Work Text:
Of all the times that Spencer has said the word “yeah,” this might be the worst time.
Okay, convoluted and slightly nonsensical, but it is also true! He can theoretically remember every time in his life that he's said “yeah,” you know, if he really wanted to, and none of them resulted in a situation like this. Where he might die. And is hanging from a rope about a dozen meters off the ground.
Spencer squints at said ground as a breeze makes him swing a little. Maybe a baker's dozen. Yeah, that seems right.
There is, shockingly, no one around pointing a gun or bomb or vial of anthrax at him. He might have a clue what to do in that case, typical Tuesday ordeal right there. Instead of being clueless, for once, and in the hands of rope and fate.
It's not a good feeling.
So he tries to go over the situation again until he comes up with something to hold onto—ha, and the team says he can't joke.
The situation is this: an unsub kidnapped a woman and dragged her to the top of a building under construction. Though calling it a building in this state is generous. Regardless, there was enough scaffolding for the man to climb up with a woman in tow, while the team got to the scene just a bit too late.
Which is really unfortunate, since this unsub has killed three women in the past month by shoving them off construction sites.
There’s not enough time to wait for fire services to show up and set up the life nets, so of course they climbed their way up the building right after. Luckily there were at least safety harnesses at the construction site, many thanks to OSHA regulations, but somehow that doesn’t make the building look any shorter. Especially when the unsub literally jumps on a crane connecting two of the buildings, literally throwing the woman across with him.
Spencer lets out a startled “Ah!” at the same time that Morgan and Emily yell far more appropriate things about freezing and putting hands up. Look, he’s on top of a very tall building that seems primed to eat his pistol when he inevitably drops it, give him some slack.
Speaking of slack, Spencer takes a deep breath while unattaching the harness cable. Since they apparently have to jump to another building too. This is definitely not regulation.
But the others have already undone theirs’ and the woman’s terrified screams are piercing the air till his ears hurt, so he fumbles to follow. Only for a bullet to crack the air and flinch his fingers into slipping off the hook.
It’s a good thing, in the end. As Spencer crouches slightly and automatically reaches for his gun, he’s pretty sure the shot was aimed at him. Slowest agent, gangly figure with plenty of surface area to hit, certainly the easiest target.
The bullet either flies askew or he jerks out of the way, Spencer doesn’t get shot this time. His sharp movement does have his dress shoes sliding across the metal scaffolding, reminding everyone of why construction workers do not wear loafers. Maybe if his hand wasn’t on his holster, he’d have been able to catch him.
But he doesn’t. And he falls.
The sense of free fall is sickening. No amount of descriptions in literature that flower up the prose around the sensation can make it pretty. His middle goes as head over heels as he does and the bones touching his ear drums try to beat their way out of him. Spencer has time to gasp and pinch his eyes shut on reflex, swallowing at a pang of nausea, before the end of the rope pulls taut.
It’s almost more violent than hitting the ground, if Spencer didn’t know that physiologically his body is surely handling the violent jolt better than a fifty foot splat into concrete.
Still, his shoulders and ribs shove against the confines of his joints as his body is literally torn between continuing to fall and getting jerked upwards. A loud crack leaves his body, sounding like the aftermath of a long night crouched unmoving over a stack of papers, with an extra sprinkle of ouch on top. Comparable to how Spencer sprinkles sugar into his coffee. So a couple heaping teaspoons of ouch.
Luckily, the wind is thoroughly knocked out of his lungs, so doesn’t actually have the breath to say ouch, or anything of the sort. Probably he would have ended up saying “Ah!” again. Truly, it was enough the first time.
Spencer’s mouth hangs open silently, jaw struggling as his diaphragm spasms so hard that his throat clenches with it. Oh, right. He can’t breathe.
It’s not dangerous, regardless of how dramatic the paralysis of the muscle that enables breathing may sound. There’s no reported cases of someone dying from such a thing, even when potentially dangerous circumstances are the cause. Really, Spencer is better off than most contact sports players who are slowly concussing themselves on top of inducing the temporary inability to breathe, so he should chill out.
Violently, he jolts forwards in the attempt to drag air into his lungs. Obviously only the tiny remnants of oxygen clinging to his chest get wheezed out, since he kind of needs his diaphragm to be functional in order to create the vacuum necessary to pull air into his lungs, and really he should be trying to relax to aid his abdominal muscles in recovering, not flopping like a fish slowly suffocating in an improperly aerated tank—
Coughing twice, Spencer’s head floods with warmth as he’s able to suck in the smallest bit of air. It’s immediately coughed back out, but the movement is less painful, and the breath that follows is more full. He clenches at his chest and leans his head back, attempting to force his functions back proper.
“ —okay? Reid!”
The screaming that had likely been going on for a couple seconds, if he had to guess, manages to get past the rushing in his ears. Spencer searches the gaps in the structure for his teammates, but he’s pretty sure he’s facing the wrong way now. The rope is still slightly swinging, spinning slowly.
“I’m— I’m fine!” Spencer forces himself to yell. His diaphragm doesn’t like it, but he has already fully recovered from the paralysis, so it does not get a say. “Keep going!”
“Are you sure?” Definitely Emily shouts down at him. But he swears he can hear women’s screams in between the ringing of his ears.
“Yeah!” He yells, as forcibly as he can.
It must be well enough, since he simply gets a “Hang tight!” before it goes silent. A horrid pun. His lips flatten in distaste as he gives breathing through his nose another go.
Without any outward stimuli, or illogical certainties that he’s going to suffocate, to distract him, the pain over Spencer’s body bleeds to his attention. It’s mostly around the areas where the harness wraps around him, bruised from the catch, likely. It’s unlikely he’s broken any bones or really injured anything, the harness is made for catches like this. But he rubs at his shoulder regardless, grimacing a little.
The good thing is that the rope was set up to catch him over an open section of the construction, so he didn’t smack into anything. In fact, he’s literally in the center of a room with half done walls, hanging in what is practically a giant hole.
Slowly, the swinging nearly dies down to nothing. Though from how his stomach is simmering, he swears there’s still some faint movement to the line. His mind playing tricks with his vestibular organs. Or just the wind.
He decides to open his eyes when keeping them closed makes the nausea rear its head worse.
Spencer has been in worse positions for far longer. A takedown on the top of a literally unfinished building can’t take that long. The unsub has too much leverage, but also nowhere to run. It’s likely to end in disaster, but to end nonetheless.
There haven’t been any more gunshots, so that’s probably good. Unless Derek or Emily have also fallen off the building, that would be pretty silent. Surely they put back on their harnesses after crossing to the other building, right?
Emily’s smart enough to remember. It’s fine.
Spencer kicks his legs absently, jostling with the motion.
Unless she thought she could run forward fast enough to catch the victim or something. Then she might not have.
Even when Spencer’s legs still, he’s still rocking.
But Derek is really a reliable guy most of the time, he’s surely clipped his harness back on. If anything, they might have even caught the unsub already and are letting Spencer hang there as a prank. That’s a classic Derek Morgan move.
A breeze blows right in Spencer’s face, making it scrunch up as he sways slightly more vigorously. He kicks his legs to try and balance out. His feet prickle, worsening as he squeezes his toes. If his legs fall asleep, he might just fall off the building again after he’s dragged up.
Something to look forward to.
The silence is more concerning than the yelling and gunshots. Surely if those were going on, he’d be just as worried.
Being literally trapped away from his team and a victim, unable to provide the backup they depend on is slightly more agonizing than the pressing on his collarbones. He fidgets with those straps anyway.
It’s really not surprising that Spencer’s clumsiness made him fall off of a whole building, but that doesn’t make it less frustrating. If only reading tips on how to have better balance actually made it happen. Though usually he can manage to stay upright during takedowns, at the very least…
Stewing in the self evaluation, he sighs before sucking in a large breath. His lungs are still feeling shaky, like they're a smidge too small.
Impossible. Unless his lungs literally collapsed. Technically he does have the symptoms for that, his chest hurts and he's short of breath. But he doubts that the fall was enough to cause that. And anyway, both lungs collapsing would be extremely unlikely, usually only happening with severe chest trauma that causes internal bleeding into the chest cavity. He's fine.
Spencer rubs the sweat off his hairline, before shaking his hands out. Mostly to get the uncomfortable energy off of his skin, since there's no one around to see anyway.
But there is also a slight tingling in his fingertips too.
Slightly more concerning than legs falling asleep, which they still are. Spencer's legs can fall asleep if he leans against the subway’s wall the wrong way. Which he doesn't, because it's unsanitary, but if he did. His legs would probably have the capacity to fall asleep due to being long and having poor circulation and—
Arms falling asleep is far more rare due to being closer to the heart, to put it shortly.
Spencer holds his fingers up to his face, examining his fingernails. They're not blue with cyanosis, but they're also not pink. In fact, his entire hands are white. Even more white than normal. Pallor.
No big deal. See the above rant about legs falling asleep and replace it all with the fact that Spencer is always pale. Bit of extra paleness could be due to anything.
He's cold, so it's probably that. The breeze, faint as it is, is blowing right through him, alongside making him swing. His limbs are kind of just hanging out there, heat loss from them is sure to be slightly faster than if he was standing. And hanging uses far less energy than supporting his own body weight. Less calories burned, less heat generated, more frozen fingers. As long as he doesn't stay out here all night and catch hypothermia, he'll be fine yet.
Spencer takes a shaking gulp of air while rubbing his forehead again. More sweatiness, creeping towards his temples now.
Hm. That's, hm. Not disproving of his theory, but it also doesn't support it.
The faintest sound of a shout catches on the next bit of wind, curling around his ears before dissipating. He shivers, trying to turn towards where it came from, but it's gone like it was never there.
Discomfort crawling up his spine, Spencer gives in and kicks his legs. The way that they light up with sparks, he swears he can track every nerve fiber up to his spine. Except the ones in his toes, those have gone completely dead by now, unless he scrunches them hard. It’s painful to move them, but also somehow even more so to keep them still.
The harness surely isn’t helping with how it’s digging into his flesh. Like rope.
Or hands.
Roughly, Spencer shakes his head to rid himself of such thoughts. Not productive thoughts to have when suspended half a highrise over the ground. Instead he thinks about how the harness might be compressing his veins. Now that is a far more logical line of thought.
It explains it well and.
Spencer reflexively shakes his head a few more times, before blinking wildly. Not that that helps with how his sight is splattered with chunks of black and gray. It’s like a glass of water spilled over a hand written report, ink and paper fizzling all over everything.
A large inhale flashes the mess brighter. His eyesight improves slightly, but only for as long as he manages to keep the air in him. Which isn’t long, since he’s already fighting for more.
The edges of his vision fight with him.
What the—? Did he actually pop his lung? Or maybe a rib broke and pierced it? Possible, considering the sweat chilling his face as it drips towards his open mouth. That’s really bad, if he’s struggling with oxygen deprivation already, the organs could be full blown failing. Or, it could be that he’s had a dysfunctional aorta this whole time, and that's why he's so bad at cardio, and the jolting of the harness against his chest tore the artery and he's bleeding out—
As the quick thoughts swim through his head, drowning him in worse dizziness as he swings physically too, Spencer gasps.
Oh. This is.
Oh.
He's almost glad no one else is around for this, as he feels quite stupid.
Suspension syndrome.
Quite obvious upon reflection considering the, well, name. But it's not exactly a common diagnosis, and honestly it's kind of disputed in some aspects by organizations involved with trauma and harnesses, though a lot of that is just about semantics anyway—
Spencer inhales violently, lungs straining around how much air he brings in. But it's just not enough, his mouth and chest feel empty despite aching around the too big breath. He lets it out and pulls in another.
Good and bad. Good: the syndrome is mild usually, pretty on par with a paralyzed diaphragm from getting wacked too hard. He just needs to get down and relax till his blood pressure and oxygen stabilize.
Bad: it can technically be fatal.
The use of the word technically might be a little inappropriate. It will kill him. If he doesn't get down before the lack of blood flow to his head makes his brain die.
Spencer gasps twice before the last one is even over, before fumbling at his pocket. Right, phone, he has a phone. And as embarrassing as it is to call for help when he's kind of safe in the middle of a takedown, he knows it's also more irresponsible to let himself pass out here without any way to communicate. Hotch would give him that disappointed look when he wakes up in the hospital.
If he doesn't die before then.
See, knowing a lot of things? It makes a person good at predictions. And as Spencer predicted, he yanks his phone out of his pocket, only to watch it tumble from his numb fingers to the ground far, far below.
Not his gun, but pretty close. Still sharp as a tack.
“Oh, dear,” He wheezes.
This is fine, still. He knows what is happening now, so he can deal with it better. Having all the facts about a situation always makes it more manageable, so he just has to cope till someone cuts him down. Hopefully soon.
What prevents suspension syndrome?
Well, not being suspended. Spencer looks up at the long stretch over him, and then back down at the ground. He couldn’t even stand on some scaffolding—while getting shot at—without falling off, he’s not climbing up the rope. And the use of the term “cut him down” was a metaphor. Hopefully.
Although splatting on the ground, shattering all his bones, and dying of blood loss and/or brain trauma would actually solve the issue of not dying of suspension syndrome. But not optimally.
Okay, what else? No phone. They didn’t bring walkies. So that leaves yelling for help.
The fact that it is silent makes it pretty obvious that Spencer is not within hearing range of any non-suffocating people’s voice boxes, let alone his struggling throat. Takedowns aren’t quiet, which means no one is close. Maybe if he hears someone…
Shaking his head again, Spencer squints through the smeared vision intently, forcing himself to focus. He’ll just have to stay conscious, that’s the only way he stays un-hypoxic.
Spencer jerks his deadened leg up, face twisting at the worsening pain. He prods at his thigh with his fingers, before pausing with a frown.
Doctors say to keep the legs moving during suspension to stop blood pooling. It can keep someone awake longer. But they also say that it’s not recommended, since the person is almost guaranteed to pass out shortly after they can’t keep moving their legs any longer, when the blood falls back into the oxygen deprived muscles quicker than ever.
Contradicting advice. Contradicting evidence. Spencer hates it. Why can’t everything be math? There’s only one right answer in math…
Wispy breath on his lips, Spencer swallows thickly at the nausea that rears its head again. It’s worse than earlier, when he was able to ignore it. Especially compared to the threat on his life. But now he gets to think about the threat on his life and the fact that he feels like puking all over the far, far ground.
Coffee doesn’t feel good coming back up.
It’s with one last look around that Spencer realizes he really is helpless here. The only thing that will save him is other people coming. No amount of knowledge about the situation will help. Or knowledge in general. He knows how he will die and that he can’t stop it.
The shaking in his hands stirs up tingling, all the way up to his wrists. Probably just faintness. Not at all how he wants to grab his hair and pull.
Then, his arms jerk far more forcibly, muscles crying out in protest. It leaves behind a burning. Cell death from lack of oxygen is supposed to be warm, on the inside, at least. Which is strange, considering it should really bring a chill with it.
Hypothermia works like that too though, doesn’t it? The sensation of warmth in cold. Right, that’s not so odd. It’s kind of similar.
Some part of Spencer finds himself frowning at the train of thought, wanting to whisper about the actual different mechanisms of cell death, but it doesn’t. Instead his head twitches to the side till he squints his eyes shut. There’s nearly just as much chaos behind his eyelids though. White lights flash within the darkness, till he wishes he could close his eyes against it a second time.
As the next desperate breath chokes into him, Spencer balls his hands into fists and forcibly kicks his legs. By now, the movement cuts like blades, all shoved into the leadened muscles. But he decides that he’s going to keep himself awake, with his will alone if he needs to.
The legs are called the second heart in some practices. Usually practices involving the legs, doctors always sprinkle importance onto their speciality. Or maybe they just know where the importance lies where everyone else is blind to it.
Spencer opens his eyes to streaks of grey metal and grey mottling and he swears he can feel the muscles wrapped around his major veins. Pushing the blood back up through the valves that are trying to lock his blood away from his heart till it grows stagnant and thick and acidic. He can taste nitrogen on his tongue.
But that’s good! If he can taste the waste products in his lungs, then that means he’s breathing them out. So he just has to keep pumping his legs and shoving the bad junk upwards!
Every breath is audibly rasping out of him, and there are a lot of them. Though maybe he’s actually breathing slowly? His legs feel like they’re moving through a dense gas. A dense gas like… Carbon dioxide?
No, he’s breathing out carbon dioxide, though it is heavier than air, so kind of like moving through carbon dioxide…
Spencer’s eyes have fallen down to his slightly swaying legs. He stares at them for a good few seconds before lurching and kicking sloppily. His entire body jostles, making him lurch even more and try to catch his balance. That just makes his legs still again as his eyes turn to mush.
He has to keep kicking and open his eyes again. He has to because…
A hollow thudding hits at the base of his skull, forcing him to lean his head backwards. At least it helps him open his eyes. Though there’s not much to see among the mess of light and color and leaking darkness. He thinks he tries to groan, but it catches in his busy throat.
Though the sound is still continuing, cutting the annoying buzzing in his ears. The sound is pretty annoying too, though. His eyes fidget in search of it, though he can’t find anything.
The mess within his head grows louder, until he swallows saliva filling his jaw. It quiets his gasping for just long enough to solidify a word within his mind. So he opens his mouth and tries to shout:
“Help!”
But it crumbles before it can even leave his spasming lungs. But by then his brain is too hot to even notice or care. It's easy to let the last threads snap and plummet him down to the dark ground.
—
Spencer blinks groggily into awareness with his legs on Derek’s shoulder.
“Coming back to us, pretty boy?”
Odd position to be in.
Turning away from the man's blurry face, his cheek presses against a rough fabric. It's slightly scratchy, like it's still a little new. But he can't be bothered to even wrinkle his nose in distaste. Everything feels suspended in…
“Radon,” Spencer wheezes weakly.
“What?” Multiple voices overlap.
It’s enough to make him dizzy, as he pinches his eyes shut and just breathes. The act takes more effort than it should, and he thinks that he’s going to puke for a moment, but it passes and he feels slightly less wavery.
“It's the heaviest gas…”
“Well, he's retained his personality, but what is he talking about?” Emily's voice filters down, alongside an amused snort.
“Spence, are you alright? Do you know where you are?” JJ asks, kneeling into his line of sight.
He twists even more to see her, which considering his legs are still elevated, makes him look like half a helix. Or one of those twisty pretzels. It's kind of uncomfortable.
Carefully, he extracts his legs from where they’re still being held up by Derek. Since the limbs still feel like a mixture of completely dead nerves and electricity, alongside his absolutely screaming muscles, he ends up knocking into the man’s face a couple times on the sloppy way down. Oops.
He curls into a slightly splayed recovery position of his side, wrapping his arms around his overworking lungs as he belatedly remembers that he was asked something. Or, somethings.
“Those questions kind of have different answers,” Spencer says in between short inhales. “Did you catch the unsub?”
“Yeah, we got him. Even without your sharp roundhouse there,” Derek says, rubbing his cheek. “The victim is safe too.”
“Sorry, I was busy being oxygen deprived,” Spencer says, albeit relieved, before deciding it's time to sit up.
He gets as far as setting his palms on the ground and pushing up before JJ is shoving him back down. Whatever balled up jacket is below his head is well appreciated to prevent any more brain damage.
“What do you mean—lay down—by that?!” JJ demands.
“You know: cerebral hypoxia. And general hypoxia. But the cerebral hypoxia is obviously what causes syncope, though arguably the bradycardia—” Spencer’s words are just slurring enough for him to be even easier than normal to cut off.
“Woah, alright,” Derek says. “You were fine when we last saw you, and then you were passed out. How the hell did that happen?”
“They don’t actually know,” Spencer says, voice low and slow. “There’s a few different theories, nothing with a huge body of evidence…”
“Reid. You’re not explaining how you’re hurt,” Emily says firmly, crouching beside him too with her serious face.
“Suspension syndrome. From hanging from a harness. It’s… a thing.” Spencer shrugs a bit lamely, face planting more firmly on the ground. The urge to fall asleep right now is great, sirens in the background and eyes on him or not.
“A thing?” Emily sounds unimpressed.
“An ambulance is on the way,” JJ says kindly, patting on his face.
“Mm,” Spencer says.
“Don’t fall asleep though,” JJ says, sterner.
“Mm.”
“You’ve gotta elevate his legs, brain-blood barrier, right?” Derek says, picking up Spencer’s legs again. His voice is nearly teasing, like he knows that something he’s saying is wrong.
“Dead blood!” Spencer complains instead, slightly slurring and kicking his noodle legs in the hands.
His feet slip free and bounce off of the ground. It hurts, but it is a win. Derek’s gone soft, he’s got to hit that gym class…
“What’s he mean by that?” Derek murmurs to the girls.
“I don’t know. I can’t tell if he’s saying factually correct things, or if he’s mentally impaired?” Emily whispers back.
“I’m always factually correct. I can cite my sources,” Spencer says, raising a finger in the direction he thinks the others are. “The Lancet, The National Institues of Health, Mayo Clinic—”
“Mayo Clinic? How close are the EMTs, Dr. Reid is about to cite Wikipedia,” JJ says with a laugh. Possibly concerned laugh.
“Mayo Clinic is one of the top research clinics in the country, actu-actually. They have a decent peer reviewed journal."
“He didn’t defend the mental impairment part,” Derek whispers again.
“I’m fine.” Spencer frowns into the ground. A spasm goes through his entire body as he says it, making him exhale in pain.
“You’re concerning, is what you are, kid.”
While Derek pats on his ankle, and JJ pats on his cheek very insistently so he can’t close his eyes, he can hear Emily’s shoes click off quickly. He hopes that it’s fine. He tries to squint after her, but the world is still a bit too messy to make out properly.
A wave of malaise goes through Spencer as he gasps, only remembering to quiet it when it’s halfway out. The hand on his face drops to his hand, squeezing gently. His palm is sweaty, which is the main thing that he can think about. But his breath does level out, just a bit.
It’s fine. The ground is steady.
“The ambulances are here,” Emily’s voice calls, somehow sticking out among the chattering chaos of a scene.
“Alright, let’s get you checked out. Are you going to make me carry you again? Cause I think dragging you down a building was enough, but I’ll do it if I must,” Derek says, voice teasing as he wraps an arm around Spencer’s shoulders and starts helping him up.
“Pretty sure Emily is the only reason both of you didn’t plummet to the ground,” JJ says, grabbing his arm on the other side.
“And yet she didn’t have to deal with his pointy elbows.”
His legs drag along the ground more than he actually walks, but he tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s more possible now than even when he just woke up, as is taking productive breaths. But his head still swims slightly, too much to come up with any sort of comeback.
He steps on Derek’s foot, possibly on purpose. Probably on accident.
Mostly.
All the flashing lights are smeared together and the sirens are too high pitched. Spencer has to close his eyes to deal with it, half thankful for the exhaustion that helps him keep his hands still. But it's grating. He realizes how bad his head hurts.
“Still with us?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer rasps, remembering that he can actually breathe. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
—
It's been a week since Spencer almost died a little bit, and he's been medically cleared of his brain trauma. For desk work. So he's basically back at 100%.
The whole ordeal is about as embarrassing as a near death experience can get. He's almost looking forward to the next time he gets shot so this can get wiped from everyone's minds.
Considering how JJ pulled out his chair for him this morning, it's not very likely.
With a sigh, Spencer shuffles the files that he just collected from Hotch's office, looking at the titles as he goes to grab the stairway handrail. Except, there is no handrail below his fingers. And his weight falls just a bit too heavily towards it, listing dangerously as his feet slip off the step.
Spencer has his eyes closed and is accepting his fate when two arms grab him out of the air. He's hauled back up to the top of the stairs and steadied for a couple beats longer than necessary. He sighs, before opening his eyes and accepting this far worse fate.
“Woah, kid. Trying to get yourself saved again?”
The shit eating grin on Derek's face is expected and familiar. The man has the gall to squeeze his forearm. Spencer will never live anything down, ever.
“I will take both of us down this staircase,” Spencer threatens dejectedly.
“I'd like to see you try,” Derek laughs.
Plucking himself free, Spencer walks down the stairs without falling. And without noticing any other teammates’ eyes that may or may not be on him. He’s far too busy scanning the folder titles and keeping a death grip on the railing.
“It's okay, Reid. I’ll always catch you when you fall!” Derek calls across the entire room.
Maybe hypoxic brain death isn’t so bad.
As Spencer sits down at his desk, steadfastly opening the first file and taking a whole five seconds to start reading the words, he smiles just a little bit. It’s true that he has to worry about falling a bit less with his team there.
Emily’s quiet snicker reminds him that teasing will always be part of the trade though. Only possibly worth it.