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Published:
2024-10-04
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would they say anything?

Summary:

Nathan was nothing like him, Spencer knows, because Spencer's never gotten off on dead bodies before;

But Nathan (Spencer) is afraid of his own mind. Nathan (Spencer) is more afraid of himself than anything the world could throw at him. Nathan (Spencer, Spencer, Spencer,) was willing to hurt himself to keep the rest of the world safe.

It's terrifying.

AKA Spencer Reid panicking over what he could become, and Hotch assuring him that he has a family who cares enough to tell him. Post S2E11, Sex Birth Death.

Notes:

this episode KILLED ME and yes i did immediately finish it to write fic because they just left my boy on the side of the road with hands SOPPING IN BLOOD and gideon was all "well if he becomes a criminal you'll catch him, have a nice drive home" and obviously i won't stand for that

anyway you don't really have to remember the episode to understand the fic, everything mentioned is pretty self explanatory as if nathan was an oc. if you do remember the episode, it's all that more heartbreaking lol

also heed the tags! mentions of suicide and self harm, be them minor, are clearly there. plus the general gore of the episode

as always, enjoy! <3

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Don’t get him wrong, dead bodies don’t… Fascinate him.

 

But Spencer already said it: he knows what it’s like to be scared of yourself. Overwhelmed by what you are, confused by your own brain chemistry. It’s not easy to forget it all, his upbringing, his mother’s schizophrenia, everything that’s separated him from his peers his entire life. It’s even harder now, a boy’s blood covering his hands.

 

How old was Nathan, fifteen, sixteen? What was he doing when he was sixteen? Getting a PHD. Not exactly normal teenage behavior for either of them (though Spencer will admit he far prefers his own in this situation).

 

But he could have been this kid.

 

The paramedics gave him a rag, but Nathan’s blood is caked under his nails, dripping down his wrists. He’d cut himself when he was Nathan’s age, but it’d been years since he’d seen his own hands covered in blood like this. In the way that feels like it’s him, like all over again he’s cleaning up his blood so his mother doesn’t find out—

 

“Paramedics say he wouldn’t have made it without you,” Gideon interrupts, something piercing in his eyes. “You saved his life.”

 

His, his, not Spencer’s, Nathan’s. Nathan’s life. “He wanted me to let him die.”

 

“He’s sick. He needed saving.”

 

It’s not enough. “But how many people’s lives did I risk in the future?”

 

“Profiles can be wrong.” Mine, mine can be wrong. You know enough, Gideon, what is Spencer Reid going to do with his life?

 

“What if it’s not? What if next time he kills somebody?”

 

Gideon’s answer is clear, simple. “Then you catch him.” No more comforting than the blood on his hands.

 

He’s not sure if he’s grateful, but Gideon leaves him. The rag in his hands is soaked. He needs to get under the stream of a shower, needs to bag his clothes like evidence and throw them off a bridge, never to be seen again. Even if he could get the blood out of his shirt he knows he doesn’t want to, he wants to leave every trace of this kid behind.

 

But a smaller part of him is scared to do so. Is scared to see what would happen if left alone.

 

The tall build walking steadily towards him is Hotch upon further inspection. “Reid.” A hand lands on his shoulder. “I’ll drive you home.”

 

“My stuff—” he begins, thinking of what he left at the precinct.

 

“I talked to Morgan and Garcia, they’re gathering it.” He tips his head towards the dark parking lot. “Come on, sooner we leave sooner you get a shower. Or we can stop at the precinct if you want to—”

 

“I want to get home,” he says. He doesn’t care as much about the dried blood as he does melatonin and his bed.

 

Before he’s cognizant enough to think further, Spencer is in the passenger seat of Hotch’s car. He’s been there before, but never bloodied and destroyed. Never this compromised. 

 

“Can I ask—” he clears his throat. He can’t stop looking at the blood. “If you thought something was… wrong, with me, would you tell me?”

 

Hotchner is backing out of his parking space as Spencer says this, and a short jerk of the brakes says it startled him, but he quickly continues silently. When they’re on the road he finally answers: “If I thought you were a danger to yourself or others, I’d do whatever I needed to. Whether that be telling you, or telling others.”

 

“Schizophrenia is genetic, you know,” he starts suddenly, still scrubbing at his hands with the soiled cloth. It does no good for the blood but plenty for the need for stimulation; anything to keep him present. “My mom, hers is pretty bad, and before things got bad she talked about her grandfather having it. There are studies being done to try and find genetic factors that will preemptively predict if someone has it, but for now all we can count on is environmental factors and personal changes, almost entirely imperceptible by the person themselves—”

 

“Spencer,” his boss says suddenly, quietly, firmly. “I promise you, if I ever felt you were changing for the worse, we would handle it. All of us. This team knows you, I know you, and you are not an unsub. You are not Nathan.”

 

“I’m so afraid,” Spencer finds himself saying. There’s no dignity left to care about. “I’m so messed up, Hotch, and yeah, I’m not throwing knives around and seeing hallucinations, but I have the brain of someone who would have been put in an asylum fifty years ago. I would have been called a witch in medieval England and burned at the stake. I saw the blood on my hands a few minutes ago and had to convince myself I wasn’t a suicidal, undiagnosed autistic teenager anymore. I’m not normal. ”

 

“No, you’re not,” he agrees, and if any of the comments jar him, he doesn’t let it show, “But I know the difference between autism and a psychopath, Spencer. They’re not synonymous, you know.”

 

“Still, those with autism have an enormously heightened probability of other mental disorders like manic depression, I mean the probability practically doubles with every disorder you possess—”

 

“If, and I mean if, ” Hotch interrupts, “You suffer some sort of psychotic break, if you even hint at going off the rails, your entire team will be there to stop you. You work sixty hours a week alongside a team of profilers. You might be afraid, but you’re far from alone.”

 

You might be afraid, but you’re far from alone.

 

Yes, he’s certainly not alone. Not alone as Hotch drives the forty five minutes and then some to Spencer’s apartment, walks him inside, makes sure he’s safe, taken care of, and prepared with a ride to work tomorrow before leaving. He’s not alone as Morgan texts him a picture of Spencer’s messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Garcia in the background looking terrified for its life, with the caption, Garcia thinks I’m going to burn the thing by touching it. I promised to hand it off to her for safe keeping. He’s not alone as a second picture follows with Garcia holding the bag gingerly in her hands like she’ll break it.

 

No, he’s not alone. He might be afraid, but he’s so far from alone in this moment and many others, and he can carry that alongside him for quite a while.

Notes:

please he is just a mentally ill man with red on his ledger he doesn't realize is his own. he's still a sixteen year old child afraid of his own brain. he just wants melatonin and a good night's sleep please and thank you.