The Intelligence Control and Analysis Program

Chapter 13

"I'm sorry."

Hotch glanced up from his phone, a slight frown pulling on his mouth. He reached down to tousle Spencer's hair with his free hand, carefully prodding for more information. "What are you sorry for?"

Spencer heaved a sigh and curled up on the cot the hospital had been kind enough to provide. He pulled his blanket around himself a little tighter, hazel eyes absently wandering over to Dallas. He sniffed, shifted his gaze to the monitor, and then drooped on the bed.

"Spencer, what are you sorry for?"

Spencer shrugged and inched a little closer to Hotch's hand, nudging until Hotch huffed out a laugh and started to play with the mousy, brown locks.

"You need a haircut." And a bath, but Hotch wasn't going to mention that; Spencer had enough to be self-conscious about. "If I play with your hair, will you tell me what you're sorry for?" Hotch looked down at his phone again, skimming his inbox in search of an encouraging update. "Or are you being cryptic today?" He gave Spencer a sideways glance.

Spencer flashed a weak smile, but it quickly faded, the skin beneath his eyes darkened by fatigue. "I just... picked the worst time to have an episode."

Hotch continued to idly run his fingers through Spencer's hair, occasionally rubbing Spencer's shoulders, upper back, and neck, trying to bring him some kind of comfort. "First of all, you didn't pick anything. These past few days have been very stressful for everyone, and everyone is suffering aftereffects. Yours are more severe because of a condition you can't control, and nobody holds that against you." He opened an email from an old friend, someone from his days as a prosecutor, and scanned the words with only half his attention. "Second of all, don't call it an episode. It's just a setback. If you call it an episode, you give it a power it doesn't deserve."

Spencer curled up a little more and shifted his weight, like he couldn't get comfortable; which was quite possible, given the strong correlation between depression and chronic pain.

Hotch finished looking at the email and put his full attention back on Spencer. "Do you want some Advil?" he asked, concern creasing his brow.

Spencer shook his head. "No." He was still for a moment, and then he pulled himself into a sitting position. "I don't want to sleep again."

Hotch let out a soft sigh. "Spencer, if your body needs sleep—"

"Please, Agent Hotchner?" Spencer turned pleading eyes to Hotch, an almost whining edge to his tone. "I slept all night, and I've been dozing on and off for four hours." He was unhappy, but he seemed sure of himself. "I want to be awake."

Hotch lifted his hand in a gesture of surrender. "Alright. If you really want to be awake, we'll make it happen." He had such a fine line to walk, balancing between teaching Spencer to be gentle with himself and encouraging him not to give up the fight. "Do you want to run to the cafeteria and get some coffee?"

Spencer bit his lip, shrinking back slightly. "Um... I was actually thinking... maybe I could have some Ritalin? I... I've been more tired than usual with everything that's happened, and I'm afraid coffee won't be enough, and if I drink coffee, but I still feel tired, then I can't take Ritalin because of the coffee, or I could, but I would be high, so I thought—"

Hotch held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Spencer. Spencer. Hey."

"—maybe it would be alright... if..."

"Hey, shh, it's okay." Hotch waited until Spencer's words came to a complete stop. "It's okay," he repeated with an encouraging smile. "I have some Ritalin in my go-bag."