Emily is alive.
The revelation hits Spencer like a punch in the gut, except worse. He hears himself state something painfully obvious while his mind reels. She's alive, and they knew. Not just Hotch, but JJ as well – it's obvious from her place at the front of the room, the way she's avoiding their eyes. They lied to them.
He trusted them. Trusted Hotch as the only father figure he had left, trusted JJ as he had never trusted anyone before. But now –
Emily is alive.
Spencer can feel his last piece of solid ground crumbling beneath him.
.
.
.
He doesn't turn to look at her as they stand outside the interrogation room. He doesn't want to see her new haircut, her unfamiliar shirt, the hesitation in her eyes. He most certainly doesn't want to invite conversation.
The call comes in.
Declan is gone.
Something inside of Spencer snaps.
The confusion which has fogged his mind evaporates like mist, and by the time he's inside the interrogation room his brain is already working at a thousand miles an hour (figuratively, of course; the electrical charges which jump between synapses actually move much faster than that). Doyle's posture is hunched defensively, his hands clasped in front of him, traces of fear and pain which have nothing to do with his arrest showing in his expression. He's even more worried about his son than they are. The whole team is desperate to fix something, anything, and Hotch, who normally would be the most difficult to sway, is looking for a way to reinforce the trust which he knows he has broken.
"He hates you, doesn't he?"
"More than you do," Doyle replies matter-of-factly, and Spencer knows that he's right. Only a tiny fraction of his anger is truly directed at the psychopath in front of him. The rest is at Emily, at JJ, at Hotch, at Gideon and Elle and his father and Harper Hillman and most of all at himself for being so impossibly stupid which he should have known better than to trust anyone, ever.
But Doyle is here, and a child is in danger, and Spencer has a plan.
"I think we should give him what he really wants – you."
There's surprise, and hope, and something almost like respect in Doyle's eyes.
Spencer wonders what's showing in his own.
.
.
.
He tries to hold on to his anger. It seems safest, easiest. Soon, however, he discovers three things.
First: he doesn't have the voice for it.
Studies have shown that women pay more attention to words spoken in a deep male voice. Spencer is sure that if he had said the things he did in a voice more like Morgan's, it would have come across as a legitimately angry, adult argument. As it is, he sounded like a petulant twelve-year-old.
Second: he doesn't have the stomach for it.
It was one thing when Emily was a practical stranger, a handy scapegoat when his life was falling apart and he had no one to blame but himself. It's another thing entirely when she looks so horribly guilty whenever she sees him, when JJ flinches and bristles at his (admittedly unfair) barbs, when Hotch frowns at him with that mixture of concern and disappointment that he remembers from the Owen Savage case. In the end, Spencer just can't do it. He can't hurt the people he cares about, even if he's not sure he wants to care about them anymore.
Third: he doesn't have the energy for it.
Holding a grudge is so much work, and Spencer is so tired.
.
.
.
Spencer works at looking strong, and succeeds.
He's sure that he's succeeding, because Morgan never checks whether he's still having his headaches (he is), and Prentiss doesn't look at him as if he'll bite her head off for breathing (he won't), and even JJ rarely asks if he's alright (he's not). It goes beyond the team, as well – local cops don't have the same doubt in their eyes when they hear his title, and UnSubs have more fear in theirs when he stares them down along the barrel of his gun. He still incites mutters and raised eyebrows, but there are fewer snickers and sneers.
He looks strong, but he doesn't feel it.
His foot aches if he sits still for too long, and his knee throbs before it rains. The headaches come and go with no pattern that he can deduce. The track marks are long gone from his arms – luckily, he doesn't scar easily – but the cravings will be with him for the rest of his life. The fear constantly hums at the back of his thoughts, turning every trick of the light into a trick of the mind.
He's starting to feel like little more than a trick of the light himself.
.
.
.
He stands at the window, watching the raindrops slide down it. He tries to chart their trajectories, but he can't, because raindrops fall in truly random configurations and there's no predicting when another one will hit the window and render all his previous calculations useless.
Prentiss comes to stand beside him. He doesn't flinch or jump or even look around, and she doesn't try to get his attention. They stand in silence as the rain pounds on the roof of the local police station. It's not uncomfortable, but it's not exactly amiable, either.
It feels like lifetimes ago that she stared at him with exaggerated awe and reached out to poke him in the cheek, fond and teasing.
"He's so lifelike!"
No one touches him, these days. Not that they often did, before – he's not comfortable with it, and very few people are comfortable with him – but lately, the team seems to be even more careful about giving him his space. He suspects that they're making a conscious effort to treat him like an adult.
He appreciates it, and not just because it means that Morgan doesn't ruffle his hair anymore. He feels hollow and false, like a mask with no one behind it, and he can't shake the irrational thought that a single touch would shatter the illusion.
Prentiss speaks at last, dragging him out of his thoughts.
"You've changed," she says, and it sounds like a revelation.
"You have, too," is on the tip of his tongue, but she hasn't, not really. It's only his perception that's changed.
"Yes, I have," he says instead.
More silence, and he can see her studying him out of the corner of his eye.
"Reid –"
He turns toward her and cocks his head to the side expectantly.
"Yes?" he prompts after twelve seconds have passed at she's still frowning at him uncertainly.
"I –" She raises her hand as if to touch to his shoulder. Involuntarily, he tenses. She lets her hand fall and shakes herself, musters up a smile. "Nothing. Sounds like they're deciding on dinner over there," she says, gesturing over her shoulder at the rest of the team. "We should probably join them – unless you want to get stuck with Chinese food again."
"I have nothing against Chinese food," protests Spencer indignantly. "It's the utensils which make no sense."
"Yeah, but the two tend to go together," she tosses over her shoulder as she moves away.
He follows, just out of reach.