Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1 Day

Spencer Reid disappears.

He leaves work. He never makes it to his apartment.

He vanishes.

3 Days

The team doesn’t have any leads.

Garcia watches hours of security footage from cameras along her friend’s route home.

He disappears in a crowd on the metro.

And he’s gone.

7 Days

Spencer Reid stares at the ceiling.

He blinks languidly.

His body doesn’t respond to his brain, refusing to move from the cold, hard floor.

He falls asleep.

10 Days

JJ and Emily comb through Spencer’s apartment for clues.

They don’t let Derek come for the sake of the structural integrity of their friend’s home.

Everything is painfully ordinary.

14 Days

He isn’t in pain, Spencer realizes.

He doesn’t feel anything.

His fingers twitch.

He can’t keep his eyes open long enough to worry that he recognizes the feeling of drugs coursing through his veins.

25 Days

Derek yells.

He yells, and none of his teammates blame him; they want to too.

They have nothing.

Spencer was there one moment and gone the next.

They have nothing.

31 Days

A distant voice tells him it’s been a month.

He doesn’t hear it; he only hears the rush of a familiar high in his ears.

He flexes his fingers, eyes just barely tracking a figure circling him.

He falls asleep thinking about jaguar hunting behaviors.

40 Days

He’s moving.

He feels the gentle bumps of unpaved road under whatever vehicle he’s in.

He can’t move.

50 Days

They clean out Spencer’s already barren kitchen, tossing perishables and neatening his apartment to quell the feelings of uselessness that hang in the pits of their stomachs.

Emily wraps bandaids around her fingers, cuticles a bloody, raw map of her anxiety.

Hotch is at the firing range when he isn’t making calls, contacting offices across the country, and giving anyone he can Reid’s description.

JJ sorts through unidentified patients, victims, bodies, any John Does who remotely resemble her best friend, seeing parts of him in every unfamiliar face.

At least three of Garcia’s monitors are running facial recognition at any given time, more if she has the screens to spare, counting every passing day.

Derek knocks down walls, hammers, drills, and rips out wires, trying to outrun the ever-growing anger burning under his skin.

They’re falling apart.

55 Days

He recognizes the hands that crawl over his bare skin, traveling up his sides and across his chest.

His body trembles, stomach threatening to expel contents it doesn’t hold as he strings together his first coherent thought in god knows how long.

I need to get high.

The familiar dark hands rub his back, holding him gently as a sob rips from his throat.

“Derek?” His voice dies as it falls off his lips, becoming a low croak.

“That’s right, Pretty Boy, I’m here.” A deep, gentle voice murmurs.

And he falls asleep feeling safe.

75 Days

The team gets their next case.

“What? We’re just gonna give up on him?” Derek snaps.

“We were never supposed to be on his case.”

“We can’t help him if we get fired, Derek,” JJ reasons, verbalizing the thoughts that drive her to come to work every morning. “We aren’t abandoning him.”

It feels like they are.

100 Days

He loses track of every pair of hands that touch him, wandering across his deathly pale skin, wielding knives that dig into his flesh and whips that crack against his back.

But Derek always returns.

He returns and washes away his blood, cleaning and dressing his injuries.

Derek brings a soft prick in the crook of his elbow and the painless oblivion that follows.

And he falls asleep in Derek’s arms.

125 Days

Henry asks JJ when he’ll see Uncle Spencer again, and she finally falls apart.

She sobs until she’s dehydrated, drinks, and continues crying.

150 Days

He can’t move again.

He’s trapped behind bars, forced to pull his knees to his chest while his body screams in protest.

Derek holds his hand through the bars and tells him everything will be okay.

He starts giving him less of his respite— never enough to push him to oblivion— just to keep the withdrawal at bay.

He sobs and begs, chanting Derek’s name as he claws at his skin, desperate for that rush of nothingness.

“It’s okay, Pretty Boy. I’m sorry. You’ll be okay.”

He holds Derek’s hand tighter, crying until he falls asleep.

155 Days

Derek is next.

He’s on his couch when Clooney drops the toy Spencer got him— a squeaky toy of the phonebooth from Doctor Who— in his lap.

He calls JJ, crying, and they fall apart together.

175 Days

Time blurs together.

The hands hurt him. At some point, they begin speaking as they dig into his body.

“You’re nothing.”

They make him repeat it.

“I’m nothing.”

Derek’s hands hold him.

He begs for oblivion. At some point, Derek stops denying it.

“What are you, Pretty Boy?”

Unfocused eyes stare at the small vial in his hands, and desperation claws up his throat.

“I’m nothing.”

And Derek gives him his euphoria.

200 Days

Garcia stares at her screens, watching each one come up with nothing.

She broke long ago, but she won’t give up.

She runs out of letters to send Diana Reid.

250 Days

Hands point a gun at Derek’s head, and he screams and begs them to stop; he begs them to aim it at him instead.

Another pair of hands pull him to his feet.

His legs threaten to give out beneath his weight, but he stays upright; the gun still rests against Derek’s temple.

They push a gun into his hands and point at a girl tied up in a chair.

They tell him to choose.

“Choose one to die.” A voice cuts through the fog in his head, but it doesn’t come from the hands around him; it comes from somewhere deep within his chest.

The girl stares at him with wide, wet eyes, and for a moment, he remembers being in her place.

“What are you?”

The voice pulls him to reality— if any of this is real— back to his choice.

His hands shake as he raises the gun, and he tells himself it’s because he’s scared— because he doesn’t want to do it— and not the withdrawal clawing wreaking havoc on his body.

“I’m nothing.”

He pulls the trigger.

300 Days

A former coworker from Interpol calls Emily for a favor.

She stays in London, unable to bear facing the places her friend haunts, promising she’ll return when they find something.

She uses her resources to broaden her search, looking for Spencer internationally.

Emily tells herself she isn’t giving up on him; she isn’t sure if she believes herself.

350 Days

He stares at the body at his feet, every lifeless face that’s crossed his field blurring together, their blood staining his hands.

He wants to scream. He wants to fight the hands. He wants to shoot them, unloading the bullets they give him into their chest.

He wants Derek to tell him that he did a good job and hold his hand; he wants his euphoria.

He wants to press the gun to his temple and pull the trigger.

He wants nothing.

He is nothing.

365 Days

It’s been one year since Spencer Reid disappeared.

He left work. He never made it to his apartment.

The team vanished with him.

400 Days

He sees the sky again.

Derek walks next to him, holding his hand.

They walk into a crowd listening to someone speak.

Derek whispers in his ear, “What are you?”

He doesn’t respond verbally.

Instead, he raises his gun and fires.

He is nothing.

450 Days

He asks for a book.

He thinks he must’ve enjoyed reading in his hold life (Old life? Did he have an old life?)

The hands hold him down and take blades to his skin.

They don’t yell or shout; they tell him one thing:

“You are nothing.”

When they finish, pain ravages his body.

“What are you?”

They ask.

He can’t move. He can’t open his mouth to speak, but he still answers.

He is nothing.

500 Days

Time passes.

Blood stains his hands, enough to drown him if he were something.

But he isn’t.

He has no conscious, no use for air.

He is nothing.

600 Days

He isn’t in the US anymore.

He doesn’t know where he is; it doesn’t matter.

The hands press his gun, a silver revolver, into his grasp.

He is nothing.

650 Days

In London, Emily Prentiss receives a call.

“JJ?”

“Emily,” It doesn’t take a profiler– ex -profiler to know she’s been crying. “We just got a case–”

675 Days

They have a picture of him.

It’s low-quality and only shows his back, but it’s him; it has to be.

Garcia cries as she digs through security footage of recent assassinations of public figures across the US, looking for his tell-tale brown curls and odd, gangly figure.

She finds him five times.

700 Days

Derek is dead.

Derek is dead.

Derek is dead.

Derek is dead.

“What are you?”

Derek is dead.

Derek is dead.

Derek is dead.

“What are you?”

He fires with deadly precision, hitting every target.

Derek is dead.

Derek is dead.

Derek is dead.

He stumbles out of the safe house and runs.

705 Days

“Hotchner.”

“Agent Hotchner?”

He nearly drops his phone.

“We’ll be right there.”

706 Days

They go straight to the hospital.

The doctors stop them outside closed doors, a police officer standing on either side.

“–Unresponsive–”

The doctors’ warnings go in one ear and out the other.

“–Sedated–”

Spencer Reid is alive.

“–Drugs–”

JJ is the first to speak up, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Can we see him?”

A nurse pauses, frowning.

“Does he know anyone named Derek?”

Hotch steps into the dimly lit hospital room (“the lights were irritating him”), eyes falling on the achingly familiar form under the tubes and wires.

“–He’s severely malnourished and dehydrated–”

He maintains his stoicism as he approaches the bed, lips pressed into a firm line glazed over eyes find him.

“Reid?”

Spencer doesn’t respond, gaze returning to the ceiling.

“Can you hear me, Spencer?” Nothing. “The rest of the team is here too, but they didn’t want to overwhelm you. Do you want to see them?”

He doesn’t blink.

“That’s okay; they’ll understand.”

Hotch sits next to the bed and waits.

It isn’t over yet.

Chapter Text

1 Day

The team returns to the chairs outside Spencer’s door as soon as visiting hours start with a cup of black coffee for Hotch, who convinced the doctors to let him stay with his agent, and a larger cup with too much sugar, hoping it will spark something in their friend.

Hotch steps into the hall when they arrive, exhaustion hanging from his eyes as he adjusts to the fluorescent hospital lights.

“How is he? Did he recognize you? Has he said anything?”

The unit chief shakes his head, taking the coffee from Emily.

“He’s responding to stimuli, and his system is clear of drugs,” Hotch reports, giving his team the only good news he’s gotten since they arrived. “They gave him a sedative to get him to sleep, so he’s still drowsy right now.”

“Can we see him?” Garcia asks, wiping away a stray tear.

“I’ll ask his nurse next time she checks in, but I assume they’ll only let one of us in at a time, and–” He pauses, gaze shifting to Derek.

“The only thing he’s said is, ‘Derek is dead.’”

“It’s okay; I can wait a little longer,” They don’t call Derek out on his lie or point out his desperation to see Spencer with his own two eyes. “I know you guys will take care of him.”

A scream shatters the moment, sending nurses and Hotch scrambling into Reid’s room in a flurry of activity.

“Doctor Reid? Spencer? Can you hear me?”

“Reid?”

“He’s going to hurt himself–”

Derek holds Penelope against his chest as she sobs.

“–need to sedate him–”

“Please.”

The team freezes as their youngest member’s voice breaks through the chaos.

“Spencer? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

“Please, Derek…”

It takes every ounce of self-restraint for Derek to stop himself from rushing to his friend’s side.

“Please…”

One of the nurses makes eye contact with him and motions for Derek to enter the room.

“Pretty boy?” The brunette’s gaze snaps to Derek as he approaches, eyes widening. “Hey–”

“No. No. No. Nonono. Dead. Dead. Derek’s dead. You’re dead. You’re dead. Dead. Derek’s dead!” He claps his jaw shut, rushing out of the room as Spencer raises his voice, screaming about his friend’s death as he digs his nails into his arms until they draw blood. “He’s dead–!”

“Spencer, can you look at me?”

“He’s dead!”

“–He’s hurting himself–!”

“–Pulse is climbing–”

“–We need to sedate him–”

Hotch leaves the room, wide, haunted eyes slipping past his mask of professionalism.

“Jesus,” Emily mumbles, watching Spencer’s body go limp in the hospital bed, her friend slipping away. “What happened to him?”

2 Days

JJ is there when Spencer opens his eyes, giving Hotch a break to eat and rest.

“Hey, Spence,” She forces a smile as he blinks slowly, his eyes glued to the ceiling. “How’re you feeling?”

He doesn’t respond, the two of them listening to the steady beep of his heart monitor.

“Henry misses you,” He rolls his head to the side, eyes hazily finding the blonde, making her breath catch in her throat. “He keeps asking when Uncle Spence will be home.”

Spencer’s lips move silently, repeating Henry’s name.

“He’s been teaching himself magic tricks,” She continues, watching his fingers twitch. “And he refuses to wear matching socks,” JJ chuckles, “He told me it’s bad luck; I wonder where he got that idea.”

She can see the gears turning in her friend’s head, thoughts racing as his heart monitor speeds up.

“Spence?”

“Derek.” JJ takes a steadying breath.

“Derek’s outside. Do you want me to get him for you?”

“Please.” She nods, crossing the room and stepping into the hall.

“Derek,” Morgan perks up, looking up at JJ. “Spence wants you.”

He shoots to his feet, hesitating at the door for a second before drifting into the room.

“Hey, kid,” He keeps his voice low, approaching Spencer slowly. “You wanted to see me?”

“Derek…” The brunette croaks, hand shaking as he reaches towards his friend, and Derek breaks the distance between them, interlacing their fingers.

“I’m here, kid. You’re safe.” Spencer nods, eyes glued to Derek.

“Safe.”

3 Days

Spencer panics when he sees Derek again, screaming that he’s dead, sending him rushing out of the room, struggling to breathe.

“He must’ve thought I was there, wherever he was,” Derek says from his spot on the floor when he calms down, hands still shaking as his friend’s screams echo through his head. “He thought I was there, and I didn’t do anything to help him–”

“Hey. That isn’t your fault–”

“We should’ve looked harder; I gave up on him. I left him–”

“Derek, look at me,” Emily crouches in front of him, keeping her voice level and firm as they make eye contact. “You never gave up on him— you did everything you could— and he knows that. Okay? He knows you would never abandon him.”

“He was panicking, and he asked for you,” JJ adds, “And you made him feel safe because he trusts you.”

Derek nods, head dropping into his hands.

“He’s going to get through this,” Penelope assures him, pulling Derek into a tight hug. “We all will.”

4 Days

He stares at the ceiling as hands wander across his body. 

A gentle voice speaks, words drifting around him, occasionally floating close enough for him to catch.

“...Spence…”

“...Pain…”

“...Wake up…”

He fades in and out, letting the hands move him as they see fit.

He is nothing.

“...Henry…”

Something pulls in his chest, like a string tied around his heart, tugging at the distant name.

He turns his head, finding a face that belongs to a pair of hands.

Henry.

Who is Henry?

Henry isn’t nothing.

5 Days

Garcia sits next to Spencer’s bed, filling him in on the latest season of Doctor Who animatedly while she knits.

“We missed you, Boy Wonder,” She whispers when she finishes explaining the finale. “When you get out of here, you aren’t leaving my sight for at least a week. Understand? I was so worried.”

His fingers twitch, eyes moving to the teary-eyed blonde.

“Sorry.”

Everything freezes, Penelope’s eyes glued to her friend’s still figure, searching for any signs of her friend.

“Spencer?” She finally convinces her lips to move, stumbling to her feet. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I promise; we’re not mad at you. We just want you back, Boy Wonder. Please come back— say something again. Please .”

He doesn’t respond.

6 Days

“They found bodies,” Emily tells her team, stone-faced, the only agent that isn’t barred from the details of Spencer’s case, though she isn’t actively working it. “Three match the blood they collected on Spence when he came in.”

A long silence washes over them, the agents listening to the tell-tale beeping of their friend’s heart monitor, reminding them that he’s alive.

“He killed them?”

“It looks like it, yeah.”

“How?” Emily frowns.

“A bullet to the head— all of them— but they–” She pauses, biting her lip. “There’s no doubt it was out of self-defense.”

Derek’s head shoots up.

“What else did they find?” All eyes turn to him, hot anger radiating off of him.

“Derek, don’t–”

“What did they find, Emily?” His eyes bore into her, simultaneously begging and challenging the older agent.

“Pictures,” Emily finally relents with a sigh, lowering her voice. “Videos, detailed journals about–” She swallows, shaking her head, but continues. “About what they did to him— what they made him do— everything they need to demolish any doubt he acted for any reason besides survival.”

Penelope shakes her head, covering her mouth as she disappears down the hall.

Derek clenches his fists and jaw, quelling the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

“Did they ever–”

“No,” Emily cuts him off before Derek can verbalize what they’re thinking. “Nothing sexual.”

They wish that brought comfort; instead, it hurts that they had to consider it.

“Derek.”

He stops walking, letting Emily catch up with him.

“Listen, uh,” She pauses, picking at the skin around her nails, eyes on the floor between them. “One of the unsubs— one of the bodies they found— Spence didn’t kill him, and–” She bites her lip, looking up at him. “There’s a definite resemblance between you two; it wouldn’t be hard for someone in Spence’s position to mistake you for him.”

He clenches his jaw, looking away from her.

“He’s in some of the videos, Derek, but he never hurt him,” She continues. “He was… gentle with him.”

Derek’s stomach drops.

“The team on the case thinks the unsubs convinced Spence that he was you.”

“And they killed him?” Emily nods. “Did he see?”

“Yeah, he–” She swallows, choking on her voice. “He saw it.”

She doesn’t tell Derek she saw the clip. She doesn’t tell him how the man’s blood splattered across Spencer’s face or how their friend laid down next to what he believed was Derek’s dead body for days until the unsubs pried him away from the corpse.

She doesn’t mention how the video ended before Spencer’s rampage, but she saw the switch in his eyes from grief-stricken to empty, more so than they’ve seen in the shell of their friend.

She’ll carry that with her. The team doesn’t need to know.

“Thanks for telling me.” He begins to turn, staring at the opposite wall as he processes everything.

“One more thing,” Derek pauses, taking a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever is worse than what Emily already told him. “He called him— Spence— the unsub called him ‘Pretty Boy.’”

He clenches his fists, his heart crumbling.

They took that from them. They tainted it.

7 Days

Emily stares at the shell of Spencer Reid, every video she’s seen of him replaying in her head, and she knows she hasn’t ever scratched the surface of the almost two years he’s been missing.

“We need you back, Spence,” She finally breaks her silence, voice cracking under the weight of her words. “I know– I know you can’t be who you were, and that’s okay— we aren’t expecting you to be the same— but we need more than this, Spence. Please.”

Henry is his friend’s (what’s her name?) son.

He’s Henry’s godfather.

He isn’t nothing.

He isn’t nothing.

He isn’t nothing.

He isn’t nothing.

He isn’t–

“‘M not nothing.”

Emily lifts her head, half-convinced she’s hearing things when she sees Spencer’s lips moving, chanting to himself.

“Spence?”

His gaze shifts, making the half-eye contact Spencer— their Spencer — makes.

“Hey,” She lowers her voice, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips as his eyes track her, recognition flashing in his stare. “There you are. I’ve missed you.”

He opens his mouth, voice catching on a lump in his throat.

“Em?” He chokes, voice hoarse from unuse.

“Yeah,” She nods, eyes watering. “I’m here, Spence.”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed, and Emily can tell he’s fighting to stay awake.

“‘M sorry…”

“It’s okay, you can sleep,” She takes his hand, rubbing gentle circles on the back of it. “But I need you to be here when you wake up.”

He nods with a soft sigh and lets his eyes close, falling asleep quickly.

8 Days

Hotch wakes up to the sound of screaming.

He sits up, taking a moment to remember where he is before jumping into action.

“Spencer? Can you hear me?” The brunette claws at his skin, nails digging into his arms, desperate to rip open the seams keeping his body together and free himself.

“Derek…” He sobs, voice barely audible over the rapid beeping of several monitors around Spencer’s fragile, trembling form.

“I’m here, kid,” Derek appears at the door, rushing to his friend’s side. “Right here, Spence.”

Wide, hazel eyes dart across Derek’s body, landing on his hands.

“Not him. You’re not him.” Hotch can see the agent tense, hand hovering over Spencer’s as he hesitates to speak.

“It’s me, Pretty Boy,” The young brunette’s eyes widen, releasing his grip from his arms to take Derek’s hand and press his palm against his pale cheek, unshed tears blurring his vision. “I’m here, Pretty Boy; you’re safe.”

“‘M nothing. I’m nothing. Nothing.” Spencer’s voice dies before his words leave his mouth, but they know what he’s saying.

Derek holds a hand up to stop Hotch from interrupting before cupping his cheeks with both hands, tilting Spencer’s head toward him.

“I’m right here, Pretty Boy. Okay? I’ve got you; you’re safe,” The brunette nods, melting into the older man’s embrace. “There we go. Deep breaths; you’re safe.”

Hotch watches his silent chant slow as his eyes drift close, breathing evening out in his friend’s arms as Derek rests his chin on Spencer’s head, rubbing soothing circles against his back.

“I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He stares at the bowl of lukewarm chicken noodle soup in front of him.

He doesn’t remember the last time he ate real food.

He knows Spencer Reid did 714 days ago— he had a chocolate muffin and a cup of coffee— but at some point over those 714 days, he and Spencer Reid became separate entities.

Spencer Reid is a genius, an FBI agent, godfather, best friend, and son. Spencer Reid is everything.

He is nothing.

Before the thick fog that covers his memories settled, shielding him from everything the countless hands did to him, he remembers eating.

“Eating” is generous.

He remembers hands holding him down and forcing brown, food-like mush down his throat.

He remembers the awful texture— like old applesauce with large chunks of something— and the taste of wet, moldy cardboard in his mouth.

He remembers sticking his fingers down his throat and throwing it up in some vain, unthought-out plan to starve and how the hands returned and did it again.

He remembers the days he spent without Derek, shivering and alone on the cold floor, as a punishment.

They’ll take Derek away from him if he resists.

He picks up the spoon and shovels the food into his mouth, swallowing the second it hits his tongue.

He can’t lose Derek. Not again.

His stomach aches, protesting against being so full.

He won’t survive losing Derek again.

A hand grabs his, stopping the spoon from reaching his mouth, and a sob rips from his throat.

“‘M sorry!” He cries, flinching away from the hands, pulling his knees to his chest.

He ate too fast— too needy, too wanting.

He shouldn’t want.

He is nothing.

He is–

“–Nothing! ‘M nothing! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

The hands retreat as he spits desperate apologies.

Muffled voices dance around him, never reaching his ears.

“Pretty Boy.”

Derek.

He wraps his arms around Derek, burying his face in the other man’s chest, sobbing.

“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry. Please don’t leave me. ‘M sorry–”

“I’m not going anywhere, Pretty Boy,” Derek assures him, rubbing his back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Okay? You aren’t in trouble.”

He nods, choking out a sob of relief.

“You’re okay, Pretty Boy. You’re safe.”

He goes limp against Derek’s chest, suddenly exhausted.

Derek will take care of him.

He nods to himself, letting his eyes fall closed.

Derek will keep him safe.

Penelope stares at the files in her email, unable to bring herself to open them.

She knows what’s on them— she asked for them— but she can’t look.

It feels all too similar to the videos from that cabin, watching her friend— bloody and beaten, choosing who lives and dies.

Her thumb hovers over the first video, eyes glued to the thumbnail.

She can see him on the floor in the distance, curled around himself, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to grab her laptop and corrupt every file and do everything she can to stop another soul from seeing Spencer like that.

“Garcia,” A firm hand falls gently on her shoulder, the other in front of her, silently requesting her phone. “You don’t have to watch those.”

“None of us should.” She turns, wide, teary eyes meeting Hotch’s facade of calm.

They don’t have to— none of them are working the case, and they don’t have to see the videos the team uncovered— but morbid curiosity is dangerous.

“You should see him,” Hotch suggests, brushing around the videos because they know he’s made up his mind; he has to watch them. “He’s calmer now, and Prentiss got through to him yesterday. JJ’s talking to him right now, but I think seeing you would help.”

“Sir, I–” She hesitates, guilt growing in her stomach. “I know, but I can’t– If he panics, I don’t– I can’t do this like you guys can. I stay in my office and hide behind my screens; I don’t talk to people who have been through what he has.” 

Victims. She doesn’t talk to victims.

She talks to their grieving families and digs through their lives, but she never talks to them.

Hotch nods.

“That’s okay; this is hard for all of us–”

“But it’s the hardest for him! He’s gone through– two years, god, and I’m out here, avoiding him because I’m scared .”

“I understand, and none of us blame you, Garcia. You need to take care of yourself before you can help someone else, and until then, he isn’t alone; we’ve got him.”