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It should've been a simple code. Spencer had cracked so many of them over the years, most by hand.
He stared at the board, at the symbols that still meant nothing, no matter how many ciphers he tried.
A huff gusted from him as he spun on his heel. The stacks of loose paper scattered over the table held no new revelations since the last time he looked them over.
The answer was right there, just out of reach. If he could just get his brain to work.
He sifted through files and notes at a much slower pace than he was used to, but he couldn't get his brain to process the words any faster.
A prevailing issue since he was released from prison.
The lights buzzed overhead. The air conditioning hummed. The clock on the wall ticked. Outside in the bullpen, people talked, papers shuffled, the printer chugged, computers whirred.
Spencer couldn't crack the goddamned code.
Letting out a frustrated growl, he swiped his arm across the table, sending papers and pens flying off. His coffee cup tipped over, drops of brown liquid spilling out, staining paper and blurring ink.
“Woah,” came a voice from the doorway.
Spencer looked up to see Emily looking at him with furrowed brows and a downward turn to her mouth.
“You okay?” she asked, coming into the room.
Spencer stooped to pick up the scattered papers as an excuse not to look at her anymore. “I'm fine.”
Emily sighed and joined him in cleaning the mess. “Spence, you just swiped all of this off the table out of nowhere. What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” he said curtly. “I'm fine.” He rose with his stack of papers and placed them in a nearby chair before turning to the coffee puddle. That was going to be a pain to clean up.
At least it was their own home base he just made a mess of, rather than a precinct across the country.
Emily placed her own stack down before heading to the little desk by the wall that operated as a coffee station. She grabbed a stack of napkins and helped sop up the soggy mess, sorting through what was ruined and what had escaped the caffeinated, sugary carnage.
“I've never seen you get angry like that before.” Her voice was soft, and even though he could not forget in that moment that she was his boss, she didn't sound accusatory or upset. And the concern was minimal, even though he knew it was the predominant emotion; she was tamping down on it so he didn't feel smothered. “Not even after. . .”
She trailed off, and his mind immediately filled in the possibilities.
After Hankel.
After Doyle.
He didn't know which she was thinking of, but it didn't matter.
“Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything.”
Emily didn't say anything until they'd finished cleaning his mess, and he wondered if she was thinking about the same thing he was. About the last time they were in this position.
Hey, no offense, Emily, but you don't really know what you're talking about, do you?
“Come with me for a minute,” she said, the end rising as if making it a question. A request, instead of an order.
He followed her out of the conference room and into her office. She let him pass, then closed the door behind her. Took a moment to close the blinds, then sat on the couch, gesturing for him to join her.
He did, resting his elbows on his knees and intertwining his fingers so they didn't tap and fidget with restless energy. He stared at the door, waiting for it to open.
“Spence. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Outbursts like that don't just come out of nowhere.”
He sighed. “I just got a little frustrated. That's all.”
“I've seen you frustrated in the past. Being frustrated has never led to you being destructive before.” She was still gentle. Still not accusing.
And after spending months being accused, it was still weird to hear someone talking to him like he'd done nothing wrong. Like he was innocent.
He wasn't innocent. He nearly murdered seven people in prison. Eight, if he counted the way he'd choked Cat immediately after getting out.
His voice was flat when he responded, “I don't know about you, but I'd classify shooting up drugs or spending every spare moment at the firing range as being destructive, even if one is more productive than the other.”
“In one instance you'd been kidnapped, tortured, and had an addiction forced on you. In the other, you believed I'd been murdered,” Emily countered. She did a decent job of keeping her tone even, but the guilt crept in at the end. Even now, he knew Ian Doyle, and every action she took regarding him, haunted her. Including how much her loss, and the lies and secrecy surrounding it, had hurt the team. Had hurt him. “I'd still argue that those destructive behaviours stemmed from something deeper than frustration.”
He swallowed thickly, blinked back the sudden burn in his eyes. “But it really was just frustration. I'm having difficulty cracking the code, and I was annoyed at the noise in the bullpen, and I–” he cut off, one hand coming up to gesture vaguely in the air.
His cheeks warmed with shame. Shame at losing his temper and being called into the boss’ office like a misbehaving student being sent to the principal. “It sounds pretty stupid now that I say it out loud.”
One of Emily's hands landed softly on his arm, and he finally looked at her. “I don't think it's stupid,” she said, holding his gaze. “But I think something else was going on. What were you thinking about? Right before.” Her head tilted in a way that was so familiar to him as her hand squeezed him, gentle and encouraging.
And he was struck by the reminder that, yes she was his boss, but this was still Emily. His friend with whom he'd watch niche movies and discuss books and try out little hole-in-the-wall restaurants and send articles and videos to each other, even if they were sitting next to each other in the bullpen, just to see the other laugh.
The woman he'd nearly ruined himself over, when he thought she was lost to the world forever.
The person he turned to more than any other when he was hurting. That didn't have to stop now that she was his superior, did it?
Deciding to opt for honesty – because talking to Emily had always helped him feel better in the past, even if it didn't fix the problem. Even if he didn't feel like he deserved to feel better this time – he shrugged and looked away. “I kept thinking that it should've been easy. I've done it so many times in the past, but I couldn't get my brain to work, and I couldn't–” he choked up and swallowed the excess emotion down. “I couldn't figure it out. And I don't know why I can't just see it.”
“Spence, it's only been two hours.”
He huffed. “But I should've been able to crack it by now!” His voice rose, and he had to consciously rein it back in. “I've been getting slower. It takes me longer to remember things, to run calculations, to crack a coded message,” he emphasized the end with a sharp gesticulation. “I'm reading slower. I can't think as fast. I'm. . .”
He couldn't bring himself to say the last part. I'm afraid. That if I lose the intellectual advantage that got me into the FBI in the first place, then I won't be useful anymore. That I'm going to turn into my mother, and this is the start. That I can't be the person I was before prison.
And the moment you realize any of those things, you'll get rid of me.
She scooted closer to him on the couch. “You've been through a lot lately. And I don't think you've given yourself permission to heal from it.”
“What are you saying?” he asked sharply. “That I can't do this job anymore? That I'll freak out in the field and kill someone?”
“Of course not. I trust you. But, Spence,” she paused.
After a long moment of silence, he looked back at her.
It was apparently what she had been waiting for. “That's the second time you've asked me that. Do you think you'll freak out?”
“Who wouldn't?” The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
Her brows pulled together, but she made no response.
But she had a bizarre effect on him, where he couldn't keep things from her, even when she wasn't pushing him to talk. Before he could think about it any longer, his words spilled out of him at a breakneck pace. “I meant it when I said I would've killed Scratch. I meant every word. I nearly strangled Cat. I had my hands around her neck, and I wouldn't have let her go if JJ hadn't reminded me that she was pregnant. I intentionally tampered with a batch of drugs in prison, and it nearly killed seven inmates. Tara said that I'm not capable of murdering someone, but I am.”
His voice cracked on the last word. “How can anyone look at someone who would do all that and not think they'll snap under the slightest bit of pressure? I just did! Over a goddamn code! I can't–” he choked off in a sob, and his eyes watered suddenly and horribly.
He let his eyes drop, blinked away the tears, and felt them trail down his cheeks.
Then he felt Emily's arms wrap around him and pull him in tight. He shifted to hug her back, tucking his face into the crook of her neck and squeezing her as close as he could.
“I feel like I'm losing myself,” he whispered into her shoulder, unsure whether she could actually hear it, and unsure if he wanted her to.
One of her hands snuck up to tangle in his hair, and his breath hitched unsteadily.
And he lost the battle with his tears.
Emily held him together as he fell apart, murmuring words of comfort into his hair that he couldn't hear over his cries.
She held him as he soaked her shirt. She held him as he gripped her hard enough he might've left a permanent imprint on her.
She held him until his head throbbed and his nose stuffed up and his throat ached and his eyes ran dry.
When he pulled back, she let him go, but she caught his hands in her own before he could go too far.
“Spence, before I say this, I need you to understand that I'm telling you this because I care about you, not because I don't believe in you.” She waited until he nodded. “I think you should take some time off. Get away from the job for a while. Come back when you've had a chance to heal.”
His head was shaking before he even realized it. “I took the necessary time off. I went through all the assessments required to let me back into the field. I should be over it by now. I'm just being dramatic.”
“You were in a place of extreme trauma for three months. You were pushed beyond your limits in order to survive,” she argued, still so gentle, like the way she held his fingers. “I think you've come back before you’re ready.”
“But I shouldn't–”
“You're not a computer, Spence. As much as we've joked about it, you're not. You might be a genius, but you're a human being, and human beings need to heal when they've been hurt, and that takes time. Even the best minds need to take a break every now and then.”
They fell silent for a long time, him staring at their hands. Her thumb was tracing the back of his hand, and it made something inside him ache.
“What if I never heal?” he whispered, voice cracking around the edges. “What if I can't come back? What if I never get rid of this feeling? What if I can never be the person I was before prison?”
“Then you won't be him,” she answered simply. “But you'll still be you, and we'll still love you. And if you can't come back, we'll still be your family. It doesn't have to mean we lose each other. And if you never heal and get rid of that feeling, then you'll adapt.”
She squeezed his hands. “But whatever happens, you'll be okay. And I'll be right here beside you the entire time, if you'll let me.”
A lump formed in his throat and his eyes stung threateningly. He had to blink multiple times and swallow more than once before he could respond. “Okay,” he whispered.
“Okay?”
He nodded. “I'll take some more time off. After this case.”
Emily laughed softly. “I'll take it. Tell you what: why don't you rest in here for a bit, and I'll go after some food? I'll get that Indian place nearby that I know you like.”
A tired smile twitched at his lips, too worn out to form fully. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
Emily grinned and rose from the couch. “Okay. Anything in particular you want?”
He shook his head. “I trust you.”
She faltered for a moment. Blinked. And the smile softened into something more tender. “And I you.”
For the first time since getting out of prison, Spencer smiled back and meant it.