Spencer shifts in his hospital bed and does his best to ignore the indignity of being bared from the back down. The gown itself is only a little bit scratchy but it's enough to irritate him. The texture makes him grimace and he turns his head to the side and leans his head on the pillow; his curls slide, sweat-slick, along his forehead and he wants to shut his eyes against the light.
The fixtures here aren't in tones of yellow but instead fluorescent white bulbs built into the ceilings. Impartial and impersonal, suffusing the walls and shading his skin, spilling a gentle shine onto hands finger-threading together.
He took one glance up and found his vision swimming, blurring, the lights with their white glow morphing, muddling up, a morass of yellow.
A single flickering bulb casting sickly shades around a shack stinking of offal and caged fear.
He hasn't looked up since.
He has half a mind to climb out of the bed and book it for the entrance. The space feels as confining and cramped as it did in the shack. He hates it. He wants out.
His mind, for once, cannot dredge up a solution fast enough. Getting past the medical staff, doctors, nurses, the receptionistâit all strikes as too much, and his thoughts are caught up yet in a haze.
It's with this calmâand such a disturbing calm, for he's never known his mind to gentle itself to the point of slow and steady instead of the frenzy it's usually held prisoner withinâthat Spencer registers the door opening. It swings on well-oiled hinges, near-silent, and he doesn't bother turning to see who's there.
Which is why it strums his nerves to surprised when the voice that carries over on still air is not the one he expected.
"Don't play at being asleep, Pretty Boy, we've got some catchin' up to do."
His head jerks up, snaps to the right. And yes, his ears aren't lying. Standing there, eyes sad-soft, with a smile Spencer has looked to more than once for support and reassurance, isâ
"Derek." It feels ridiculous, or maybe not, to find some strengthâfeeble though it may beâsinking into him. Strength borrowed from the determined stance his friend is in, from the way that Spencer knows, knows, absolutely knows that nothing will see him harmed as long as Morgan is there.
So he sits himself up as best as he can and says, tired and drained, stumbling through his words with a tongue lost to the whims of drugstore heroin: "I thought it would be Hotch."
Hotch, for whom he left the clue in a bible verse misaimed on purpose. Hotch, who he embraced, voice a rasp of weak relief.
I knew you'd understand.
Somehow, he isn't surprised. Hotch left just as quickly as he arrived. Moreso, he is their Unit Chief, their leader. Spencer cannot stand to fathom what awaits him in the form of Strauss most-likely calling him to task, of the superiors he has to explain this all to, of the aftermath beyond what he is currently processing.
Dimly, he spares thought to what his own file will say. If it will list the array of indignities dealt to him. Kidnapped, beaten, made to play a false God in the hopes of a victim being saved. He can bear that.
But the druggingâ
His mind, his gift, weapon and shield, sword and shelter, made useless and pliant and murky with his bloodstream singing blessed-cursed-calmâ
It hurts. His hands form fists overtop the sheets and he objects not one whit when Morgan drops into a chair and splays a hand over both of his. There's that strength again, and Spencer lets it weave its way within until a small tremulous smile wisps across his lips.
Tears, however, he is ashamed to shed. They gather at the corners of his eyes and spill forth, but he simply sighs. Builds up his wall with just a touch more of adamantine instead of steel and prays that they won't be called to attention. If anyone understands the sanctity of secrecy, privacy, dignity, it's Morgan.
"He's not big on missing out on your reception. Had to call in and inform the big-wigs that everything's gotten settled, and then that got out of control. Think they want to tear his hide out or just tear him a new one, so JJ tagged along to help smooth it all out." The words are neither a balm nor an irritant; Spencer suspected as much. "He'd be here if he could, promise."
Spencer nods. "I know."
For a handful of beats, all is silence. It's peaceful. Braces him up against something more than a hospital bed all-too rigid, something firm, soothing, immovable.
He gives Morgan's hand a squeeze and takes quiet comfort in the steady-sure grip that answers him.
Silence that gains a hairline crack when a new voice wafts on in from the door. "Let's not make it a party without me. Don't leave me out of the fun, guys."
Emily walks in, and her steps are conviction grounded upon concern, and Spencer weighs his dignity with his exhaustion, decides it doesn't matter, and blurts out, "Is it ever a party if you're not around?"
It's more offhand than it should be, but Emily is still too new and the ache of Elle's departure smarts, fresh and sharp. But he reaches a hand out and gestures to another chair.
The second the brush of prim sensible red button-up fabric bursts up against plain pleather, Spencer feels his eyes sliding shut. Weariness hangs, clings to his bones like a funeral shroud, and it's all he can do to not give in right then and there.
"Don'tâ" Emily's voice, and it's as firm-gentle as he's ever heard her in their short time together as collegues, but it isn't Morgan's. Yet it seems as if molded out of the same iron as his. Spencer cracks his eyes open enough to set them to slivered slants.
Once she sees she has his attention, she reaches out with a hand and rests it above both of theirs. It's a warmth bouyed up by resolve and that alone makes his smile just a little less shaky.
It isn't enough to take down the walls he's built up over his whole life, but that's to be expected. A safeguard of sorts, because too much trust, too much confidence in anotherâ
It can't end well. Not always. That much proved itself already; he forewent JJ keeping guard at his back and paid the price for it. No one to blame but himself and that stings so much it's yet another pile of exhaustion on top of what's already heaped upon his shoulders.
But it's a start.
Emily tells him, "Don't hold out, not here, not now. You don't have to anymore. Go to sleep, we'll be here when you wake."
It's nearly enough, but he manages to keep awake until Morgan's voice rolls on out, rich and stern and knowing in all of its rumble-timbre.
"There ain't anything out there gettinâ in here, now get that shut-eye. I don't want to imagine Strauss hauling ass all the way here before we're all ready for it. Not a dressing down I'd ever want to see in my lifetime."
"That's not just you, you know."
And Spencer finally slides his eyes shut and lets the wind of sleep drag him away and into oblivion-empty broken up by the wind of dreams.
As damning as it is, with the drugs in his system and his thoughts turning on the slow slither of molasses melting in the sun, it's the best sleep he's had in a long time.
