Chapter Text
Dr. Spencer Reid knew he should not be doing this. Knew he should not be sitting on his bathroom floor, about to inject Dilaudid into his veins, just like he knew too many statistics for anyone but him to count; statistics he couldn't help informing others, even when he knew they annoyed his coworkers most of the time, unless useful. He knew 28.1 million Americans, or 8.7%, used illicit drugs. Of those, 4.8% were Americans between the ages of 18 and 25 that abused pain relievers. He also knew he was a part of that statistic, as much as he hated it.
Spencer also knew that he needed help. But he had no family to turn to, not with being an only child and having a father who abandoned him and his schizophrenic mother at 10 years old, leaving Spencer to be his mother's sole caretaker. And he loved his mother very, very much, but she was in Las Vegas, and would hopefully never discover his current failings. He didn't want her to find out how weak her son really was. The only other family he had was his coworkers at the BAU, but he couldn't tell them without losing his job. He wasnt stupid. (Far from it, though current poor decisions suggested otherwise.) He knew no matter who he, hypothetically, reached out to asking for help, it would get back to Hotch. (Or Gideon. Spencer couldn't bear the thought of disappointing his mentor, the closest thing to a father figure he's had since he was a child) And then he'd certainly get fired. But, of course, if he didn't get help, he'd be fired anyways.
Quite the catch-22. 'Catch-22: 'a term coined by John Heller in his 1961 novel about WWII bearing the same name. The term initially described pilots attempting to escape their duties by attempting to have themselves declared insane, only to prove themselves sane in the process, as sane men would try to escape fighting and insane ones would not. It is now used to describe a situation where the outcome is the same, regardless of actions taken to avoid it.' — Spencer's mind supplies, not so helpfully. His options were either get help and get fired, or don't get help and inevitably get fired because he fucked up on a case either a) because he was going through withdrawal or b) high to avoid withdrawal. But he couldn't lose his job, couldn't lose his second family or the inexplicable feeling he got anytime they caught an unsub in time to save the next victim.
So Spencer knew that, ultimately, he would have to get himself clean. But that day wouldn't be today. Because today he wasn't strong enough, just like he hadn't been strong enough the last 3 times he tried to detox. When he got so close to getting clean, only to take the easy way out instead of suffering through the withdrawal. Because the withdrawal was hard. It was hell. (No, not hell. Hell was being trapped in that cabin, being forced to choose Charles and Raphael's next victims. Hell was the smell of burning fish guts and not knowing which personality he'd be speaking to next. Hell was digging your own grave. Hell was being beaten, begging for freedom, pleading to a personality that either ignored him, punished him, or helped him in the only way it knew how. Hell was saying he didn't want it, and he didn't, while a part of him had to admit it did help. But then, that's why he's here right now, isn't it?) Withdrawal was chills while sweating. It was tremors and fatigue and knowing the worst part was yet to come. It was never being brave enough to get to that worse part. And it was the fear that even if he did get through the withdrawal— even if he disposed of everything he had— that he wouldn't stay clean, that he wouldn't stay strong and have to go through it all over again.
It had been a hard case. 10 dead kids before the local LEOs had even bothered to call in the BAU. By the time they closed it, there were 12 dead and a 13th forever scarred. It was two weeks, three days, 14 hours, 34 minutes and 27 seconds in Alabama, with the heat being even more suffocating than the oppressive feeling of dread and urgency that had hung over the conference room the team had camped out in for most of their stay. Even after calling them in, it was clear the local LEOs still thought they could handle the case on their own. The officers practically disregarded their profile. They scoffed at Spencer and flirted with JJ and Emily, holding no respect for the agents who didn't fit their idea of what an FBI Agent should look like. And those same local LEOs almost got Hotch killed during the takedown because they couldn't follow simple instructions.
Reid used all of this to justify the need to get high. He'd gone longer than he should've without getting a hit, teetering dangerously on the edge of withdrawal towards the end of case. He was even more irritable with everyone than usual, and he couldn't guarantee he'd fully explained it away as just being the trying case.
And like the coward he'd been every other time, Spencer didn't take the opportunity to get clean. It would be so easy to call Hotch and take the next day or two off work. He'd gotten his paperwork done on the plane so he could go home when they landed. After a case like that, no one would be faulted for taking some time off. But the easy part ended there because the call of the high dilaudid gave him, the release, was too strong for Reid to ignore.
Spencer was ashamed by how easy it had become to do this. As the needle went into his vein, the poison drugs flooding into his system, he let out a breath and leaned back against the wall. Logically, he knew it really took up to 5 minutes for the drugs to take effect. He knew the immediate relief was a psychological response to the high he knew was coming. Either way, it didn't matter. This was his escape from the world, and right now? He wasn't Dr. Reid nor was he an FBI agent. He was just Spencer. And Spencer had no room for the shame or guilt, only the freedom.
And if Spencer took a little more than he normally did, it was fine. He just needed a little extra after such a hard case and going so long without a hit. He'd be fine, he knew to be careful. He always was.
...If only that was true.