The After

Chapter 4

Spencer leaned heavily against the wash basin as the water from the shower pounded against the ceramic base. The mirror on the medicine cabinet had clouded over with steam, distorting Spencer's reflection. The bitter acidic taste of vomit still lingered in his mouth. Yet again, he barely slept and spent much of the night cradling the toilet as he vomited on and off. His skin was ghostly pale and the circles around his eyes were significantly darker than usual. Shadows clung to the hollows of his cheekbones. His shaggy chin length hair clung to the beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Accepting the inevitable, Spencer turned and stepped into the shower. The hot water lashed against his bare, icy cold skin, eliciting a gasp from the genius. He pressed a shaky palm to the tiled wall to steady himself as his legs trembled. Water trickled down his legs and pooled under his feet.

Once Spencer sloughed off the acrid stench of puke from his deathly pale skin, he dried himself off with the towel from the rail in the bathroom and padded across the floor to his bedroom to get dressed. He wrenched open his closet door and stared moodily at his hangers of clothing. His wardrobe had changed over recent years and screamed less college professor and more FBI agent. Slamming his closet door shut, he made his way to his chest of drawers. Luckily he kept some casual t-shirts in his drawer and jeans that he had hidden away. No one besides his team had seen him wear anything so casual, and even then it was rare for them. Spencer threw a selection of t-shirts and jeans onto his bed to pack into a go bag. He tugged on a pair of black jeans, the stiff denim feeling alien against his skin, and dragged a faded rock t-shirt on over his head that Tara Lewis had given to him to try and make him more "cool". He was grateful for leaving his stubble to grow in as it was less likely he would be recognised. He gathered some underwear and mismatched socks and shuffled over to his bed where a pile of clothing sat in disarray next to the go bag he usually used when on a case with the BAU. He stuffed the clothing and underwear haphazardly into the bag and zipped it up. Spencer slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way into the lounge.

Spencer closely resembled that of a haggard touring rock star as he rode the subway to the airport. He had to sit in one of the sideways facing seats where an elderly couple sat in silence opposite him, holding one another's hands. Spencer felt nauseated as the thoughts crept back through his mind to his task. His credentials were buried deep in his go bag. He felt naked without his revolver or his phone. He had been given a new phone under his new name. He briefly recalled a conversation he had many moons previously with Aaron Hotchner about carrying a firearm.

"When I joined the BAU, Gideon said to me, "you don't have to carry a gun to kill someone.""

Spencer hoped that he could be convincing and avoid having to talk his way out of a situation. His breath felt hot and stale under the mask he wore over his nose and mouth when he inhaled which added to his uneasiness and misted his spectacles with each breath. He opted to wear his prescription spectacles instead of his usual contacts to reduce the likelihood of being recognised. He tapped his booted foot rhythmically against the go bag on the floor between his feet.

Spencer hitched his bag further onto his leather clad shoulder and glanced around the airport. His mask was irritating the skin on his face. The airport, normally buzzing with activity from holidaymakers from all countries and walks of life, was deathly silent. The majority of commercial flights had been cancelled in the wake of the pandemic and people were confined to their homes. In one respect, it was exactly where Spencer wished he was. He made his way to departures and handed over his passport and boarding pass to the security officer. He was quickly waved through and handed his documents back. With his head down, Spencer continued forwards. This is it, Spence... You can do this... You talk down unsubs... You managed to keep your cover with Benjamin Cyrus at Liberty Ranch... He was quickly snapped out of his thoughts by a presence behind him and a gruff voice.

"Dr Whitfield?" Spencer turned slowly and warily to face the voice. A man, only a little shorter than Spencer stood directly in front of him, hands clasped in front of him. The lower half of his face was obscured by a black respirator and he was dressed all in black, only revealing a pair of piercing blue eyes.

"Yeah," responded Spencer, desperately trying to steady his voice.

"I'm here on behalf of Renholdt. You are the microbiologist en route to New York, yes?"

"Yeah. What of it?" Spencer straightened to make himself appear taller and hitched his bag further up his shoulder. Spencer felt the bag being tugged off his shoulder, making him whirl around to face another man dressed in a similar manner who was trying to relieve him of his luggage. A sharp pain pierced through the side of Spencer's neck, making him try to grasp at the cause. The surroundings began to blur and he was unable to speak, as if the signals from his brain were not reaching his mouth. He sagged to the tiled floor as darkness took over his vision.