Title: Insomnia
By: nebula99
Permission to archive: Yes
Fandom(s): Criminal Minds
Genre (general, hetero or slash) slash (but no smut)
Pairing/Characters: Hotch/Reid
Rating: FRT
Summary: It is a couple of weeks since the events of Revelations and Spencer can't sleep.
Warnings: Spoilers for The Big Game and Revelations.

***

It's 2.17 am – garish green numbers on the bedside clock tell me that. I push my hair out of my eyes and sigh. I'm wide awake; another nightmare – they're back with a vengeance this time. They startle me into wakefulness in the early hours, coming every night since *that*.

Funny that they haven't changed. I still dream about the crime scenes, the blood, those I can't save. I don't dream about *that*. Not yet, anyways. I spend enough of my waking time thinking about it. Now I have horrors in the daytime and horrors in my sleep. I need it to stop – just for a moment, just to let me catch my breath.

Hotch is here tonight. Gideon, Hotch, Morgan – they keep taking it in turns to stay over. They don't want me to be on my own and that's OK. I don't want to stay on my own either. Gideon and Morgan sleep on the couch, Hotch, of course, sleeps in my bed. When the others are here, I stay in bed after waking up; there's no point in trying to go back to sleep. I read or listen to my mp3 player. Mostly I stare at the ceiling.

Hotch has left the bathroom light on and there is a lamp in the living room too. I slide out of bed so I don't disturb him and hobble to the living room. My foot is still strapped up and I'm not supposed to put weight on it. I huddle in the corner of the couch and pick up my book. I know my eyes will just slide up and down the print but at least it feels like I'm reading.

My foot hurts and the scabs on my arm itch. I'm so tired and my whole body feels like a dead weight. I can't seem to eat properly at the moment - I'm picking at food, but nothing really tempts me. Hotch brought over a casserole but I just pushed it round the plate. The only thing I can eat is candy – comfort food I guess, just like when I was little. There is a bag of M&Ms on the table and I work my way through them; methodically putting them in my mouth, one after another. I don't even bother to sort them into colours. Just suck to acknowledge the sweetness, then crunch and they are gone.

I guess I should write to my mother. She won't have heard from me for days and I don't want her to worry. I've tried to start a letter a few times but I didn't get very far. It has never been this difficult before. *Dear Mom, I am so sorry* . . . and that's all I can write. I stare at it for a moment, and then put down my pen. It feels so heavy in my hand.

I didn't want to go back there, to revisit all those painful times – but you can't control a hallucination. And it was more than just a memory – I was there. I could smell the musty, warm scent of my mother's bedroom, the way it pervaded the house. After my father left, it took a while before I got to manage all the cleaning and chores and my mother wouldn't have the windows open. So our house was oppressively hot, suffocating and fusty. I was right back there. I was watching the worst times in my life, hearing my mother's voice, my nostrils full of the scent of my childhood. And I hated it. And yet I'm still longing to go back - because if I'm there, at least I'm not here.

It hurts right now. And I know I could make it stop. And I won't do it.

----------------------

The clock says 2.36 am. Spencer is out of bed. I rub my eyes and get up – I have to pee. Coming back from the bathroom I see him, folded into the corner of the couch.

I'm worried. I have been for days. He won't talk to anybody – not even me. I know about the bruises and I've seen the track marks on his arms – but I haven't asked him. He needs to tell me himself. The doctors told us nothing and I'm trying to respect his need to keep some part of himself private. But I can't help him if I don't know what's wrong.

We are in unknown territory here and I am lost. I watched Gideon fall apart after Boston and I have no desire to go through that experience again. I'm keeping a close eye on Spencer, waiting for him to stumble, waiting to scoop him up in my arms and carry him away from this. But how can you help someone who won't acknowledge that he needs it? I guess I just have to wait, but the waiting is hard.

I went through hell waiting to find him. When Gideon spoke to him through the webcam, I was longing to shout to him – to tell him I love him and to hold on because we would find him soon – but I didn't dare give Hankel a reason to hurt him. And later, when he said my name – for a moment I was shocked and now I feel so bad for even that second's worth of doubt.

I stayed in control through it all. For once I wished I could be like Morgan – shout and swear and slam my fist into the wall. I wanted to grab Hankel, smash his face into the ground, and hurl him into the van. I wanted to see him suffer for what he did – to Spencer and to all of us. I wanted him to be punished, but he's dead and it makes me feel cheated.

I walk into the living room holding Spencer's robe. He turns his head and looks at me. I haven't seen him smile since I sent him to interview Hankel. Spencer's eyes look red and hollow. His face is drawn and he seems even skinnier. Each of us has asked him if there is anything he wants to tell us about and each time he says no. But I'm going to keep the question coming until he is ready to answer it.

He is rubbing his foot. "Still hurting?" I ask. "Are you ready for more meds?"

He shakes his head quickly. "No, I don't want any." He is reluctant to take anything for his foot but I don't press it. I hope he isn't trying to prove something.

"Spence – do you want to talk?" I ask, coming to sit beside him.

Spencer gives a weak nod and I'm surprised – but I try to hide it. This is the first time he has seemed willing to talk about what happened and I need to listen. I sit down next to him and nod encouragingly.

"I begged him Aaron," he says, his voice faint. "I begged him not to hurt me. I pleaded with him."

"That's understandable" I say, keeping my voice even, "There's nothing wrong with that."

He looks at me and he is crumbling. "I begged him," he says, "And he still hurt me." He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "I was pleading, doing anything to save myself." I watch him as he presses his hands against his eyes, he's trying to hard to control himself but it's a losing battle.

He isn't angry at Hankel, he's angry at himself and that breaks my heart. "Spencer, baby," I whisper, "You have nothing to blame yourself for."

He looks so small, his body curled up in the corner as though he is trying to hide. "I tried to be strong but I couldn't," he says, his breath hitching. "I was such a *victim*." He shudders at the last word. I bite back tears of my own.

"You are stronger than anybody I know," I tell him, trying my best to reassure him. "You held it together and you survived. And you told me where to find you."

He is gulping and sniffing, trying to choke back the tears, but they keep coming. "Aaron," he says, his voice cracking, "I was digging my own grave." He pauses, struggling to continue. "He was going to bury me there." And then he can't speak anymore and he just cries. He doesn't sob; he doesn't howl, he doesn't yell, he just cries – quietly and devastatingly.

I don't know what to do. My hand hovers above his back, unsure whether or not to touch him. And this is my lover; the man who shares my bed and whose body I have kissed and stroked and licked and caressed. Yet I don't know if I should even place a hand on him.

I look at him, so broken right now and I want to make it better. I want to take it all away. I want my Spencer back.

I put an arm around his shoulders and pull him to me. I hold him tight in my arms and I let him cry. I don't shush him and I don't try to talk to him. I just hold him. My arms are strong and safe and I can at least do this for him. I can hold him as long as he needs me to.

And after a while, the crying lessens and then it peters out. We don't speak, I just keep holding him while he sniffs and whimpers. I've got all the time in the world and I won't let him go. Eventually his breathing slows and he goes heavy in my arms and I know he's fallen asleep. I can move one arm, so I reach for his robe and pull it down over his body. Thankful that I already visited the bathroom, I bow my head and plant a gentle kiss on my lover's head. Then I settle back against the cushions and wait for morning.

end