White Lies ✓

13 - Predispositions

You laid awake for hours, debating on whether or not you should wake Spencer and ask him what the fuck was going on. You felt sick, the pit of nervousness pulling at your stomach. How were you supposed to bring this up? Were you even supposed to bring it up? Was it any of your business? Finally, due to pure exhaustion, you fell asleep around two in the morning. Your sleep was light, and you awoke quickly to your alarm at seven. The bed was empty and the apartment was quiet. Spencer had snuck out sometime in the early morning. You groaned and rolled out of bed. The second your feet hit the floor, you were met with the pounding headache that usually accompanied your restless nights. You walked down the hall and into the bathroom. The small bottle of Advil in your cabinet was a lifesaver, you tossed it back with a mouthful of water from the faucet, taking one of the painkillers Dr. Morrison had given you as well. The throbbing in your head faded as you walked back to your bedroom to get ready for the day. You had no real motivation to put together a whole outfit so you grabbed a black turtleneck and a brown tweed skirt. You pulled your hair back into a ponytail and grabbed your glasses, not wanting to fight with your contacts. You grabbed your bag and stepped into your boots, leaving the apartment.

Like last time, Spencer seemed to have left without you, giving you time to think more about what had happened the night before. Yeah, the sex was great, probably the best you'd had, but you knew it couldn't happen again. Ever. The idea of fucking the person you'd hated since kindergarten sent angry butterflies loose in your stomach. And that all happened before you'd noticed the track marks on his arms.

Spencer and drugs?

You shook your head, racking your brain for any reasonable explanation. Spencer, was not the kind of person to mess around with the hard stuff, what had changed? Were you supposed to tell Hotch? You didn't want to get Spencer in trouble but he needed help, and telling Hotch meant risking him finding out how you knew. You decided that you'd talk to him first, hoping that there was some way you were mistaken, that the darkness of your bedroom had played tricks on your eyes. You parked next to Morgan's truck. Glancing at the cars in the lot as you walked to the elevator, you noticed you seemed to be the last one here. Checking your phone, you breathed a sigh of relief. You weren't late.

---------------

The day had been slow, a backlog of misfiled paperwork had come back to the office, and the team had been spending the day redoing the files. He'd caught the bus again, but the team didn't seem to notice anything strange. You motioned to him once from your desk to pull up the neck of his sweater to cover the small purple bruise that colored the hollow of his throat. He blushed red and tugged it up, hiding it from the team. After dropping your first stack of papers off in Hotch's office, you finally caught Spencer alone in the kitchen. He had his back to you, busy at the coffee station, pouring an obscene amount of sugar into his cup.

You set your mug onto the counter next to his. "Spencer, can I talk to you?"

"What's up?" He asked warily, glancing to make sure you were alone.

"I- Are you okay? After last night..."

"I thought we said we weren't going to talk about that," he said, voice low and harsh.

"Yeah, but-"

"I've got to get back. Maybe we can talk later." He left the kitchen in a rush. You held your employ coffee cup, trying to fight back the strange tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You blinked profusely, filled your mug, and stepped back into the bullpen.

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"God, if I see another manilla folder I'm going to throw up." You joked, dropping the last file on Hotch's desk.