"I miss the kiss of treachery, the shameless kiss of vanity"
That had been years ago. For a while Spencer's life had been shooting up, working, sleeping. Rinse and repeat.
It was consistency though, and;
As far as he knew he was safe...
Getting clean had been hard. The withdrawal was only half the problem; the flashbacks came back with a vengeance.
He'd done it. By himself. He realised someone else on the team must have known. They weren't stupid. They would've noticed how he would shake or all the times he rushed to the restroom, how he definitely wasn't sleeping. He appreciated no one had mentioned it.
The support group had helped, and learning to open up about the flashbacks.
Now, things seemed almost normal. Of course as an fbi agent nothing was exactly normal, but this was better. Minimal flashbacks and he could actually sleep at night. Maybe not the required 7 hours but it was something.
Then Emily dies.
More than anything, Spencer feels guilty. He'd been kidnapped and survived. Why didn't she?
It should be him
No one speaks for a long time after the doctor tells them, just sit there trying to process it.
Spencer holds out until they get back to HQ. He reaches into his desk drawer for a needle and dilaudid.
Some days they were there as a kind of trophy, every time he saw them be could be proud. He didn't need it anymore.
Other days it was a safety net. Just in case.
Rarely it was a temptation, on those days where they had a bad case. Even then he'd pushed through it.
But today he cracked.
No one even looks up as he heads for the restroom and he feels selfish for hoping someone would wonder what he was doing.
He doesn't think and it's all too easy to inject the drug. He sits back on the toilet lid and sighs as that familiar calm feeling washes over him.
As far as he knows he's safe...
Everyone's too wrapped up in their own grief to notice that Spencer's maybe a little out of it. They don't even say goodbye as he heads out of the door.
His dealer, a kid who went by the nickname Shy, is in his usual place. He smirks as he sees Spencer approaching.
Spencer hands over $200, that would last a while. He hates that he feels relief once the vials are in his bag.
Once he reaches his flat he puts the dilaudid in a box in a little box he has. Hidden in plain sight. And anyway he's the only one with the key.
He stores the needles in his shirt drawer, right at the back.
He's exhausted but forces himself to read a few pages of his latest book before changing and getting into bed.
His sleep is thankfully dreamless, and he sleeps for 7 hours straight. Everything seems alright when he wakes up, until he registers the nausea and remembers: Emily's dead.
As far as he knows he's safe?
He steadied himself. He had to go to work. There would no doubt be a case, hopefully he'd be too busy to dwell on the previous day.
He dresses and pours some coffee with far too much sugar. He eyes the box with the dilaudid. He takes one vial out, just in case. He wasn't addicted again, no way. He didn't need it. But just in case because today was going to be hard.
There is a case and they're leaving in 30 minutes. Spencer's ok until then. 30 minutes with nothing to do. Well, he could read, go over case files, but that wouldn't take too long.
He absemtmindedly reaches into his bag, into the secret pocket.
It's then he's overcome with all sorts of emotions as he realises one thing: he needs to shoot up, and now.
