#shortmc

Luke watches his partner light his blunt with a strange sort of fascination, the flames of his lighter bathing the dark air around them in a golden glow, every freckle scattered across Spencer’s cheeks burning bright, creating constellations of beautiful imperfections against pale skin like the starry sky overhead, veiled behind a layer of smoke; it’s breathtaking.

He always finds himself wondering how he got so lucky on nights like this, watching the genius come undone before him, burning out like the universe’s brightest star, beautiful in its tragic death with every long drag, leaving only a trail of ash and awe behind.

“Luke.”

He lets Spencer grab the front of his shirt, pulling him into a deep, desperate kiss, keeping their lips locked together until it’s almost dizzying, leaving the two of them gasping like it’s their first taste of fresh air after a lifetime of holding their breaths, the smoke on the younger brunette’s breath flooding his lungs until his head is spinning.

“Second-hand highs are weak; it’s like a placebo.” His partner told him once, mistaking Luke’s fascination with worry, but he never cared about the drugs—the marijuana, or nicotine, or whatever else his partner is experimenting with that day—they’re not the source of that high they’re both chasing, Spencer is.

Being with the genius feels like floating, tongue and lips loose, desperate for another hit of the lingering taste of over-sweetened coffee and weed, the smell of old books and cigarette smoke, for his voice rambling on, unafraid of Luke’s disinterest because he knows his lover will always be listening, the only concrete aspect of his crumbling life. 

Derek knows something’s wrong when the call comes at three am.

Luke’s phone always rings first—Emily has learned it’s the easiest way to reach her agents—waking the lighter sleeper and letting him tell his partner.

His ringtone shatters the sleeping silence, echoing through their room and rousing Derek first, instinct still ingrained in him after so many years in the BAU.

Luke wakes next. Derek can feel his breathing change against his chest, though his boyfriend makes no move to answer the call, which isn’t too unusual—sometimes, it takes him longer than other mornings to process what’s happening—he lets it ring.

His worry comes when the sound stops, leaving them in suffocating silence for a few seconds until Spencer sits up, turning on the lamp with a tired groan.

“Was that the phone?”

Spencer’s ringtone—almost foreign after following their routine for so long—interrupts them, the younger agent frowning, brows furrowed with silent concern as he answers his phone.

“Reid… Yeah, sorry; we’re up…”

Derek lets the continuing conversation fade into the background while he places a gentle hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Luke? You feeling okay?”

Luke doesn’t respond—not verbally, at least—looking at him with empty eyes brimming with bone-deep exhaustion, and it doesn’t take an ex-profiler to see that he’s not feeling well.

“Yeah, okay, we can get there– um– one second–” Spencer glances at Derek, who shakes his head silently. “Actually, Em, Luke isn’t feeling well, but I’ll be there in a few minutes…”

“It’s okay,” Derek whispers, Luke looking riddled with guilt, softly kissing his boyfriend’s forehead. “It’s okay to need a break; it’ll be okay.”

“No, I can come,” Spencer continues his conversation, holding his phone between his shoulder and ear as he climbs out of bed, knowing his boyfriend well enough to understand he doesn’t like an “audience” to his depression. “Yeah– No, I can get a ride from JJ if she isn’t already there… Okay, see you soon. Bye.”

He hangs up, grabbing his bag by the door before returning to their bed, giving Derek a quick kiss before making eye contact with Luke.

“I love you, okay?” His hand hovers over his boyfriend’s cheek, silently asking for permission, cupping his face gently and kissing him when Luke nods. “I love you so much; I’ll text you two when I get to the airport and when we land, and I’ll only be a call away the whole time. Okay? I love you.”

“Love you too,” Luke murmurs, squeezing Spencer’s hand before he pulls away.

“We love you,” Derek smiles, smoothing out his partner’s bedhead and kissing him again. “Go catch an unsub, Pretty Boy.”

“Love you. I’ll call tonight.” And with that, Spencer’s gone, leaving them in heavy silence for a minute, Derek running a hand through his boyfriend’s hair.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Luke nods, rolling over to bury his face in Derek’s chest, finally letting out a silent sob, his shoulders shaking as he pulls his knees to his chest. “Okay, baby. I love you; you know that?”

Another nod.

There are some days where Spencer can’t help but hate his body.

It isn’t only about his weight, his odd, gangly limbs and lanky frame have plenty of ways to betray him besides making the genius fixate on the bits of healthy fat he’s been gaining recently—he’s uncoordinated and clumsy, his joints ache from a lifetime of injuries on his over-stressed body, and his brain seems to be working against him half the time—but there’s always something.

He’s gotten used to it by now, exchanging his usual, well-fitting outfits for ones a size bigger to hide his figure and holding his tongue at work, eagerly awaiting when he could go home and hide in bed under a mountain of blankets for the rest of the night; they had just become part of his routine.

At least, until he started dating Luke.

He didn’t have to tell Luke about his bad days, or when they happened, or how to deal with them; somehow he just knew.

The older agent doesn’t say anything as they get ready in the morning, silently sliding his partner’s meds across the counter with a piece of toast and his coffee, and kissing his head before going to pack a few extra fidget toys and a few other tools Spencer typically only uses to self-regulate in the privacy of their apartment in his work bag.

Luke doesn’t walk on eggshells around him, doesn’t baby him, or ask him how he’s doing every five minutes, giving Spencer some distance while occasionally shooting him a glance across the bullpen, grinning at him if the genius isn’t buried in his work until it’s time for them to leave.

“We’re gonna head out,” He announces with an air of authority that keeps the rest of the team from questioning their early—or rather, on time—departure, gently tapping his partner’s desk to get his attention after Spencer donned his noise-canceling headphones after lunch, grabbing his satchel as the younger brunette silently collects himself. “Goodnight everyone.”

They leave following a crowd of soft goodbyes from their coworkers, silent until they get to Luke’s car.

“Hungry?” He asks, adjusting the volume of the radio until the old songs his partner likes listening to as they drive are merely background noises.

“No.” Spencer answers simply, fidgeting with his fingers as his boyfriend pulls out of the lot, knowing his answer is enough for Luke.

“I’ll make you something light.” Luke nods, the unspoken implication that he has to eat something while also understanding how Spencer’s feeling hangs in the air between them as the two agents lapse into silence for the rest of the ride.

The first petals are white.

Small and delicate, white daisy petals crawl up his throat and decorate the pristine porcelain of his sink in the morning, not yet full or bloody, new enough to remain untainted by the torn tissue of his lungs.

Daisies, innocent and loyal love, holding his tongue, root in his chest, threatening to suffocate him if he leaves his feelings to grow, but the flowers don’t lie.

Call it innocence or naivety; Spencer won’t tell. He’ll hold his breath until he runs out of air, longing blooming like weeds, feeding on his life until only the flowers and a corpse remain.

At first, it’s slow, coming and going like the tide, feelings ebbing and waning with uncertainty.

He buries himself in books on the disease—hanahaki, hana (flower), haki (to throw up), a sickness that ails people who suffer from one-sided love, taking weeks to years to develop fully—and flower language, reading what every petal means about the longing ache in his ribs and how to cure it.

He goes to work—it isn’t bad enough to affect his performance—he profiles, coughs up petals, takes down unsubs, spits up his innocence, and flies home.

His case is slow; months pass before single petals turn into two or three and longer until the dull itch in his chest grows into a light ache when he exerts himself, his lungs reflecting his gradual, timid love.

The flowers change in Georgia.

The daisies stop coming, the drugs numbing his mind and body—his heart—concealing his love deep in his chest, buried where Charles Hankel and Raphael can’t reach.

They return in full bloom when Tobias revives him. 

Spencer hacks up entire flowers on the cabin floor, belladonna, butterfly weed, cyclamen, and blood splattering against the ground, and even in its state, a part of his drug-and-death-addled brain recognizes the buds.

Silence, letting go, and goodbyes; flowers from the beginning of his gardener’s almanac burn like the fish hearts and livers in his soul as Tobias Hankel hauls him back from the dead.

He isn’t sure if the team sees the splashes of color, overfilling adoration through the camera, focused on sending a message, desperate to get out before he can cough up more symbols of regret, spilling his secret to his coworkers and friends– his family.

He argues when Hotch climbs into the ambulance beside him, feeling more flowers clawing at his throat, but the older agent wins, remaining by his side as the EMTs check his vitals, staying silent, even when the blooms come.

Bittersweet nightshade (truth) spills from his lips by the bushel, spurring one set of hands to hold a bag by the heaving agent’s chin to catch the fragile foliage, the others asking him a barrage of questions he doesn’t hear over his painful wrenches.

Hotch keeps the rest of the team out of his room at the hospital, telling them Spencer isn’t up for visitors as he chokes on pink camellias (longing), never bringing it up until the young brunette gets discharged less than 24 hours later.

He drives his agent home, offering to help him to his apartment, which Spencer refuses before the two linger in the car outside the building for a few seconds of petal-like, fragile silence.

“We’ll talk when you return,” He finally speaks, watching the younger brunette shift and fidget anxiously, clearing his throat and coughing into his elbow. “Take care of yourself; we’re only a call away.”

Spencer nods, silky petals and the taste of iron sitting on his tongue, and disappears into his lonely home.

The flowers stop while he’s on leave, too high for their stems to reach, losing time on the bathroom floor, buds withering with the body they’re feeding on.

The dilaudid numbs the fire in his chest—in his lungs and heart—eating away at the tissue the roots of his love buried themselves in until he can’t feel the stems in his organs, pollen in his blood, petals rising in his throat, and swallowed like his words, burning in his stomach.

“I love you” doesn’t linger on his tongue, waiting to spill past his lips with white chrysanthemums for truth, an admission after over a year of obstructed breathing, and when he’s high, he can almost convince himself that his garden died with Spencer Reid in the cabin in Georgia, at rest in the grave he dug with bouquets of daisies, of belladonna, butterfly weed, and cyclamen, nightshade, and camellias on the fresh mound of upturned soil.

Spencer tries to get sober before he returns to work, but there isn’t enough fertilizer—enough of his body, his dying cells—to sustain all the flowers he regurgitates in those 48 hours of trembling and heaving, purple hyacinths for sorrow and marigolds for grief; blood and bulbs litter his bathroom floor until he can’t breathe, darkness swimming in his vision, and the shell of Spencer Reid, a glass vase with everything on display, succumbs to his cravings, losing himself in oblivion.

He sits in Hotch’s office, pinprick pupils, and tells his boss the flowers and his feelings are gone, that it was the stress that made them bloom, not his genuine, heart-wrenching adoration for his best friend squeezing his organs like a sponge for every ounce of love, threatening to bleed him dry.

Spencer returns to work, profiling people who have experienced everything he’s gone through—enough trauma to break the human psyche—because he can think clearly for the first time in over a year, flowers and genius dying together as poison courses through them.

“I’m struggling.”

Despite everything—his team telling him they have his back, that they’re there for him, that they’re profilers, and Spencer is too high to hide his habit most of the time—Emily is the only one to call him out.

“Reid.” She approaches him after New Orleans, trained eyes seeing through him.

“Look, Prentiss, I’m sorry for snapping at you, but I’m not in the mood–”

“I’m getting waffles and milkshakes. Come with me.” It isn’t a question or an invitation as the older agent steps into the elevator, turning around expectantly, her gaze practically daring Spencer to run as carefully neutral eyes observe him.

Luke has never been afraid of heights.

When he was little, he’d climb fire escapes and the tallest trees he could find in the park. He’d hang out on top of monkey bars and the rooftops of his friends’ apartment buildings, walking on the ledges with unwavering confidence, the king of the world until it was time for dinner.

When he was little, heights meant freedom—far from whatever trivial problem troubled him that day—climbing away from an unforgiving world.

It’s almost three am on a starless night, a lifetime he never expected to see later when heights feel like freedom again, and they have for the past few weeks, but it’s more than that now; it’s escape.

He isn’t going to jump—or lean too far forward, because that’s all it would take as he sits on the bridge’s railing, his feet hanging over the edge—letting gravity finally get to him after decades of running from the irrefutable force, falling into the cold but welcome end in the water below.

“I’m not suicidal,” he repeats like a mantra, silently chanting the words he’s told countless doctors and psychologists in the past few months because he’s not.

It would be easy, too easy for him to kill himself here; the only person left in his life is his mother, and she doesn’t know he’s back in the States—he still had a few more months on his tour before his injury, so she wouldn’t notice until it’s too late—and he’s already been drifting from her, distance growing between them like the urge to let go blooming in his chest–Not that he’s thought about it, sitting in his empty apartment in silence, letting his mind wander down dark alleys he hasn’t explored since high school, imagining how easy it would be to kill himself because he hasn’t; Luke isn’t suicidal.