criminal minds | one-shots ✓

3. losing time

i.

when spencer gets home from a 24-hour surveillance watch at the hospital, two bottles of dilaudid hidden in his bag and then smuggled deep into his pockets, he feels fine.

at least, that's what he's telling himself. and he has the statistics and scientific proof needed to show that people have survived in worse conditions. so he's fine.

he is breathing. he is blinking. he is fully functioning, with all the brains and bones and blood he had before (well, maybe a little bit less blood, but he has the statistics for that, too.

there's four levels of blood loss, each getting progressively worse and more dangerous than the last.

one: the first 10-15%; lightheadedness, maybe nausea, especially if you have to look at it.

two: 15-30%; about 1-2 liters. presents cooling of the skin and quickened heat rate to be kept alive.

three: 40%; most likely in need of a transfusion, extreme heart rate. small blood vessels constrict, symptoms may feel like death.

four: 50% or more; the deadliest. comatose state, the heart stops beating, causing organ failure. with rapid medical treatment, survival may be possible, though unlikely.

if he felt some or more of these symptoms while in the hands of a man playing god, that was his business.

he was fine.

is.)

he wonders if when he says it aloud, it sounds as desperate as he does in his head. if it's as raw as he feels. on the worst nights, when his head is pounding behind his eyes and below his scalp, he wishes he'd lost a little bit more blood, wished tobias has granted him just a sliver of peace.

he thinks the only thing grounding him is the needle in his shaking right hand and the liquid he fills it with. he pushes it into his skin and watches it drain, before taking off the turniquet and staring at his ceiling.

he feels himself disassociate and in the small silences and stretches of wasted time, where the only thing that matters is an escape from the pain he says he doesn't feel, he almost manages to convince himself that he really is fine.

but his mirror is shattered from a bad night that ended in nothing but a mess and bloody knuckles, and he knows the dark bags under his eyes and the red surrounding his pupils and his hallowed out cheeks isn't just a result of the broken glass. there are tiny scars on the inside of his elbow, from desperation and addiction that bleed from where he scratches absentmindedly. maybe, if he weren't so fucked in the head all the time, he might care more.

but the clock strikes three, and it's just another reminder that he has something to spend his time doing. even if it's not ideal.

he swears he'll stop. he knows the others know, even if they don't explicitly say - hotch had not so subtly slipped him a business card of a therapist when he'd asked for time off, and morgan had been side eyeing him ever since their last plane ride back. maybe he should feel more grateful, but the only thing he really feels lately is a thick, hot red anger, and a molasses exhaustion.

he watches the clock continue ticking.

he swears he'll get better. eventually. but, for right now, he's fine.

ii.

it's been seven years, eight months, and twelve days since spencer has owned a calendar.

when you have the constant mental tick tock, tick tock of a countdown in your brain, you find you have no real use for one. and spencer can - does - countdown everything; how long it's been since he's graduated, how long it's been since he's gotten his first, second and third phd, separately, how long it's been since he's eaten a full meal or gotten the recommended minimal eight hours of sleep, how long it's been since tobias, how long it's been since his last hit.