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The first time it’s mentioned, Spencer’s instincts tell him to shy away. Divert, give an excuse, and move on like nothing happened.
It’s Hotch, and it’s with a raised eyebrow that’s only as such in concern. “Spencer,” he says that night, late in his hotel room, “Do I need to search your room?”
Spencer wants to get angry, wants to defend himself, but exhaustion wins over. With one simple word that answers more questions than he’d care to admit, he replies, “No,” very quietly. For emphasis, because Hotch knows him better than most, he looks the man in the eye. “No, you don’t. I promise.”
It’s a long, deafeningly quiet moment before Hotch replies, “I’m trusting you.”
Spencer nods slowly. “Thank you.”
“Talk to me,” he continues. “When you’re ready, when you need to. Talk to me. You’re safe.”
You’re safe. That’s the biggest part, right? He’s safe. He’s safe from the drugs, from Dilaudid, from the fear. And he’s safe in his job. He’s safe with his family. He’s not safe with himself, but he’s safe with his team, and that’s what carries him.
It’s approaching eighteen weeks clean when he makes a joke before realizing. It’s almost natural, because sometimes he doesn’t think about what he’s saying, usually he doesn’t have to, so when he mutters, “Well, this guy definitely partook in a few things I’ll be talking about in meetings later,” while investigating a crime scene, track marks littering his exposed arm and a paleness Spencer swears isn’t from decomposition.
The rest of the room freezes, like they aren’t allowed to acknowledge it. The first to is Morgan: “We’re… talking about this?” he asks carefully.
Spencer shrugs. There’s a lot of fear pushed down to feign nonchalance. “Hotch, do you plan on firing me for it?” A shake of the man’s head, and he continues, “Then… Yes. Yes, we’re talking about this.”
The conversation stops there, because they’re not having it over a dead body, but Spencer feels the tension in the room throughout the day. On the car ride back to the hotel, with Hotch, Emily, and Morgan, Spencer pipes up. “You’re all quiet,” while he drives. It had been at his request, needing something to distract him, keep him from the awkward eye contact on the twenty two minute drive to the hotel.
Emily says quietly, “I didn’t know we were going to discuss the…”
“Addiction?” Spencer adds helpfully. “Neither did I.”
“Where are we supposed to start?”
“What do you want to know?”
The car goes silent, but Hotch speaks first: “How long has it been?”
“Eighteen weeks clean. Four and a half months.”
The case with Hankel had been almost eight months ago; they can all do the math. “You were—” Morgan says, cutting himself off to collect his thoughts. “Three months. On your own.”
“Three months, two weeks, six days.” Spencer says it with a bite to his voice, because beyond his gratefulness for this conversation now, it was a long three months.
“God, we did nothing,” Emily whispers.
“You were protecting our jobs,” Spencer tries to excuse. It’s what he told himself so long ago; what he’s repeated to keep himself sane. You were protecting our jobs, so he doesn't stray towards, You weren’t protecting me.
“We were scared,” Morgan adds, a bite to his own voice. “And idiots.”
“Yes,” he agrees plainly so nothing worse comes out of his mouth. Spencer takes this right turn a little sharper than he meant to, but it feels justified. Somehow. “What else do you want to know?”
Emily asks after a moment, “How… how do you cope? I mean, I’ve never been…”
“Addicted.”
She sounds uncomfortable, but Spencer sees her nod. “Yeah. I just don’t know what that process looks like.”
“It looks like throwing out your drugs,” he says bluntly, needing to explain it as such so he doesn’t get too involved, so he doesn’t get emotional about it. “Then you spend the next twelve hours regretting it, and trying not to call a dealer, and then remembering all the physical symptoms of withdrawal and having 911 at the ready because even though you know it won’t kill you, sometimes it feels like it.” He stops to take a breath. “And you wake up the next morning and wonder if any of it was real. If you were just being dramatic. And when you realize it is, you have to decide between calling your dealer and going to an NA meeting in three hours. Depending on the decision you make, you either start the process over again in a week or deal with the cravings as they come.”
It’s… well, Spencer can admit that maybe it was a bit too much. But he’s said it, so he tries to make the silence comfortable when he knows it isn’t.
Hotch finally pipes in. “Do you go to meetings?”
Spencer nods. “There’s an NA meeting in DC I go to, and I can usually find some late night vice meetings when we’re on a case. I go when I can.”
“Do they help?”
“They don’t hurt anything.”
“You did that alone,” Morgan says softly. There’s obvious guilt in his voice, and something sardonic in Spencer is grateful. He missed them. He wanted to call someone, and he never did, because if no one said anything at that point, why would they care?
Still, he says, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You shouldn’t have had to,” Morgan says a little firmer this time. “We knew. I knew. It should have been enough.”
“Morgan, beating yourself up over a screwed up situation won’t make it any less screwed up,” Spencer says simply. “As much as I wish it would, sometimes. It’s done.”
It’s done. You had your chance. I trust you in the field, but I don’t trust you with me.
It’s silent, but everyone hears it anyway.
The drive is silent. Spencer usually likes it that way, but this time all he can think about is the pressure on his lungs, and how everyone in the car is beating themselves up. Cynically, it feels like retribution. He lets it sit in the car with them, because it feels good right now. Maybe not later, but now, it feels like retribution for those months, those weeks, those hours he debated who to call if he was going to die from the withdrawal symptoms.
It’s a small comfort, but it’s a comfort, and he hasn’t had that in a long time, so he takes it gratefully.