “I wasn’t going to take any files home today.”
Her shock is evident.
“I just thought I’d take a break, ma’am,” he reassures her, “relax a little.”
She sighs. “You know, Reid, while my superiors are pleased with your efforts, you shouldn’t consider yourself out of the woods yet. You’re showing great potential, but if you stop applying yourself,” she trails off, “Well, I’m just looking out for you.”
“I just, um, wanted some time to myself,” Spencer clarifies, “so I don’t burn out.”
She smiles reassuringly, or condescendingly - Spencer can’t tell. “Your annual leave is only one month away. Surely you can keep driving until then?”
He struggles to reply. A month isn’t that long, but he’s feeling run down. He wonders if, maybe, she doesn't have his best interests at heart. He wants to rest. Apparently, that’s not good enough.
“I’d just hate to see you bounce from the program, Reid,” she says, “I’m helping you.”
The threat of bouncing, failing, shifts his focus. He can make it one more month.
“What case did you want me to focus on, ma’am?”
Soon, arriving early at work isn’t enough. He finds that he just doesn’t have the hours in the day to close cases fast enough to please Strauss. Instead of leaving with Hotch, he opts to stay late at the office, coming home on the metro. The extra time really helps, and he finally feels like he’s back on top. His edge is back.
Once he’s started, he can’t seem to stop.
Hotch starts to worry, and tries to pull him away from his desk, but he can’t. Spencer is focused on his files; nothing but work talk reaches him. Hotch gives up and leaves him to it. Still, Spencer always finds his way home for dinner, or by bedtime at the latest. He may not come to bed until later, bringing his work home with him more and more. But, it’s always been that way with Spencer; Hotch tries to shake the worried feeling.
Instead, he praises Reid’s efforts. He gives him a dazzling smile when he drops off his paperwork, loading him up with compliments about his speed and his tenacity. Reid seems happy with his work. If he’s happy, then Hotch will be happy for him. All he can do is encourage him, love him, and support his journey.
He’s blind to his role in all this. He misses how his praise only highlights Spencer’s fear - how he subconsciously feeds Spencer’s worry that all his worth is tied to the amount of casework he can complete. The constant cycle of work-based reassurances pushes Spencer deeper into the darkness.
Derek can’t shake the feeling that it’s getting worse.
Spencer is spending more time at the office than at home. Hell, even when he’s home, his mind is still at work. Derek found him reading a witness report - a photocopy, which he laminated - in the shower that morning. It’s a very Spencer move, and yet, it feels like he’s spiralling.
Still, Hotch doesn’t seem worried. In all the time he’s known the man, Hotch has never left a bad situation to get worse. If he’s not intervening, then there mustn’t be anything wrong. He rationalises it down to nothing. It’s just Spencer being Spencer. Little does he know, Hotch has come to the same conclusion. He keeps his worries to himself. Derek knows Spencer better, so if anything was truly off, he’d have said something. They keep their fears to themselves.
Derek quells his worry by providing. He brings Spencer his coffees throughout the day. He keeps him in a steady stream of caffeine to get him through his extra-long days. Spencer always smiles. He thanks him, and chokes the sweet, brown liquid down like a man possessed. Derek always hangs around, and drinks his own coffee while Spencer works, hoping that Spencer will open up to him with anything on his mind; he never does. Eventually, Derek’s worry consumes him. Still, he doesn’t intervene.
He must be okay, Derek decides, denying the evidence of his eyes and ears. He’s young and bright. His spirit hasn’t been crushed by bureaucracy yet. Besides, he’s always loved working. He’d slow down if he wasn’t enjoying himself.
Right?
Spencer’s obsession becomes more like an addiction. Staying late at the office slowly devolves into staying overnight. It’s the only way he can see of keeping up with the workload. He snatches a few hours of sleep a night, hunched over his desk.
Hotch and Derek didn’t notice at first. They’re deep sleepers and hardly notice when Spencer slips in and out at night. In their eyes, it's not unreasonable to assume Spencer could come home, sleep, and leave again without their notice. However, it gets more overt.
Spencer’s clothes migrate to his work locker. Derek notices after one weekend, when Spencer spends a mere few hours at home, that his drawer now holds only a couple of socks and some denim shorts. He even catches Spencer taking his clothes to the laundromat down the street. Derek even finds some toiletries hidden in his desk - toothbrush, deodorant, even an unopened back of floss. It’s clear now that staying late at work isn’t an accident, but rather a conscious choice.
He takes the bag up to Hotch’s office. He tosses it on the desk.
Hotch raises an eyebrow. “Is this your way of telling me I need to shower?”
He’s smiling, but when he looks up at Derek, he stops. Derek’s face is hard. He can read regret, anger and fear.
“I found it in Spencer’s desk.” He says. “I don’t think he’s coming home at night.”
Hotch sighs. “I’ve been wondering.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Derek accuses.
“His dinner hasn’t been eaten three nights running. I found the plates in the fridge this morning.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I was going to,” Hotch placates, “I haven’t had the chance.”
“Hotch,” Derek sighs, “This has been goin’ on for far too long. How many things have we been letting slide? This can’t be the first sign.”
“It isn’t,” Hotch agrees. “I’ve been worried for a while. I didn’t want to bother you with it.”
“Hotch, we’re partners. You gotta share these things with me.”
Hotch fixes him with a firm stare, “You’re not in a position to talk.”
It’s true. Derek reigns his anger in.
“What’re we supposed to do?”
“Maybe we’re jumping the gun,” Hotch suggests, “We should wait up for him tonight. He may have just fallen off the wagon, gotten caught up. If he doesn’t come home, we’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“Okay,” nods Derek, “but I’m not going easy on him. If this isn’t an accident-”
“-then we deal with it as a family.”
They stay up until early light, without a trace of Spencer. Every hour is more disappointing. By the time they dress for work, Hotch is feeling harrowed and bone-weary. Derek is seething. They agree that they’ll confront Spencer before anyone else arrives. Unfortunately, the best-laid plans often fall apart.
The bullpen is already bustling when they arrive. Everyone has been called in for a case - Hotch’s phone buzzes as they step off the elevator. They’ve only got fifteen minutes to get to the airstrip and on the plane. There simply isn’t time to talk to Spencer before they leave, and even if there was, they wouldn’t want to stress him out when they have a case. They agree to shelve the heavy conversation until they get back.
The case is hard, the hardest Spencer has seen since he arrived at the BAU. An old serial killer resurfaced in San Diego after a decades-long hiatus. He spent months taunting police, threatening to start killing again. He has finally made good on those threats. There are four bodies before they even land.
In addition to the bloodshed, he’s left a cypher at every scene. It’s complicated, utilising a mixture of three alphabets, mathematical symbols, and seemingly random doodles. The random symbols have stumped all the code-cracking technology the SDPD had access to. Without a code breaker, they have no chance of solving it. When the BAU arrives, their genius gets put on it.
Spencer is the only agent smart enough to tackle it. He gets set up in the precinct break room, alone, with a coffee machine and a whiteboard. He’s told to solve it, and fast. The rest of the team works the scenes and the profile, trying to solve it the old fashioned way.
Pressure only ramps with each body. The death toll is at eleven by the time Spencer finally breaks the case. It takes the additional cyphers for a pattern to finally emerge; even then, he has to enlist Elle to help him highlight and cross-check his work. In the end, it takes both of them, working through the night. They crack the code, find the killer, and end the turmoil.
He should rest easy knowing he solved it. He doesn’t though. The cost of the solve was his pride and his edge. The only person more disappointed in him than himself is Strauss.
She rolls her eyes at him over her glasses as she flicks through his report.
“Dr Reid, your performance this week has been, at best, lacklustre.”
“Sorry, ma’am, I-”
She hushes him harshly.
“I don’t want to hear excuses. Cases like this are exactly why you were hired, and your success in this program is contingent on you continuing to excel. You failed to do that. I expected better from you, but more than that, my superiors are disappointed. Your performance this week tells me that you can’t handle the job. You’re slipping, Dr Reid.”
“No, I’m not!” Spencer protests desperately. “I just, it was a big week, ma’am.”
“A big week is not an excuse for an FBI agent.”
“I know, ma’am. It, um, it won’t happen again.”
“See to it that it doesn’t.” She warns.
Through all the commotion of the case, Hotch and Derek forget about that conversation. It fades in the fuzz of exhaustion. They fall into bed, without Spencer, before that simple fact can occur to them. It slips into the past.
Spencer starts spending his weekends at the office, too.
His appetite slips with his sleep. His body is shutting down all non-essential functions, including hunger and thirst. This only aids his crusade for undivided focus. He barely stops to eat, only scarfing down small snacks from the vending machine - anything that won’t drag him down for more than a minute or two. It starts to show, as his wrinkled shirts hang off his form. His boyish frame is only getting more boyish, even moving too far from boyish to waif-ish to ragged. Hotch and Derek start to notice.
They don’t see the energy drinks that have joined the coffee. They also don’t see the caffeine pills that joined when the others stopped working. They stay Spencer’s best-kept secret. Still, they don’t need to know the whole of it to know it’s time to intervene.
They try to pull him away, more and more desperately. They ask. When he doesn’t budge, they beg. When he still can’t be moved, they threaten. It only pushes him further away. He tells them he’s been spending nights at his own apartment. They know it’s not true, but they have no grounds. If they keep trying, he’ll collapse. He’s at a breaking point, one they can’t seem to pull him away from.
Spencer keeps getting sicker. He shakes like a leaf standing still. He has started to grip chairs and walls when he stands as if dizziness will knock him down at any minute. He even falls asleep in the SUV on the way to a crime scene. When it takes Derek a full minute to wake him, he knows they can’t let it go on any longer. They’ve let months of signs just roll past them. If they leave it any longer, he doesn’t know what could happen.
Derek’s not comfortable just leaving him to it. He begs Hotch to intervene, as his supervisor.
“Please, Aaron,” he whispers, pointing at their boyfriend. Even at a distance, Spencer’s grey pallor is evident. “Don’t make me watch my baby die.”
Hotch promises him that he will intervene, once and for all. He means it with all his heart, and yet, he can’t pin him down before they’re dragged off on another case.
It all comes to a head while they’re working away.
Despite his obvious condition, Spencer is still working harder than anyone else on the team - maybe even more than the whole team. He blitzes his way through the geographic profile; his hands and pricked and punctured from missing the board with the triangulation pins, but he still does it in record time. Because of it, they’re winning the day.
It’s about the only thing Spencer has going for him.
He’s devolving, getting sucked deeper into his own madness. He looks more like a feral animal than a man. Even local law enforcement has noticed. One of the captains asks Hotch if his agent is ‘usually like this.’ Watching Spencer sway, glassy-eyed, at the coffee machine, Hotch has to say no.
He steers Spencer away from his work and into the precinct’s break room. He sits at the table with a warm croissant and a glass of water. He begs him to sit, eat, and rest - to take his break for the first time in recent memory. Spencer nods dully.
Hotch trust him and runs a hand through his hair as he leaves. The door of the break room doesn’t open for the full hour; Hotch lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. However, his relief is unwarranted, it seems. When he opens the door to check, he catches Spencer with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.
He’s asleep, sacked out in the precinct chairs and threatening to overbalance backwards. The plate is nowhere to be found. In its place, Spencer’s phone sits; the screen is still on, displaying pictures he snagged of the case files. To make things worse, Hotch finds the croissant, untouched, in the precinct fridge.
He wakes Spencer with a gentle shake, which leaves him flailing in his chair.
“Spencer, what has gotten into you?”
Spencer shrugs, bleary from his impromptu nap.
“Why didn’t you eat your lunch?”
His eyes are filled with accusations. Spencer shrinks under the stare. His answer dies on his tongue; somehow he thinks that ‘I haven't been hungry in weeks’ isn’t the answer his boss/partner wants.
“When I told you to eat and rest, I expected you to.” Hotch warned. “If not because it was on order from your supervisor, but because it came from your boyfriend, who loves and cares about you.”
Spencer still can’t respond. Hotch sighs, moving to speak again. Suddenly, Spencer wraps his head around his current position enough to be angry.
“We’re busy, Hotch,” snaps Reid, “There’s a case to solve. I don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have time for your health?” Hotch snaps back.
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
He never gets to know what it’s like because Derek and Elle arrive back with a suspect. Hotch tells him that this isn’t over, before heading to meet his agents.
By the time he gets back to Spencer, hell has broken loose again.
Spencer has been pissed off and on edge the whole case. He’s refused to talk to Hotch or Derek, knowing how they’re worried. He’s stopped even pretending to come back to the hotel anymore, his bed untouched since they arrived. Below the surface, it’s even worse. His eyes won’t focus for longer than a minute. He has a headache, from the caffeine and the stress and the sleepless nights; another helpful side effect of his cocktail of vices is his heart. Even at rest, its rate could put a racehorse to shame. Spencer doesn’t seem to care, though, and he lashes out at anyone who does.
Hotch finds him, screaming at Gideon. The man had tried to take a file away from him. The scene is loud and messy, drawing the attention of local cops and citizens alike. Spencer’s too far gone to care, threatening Gideon with all manner of horrors if he ever tries that again.
Hotch only just talks him down. Human gestures are barely reaching him anymore. He wobbles unsteadily as Hatch’s soothing baritone washes over him. Almost like an out of body experience, Spencer seems completely unaware of his actions and the emotions behind them as he comes down. His bloodshot eyes flicker wildly as he tries to come to grips with it.
He’s too out of it for them to talk. Hotch leaves him be, and ushers him, unresistant onto the plane.
Hotch and Derek try to take him home with them after the case. The plane ride has given him enough energy for his resistance and stubbornness to return. He puts up a token struggle. However, they have a few aces up their sleeves.
“Your annual leave starts on Wednesday, Reid,” Hotch reminds, “with post-case leave, there’s no reason for you to stick around. Your break has officially started.”
“And did you see that rain?” Derek gestures to the blackened sky, and the torrents it’s producing. “If you try to walk to the metro in that, your files will get ruined. Safer to just bring them home with you now.”
He relents, following them to the garage. He has to stop on the stairs, getting wobbly and off-kilter and his tire makes vertigo unbearable. He lets himself be manhandled into the backseat. He regains himself enough to pull his files out as they drive, but he doesn’t really work on them. He just stares numbly through the pages, unable to puzzle out the words before his eyes. He keeps up the illusion of work until they reach the driveway when he slips them into the satchel to protect them on the dash to the door.
This, unfortunately, was part of his partners’ plan. Hotch slips the satchel out of Spencer’s grip the second they cross the threshold. He tosses it into the home office and locks the door; Spencer doesn’t have a key, so there’s no threat of him sneaking in to work in secret.
This goes about as well as you’d expect.
“Hey!” Spencer protests, pushing past him to rattle the handle.
“Enough, Spencer!” Hotch glares, gripping his shoulder to pull him away from the door. Spencer fights him, still trying desperately to jimmy the door with nothing but his hands.
“My files-”
“-will still be there when Hotch decides you’re well enough to work on them,” argues Derek, “they’re not getting more unsolved, you can survive one night without them.”
Spencer isn’t listening. He lets go of the handle in favour of banging the door with his fist as if that will somehow open it.
“What’s possessed you to work yourself to death?” Hotch demands, pulling him away from the door. He shakes Spencer’s shoulder lightly when the young man doesn’t answer, turning him around to face them. He expects to see anger, even resentment on his beloved’s face; the anguish and the horror surprise him.
The tears surprise him more.
“Let me in!” He demands, voice breaking. He’s trying to look angry, but the sobs bubbling in his chest undercut his fury.
“No,” Hotch answers, firmness and gentleness mixing in the perfect cocktail to break Spencer’s heart more.
He turns, with one more ounce of fury, and throws his shoulder into the door. The interior doors are made of little more than splinters and glue, and the lock pops through. It takes the breath out of him, causing him to have to lean on the frame to regroup. Before he can reclaim his satchel, however, Derek storms past him into the room. He liberates the file from the satchel, holding it out of Spencer’s reach, and heads for the kitchen.
Hotch hears more than sees the back door open; he assumes Derek is going to dump the file in the trash. He turns in time to see the pages scatter across the back lawn. They are immediately soaked through with rain.
Spencer screams like a wounded animal.
“Why would you do that?” He shouts, tears streaming down his face.
“Spencer, I swear to God,” Derek mutters, coming within arm's length of him, “You’re scaring us to death.”
He refuses to answer, to dignify the grief. Instead, he lunges for the kitchen, hellbent on retrieving the file before the rain ruins it for good. Hotch has to pick him up to stop him, carrying him to the couch. He gets a kick in the shins for his troubles.
“Do you want to die, man?” Derek accuses, “Huh, do you? ‘Cause that’s where you’re headed.”
Spencer doesn’t answer, his head buried in his hands.
“Answer me.”
He doesn’t. Hotch tries to warn Derek, to get him to calm down some, but his lover is hot-headed and on a roll.
“When was the last time you ate a full meal? Or slept?” Derek demands. “A week? A month? And what have you sacrificed it for? The chance to work yourself into an early grave?”
Spencer whines, shrinks, and sobs.
“What’s so important about these cases? Why do they mean more to you than your health does? More than your relationships? Why are you letting them take more than you got to give? Huh?”
Spencer wrenches his gaze upwards, brokenness written in every crinkle and wet track of his face.
“BECAUSE IT’S THE ONLY THING I’M GOOD FOR!”
It’s like a bomb, shattering the anger in the room. Spencer shrinks as if the shrapnel for the admission hits him in the chest. He weeps.
“Oh, baby, no,” Hotch tries, but it doesn’t reach him. The gentle hand stroking his back only makes him shake worse. They have no choice but to let him cry it out.
As soon as he regains speech, he uses it. Once he starts talking, he can’t stop.
“If I can’t solve cases, then I’m useless. I have to keep going. If I don’t, I’ll be fired, and I can’t be fired. I love my job. It’s the only thing I know how to do, and if I don’t do it, people die. People can’t die, please, I can’t let them die.”
“And we can’t let you die, kid.” Whispers Derek.
Hotch, however, latches onto a different part of his outburst.
“Spencer,” he says softly, “Can you look at me please?”
Shakily, he raises his head and lets Hotch see his watery, but no less beautiful, eyes.
“People won’t die because you take the time to rest. Furthermore, I’m not going to fire you for having your weekend off, or eating lunch away from the precinct, or sleeping.”
“Strauss will.” He whispers before he can think better of it.
“What?” Demands Derek, trying to get Spencer to look at him. Instead, Spencer shrinks, looking terrified.
Hotch crouches down to his eye level. “Spencer, did she threaten you with that?” Spencer shakes harder. “Did she do something?”
Fresh tears spill. “I’m sorry.”
Suddenly, the last few months make sense. Someone higher up has been pulling his strings, pushing him past his limits. She abuses him, right under their noses. Spencer is the victim of a hateful crime - manipulated, tortured, and bruised from the inside out.
Hotch knew that Strauss was calculating, but he never expected this.
“Baby, I’m not mad,” Hotch promises, “At least not at you. I need you to tell me everything, though.”
Spencer chokes his way through recounting everything that Strauss has told him. How she’d have him fired. How she was disappointed in him, even when he worked beyond the limits of a normal agent. About the caffeine addiction, the move into the office, and the fear that drove it. His tears get caught in the hollow of his withered cheeks.
Hotch and Derek listen on quietly, never once interrupting. Spencer eventually talks himself out, and finishes with a mumbled ‘that’s all.’
“Okay,” breathes Hotch, squeezing his knee, “Thank you for telling me. I think we need to go back to the office now.”
Spencer takes this the wrong way. He assumes, given the context, that Hotch agrees with Strauss. That Spencer needs to keep working to prove himself. It hurts him; somewhere, deep down, he knew this was wrong. He’d always hoped that Hotch would step in, that he could save him. The betrayal bleeds through him like a bullet wound. It drags panic to the surface with it.
Derek sees it, though, and heads it off at the pass.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he shushes, pulling Spencer’s hands into his own. “Not like that, baby, not like that. We gotta go talk to Strauss, okay? And maybe some other people. We’re gonna stop this. You’re not getting hurt again, okay?”
His kind tone must make it through the fog. Spencer nods weakly. Derek is overcome with affection for his beautiful boy. He wishes he could erase the pain from his face. He can’t, but the kiss he plants on his forehead soothes the lines building there.
Hotch taps away fiercely on his phone. “The Director knows to be expecting us. If we leave now, we should make it before Strauss leaves for the day.”
The meetings pass in a blur.
Thanks to Spencer’s eidetic memory, and the escalating pattern of behaviours he’s been exhibiting, the FBI has no issue accepting his story. It seems the deterioration has been flagged more than just their own agents. This issue was already under investigation.
Strauss folds like a deck of cards when she’s pulled into the meeting. She is flustered, flushes, and eventually admits to all wrongdoing. She swears she had good intentions, and that she was working for the good of the FBI. It’s a sorry excuse, and one the management doesn’t accept.
She’s found guilty of endangering an agent, abuse of power, and document tampering - apparently, she had logged these cases as a collaboration of the whole BAU, falsifying the reports to reflect this ruse. The rest of the team will be more than happy to prove their lack of involvement when the internal review comes around.
For the time being, Strauss gets suspended without pay. She has the good sense to look properly humiliated as she’s asked to surrender her badge. She fixes Hotch with a venomous glare, hoping to intimidate him. He fixes her with double the fury - one half for the wrong she’s done to his respected agent, the other for how he’s wronged his beloved. She trembles under his gaze and flees the building.
Spencer’s annual leave gets extended to six weeks to allow him to recover. The Director also assures them that he’ll be compensated for his additional hours and that his departmentally-issued therapy session will be increased to reflect the trauma he’s experienced.
He’ll have to be told all of this later. The second the yelling died down, he had gone straight to sleep in the stiff-backed chairs of the conference room. It won’t be good quality sleep, but it’s better than nothing. They let him sleep on, filling out paperwork and squaring it all away.
Hotch carries him to the car, with not even a hint of stirring from the boy. He sleeps the whole car ride. He even stays asleep as Hotch carries him to the bedroom, strips him of his shoes and tie, and tucks him into bed.
Sweet dreams meet him, keeping him warm and safe in dreamland. When he finally does wake, it’s to the gentle prodding of his boyfriends. They try to coax him up, for a shower and some food, but he’s not having it. For the first time since that fateful day, he feels safe. The bed is warm and soft and only improved by the addition of his two favourite cuddle buddies. He snuggles back in and settles in for five more minutes of sleep.
And, well, if that five minutes turns into fourteen hours, no one can blame him.