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When Spencer woke up, he felt oddly fatigued. Not that he could really be considered a morning person (not until he was at least one cup of coffee in, complimented by no less than 5 sugars of course), but he didn’t usually feel so heavy in the mornings. His eyelids felt glued shut, arms filled with lead, and to top it all off, his knee was throbbing worse than it had been since his first few days off his cane. It only got worse from there; when he sat up to check the time on his phone, an icepick of pain pierced through his browbone, a dull ache beginning to set in on his right temple, accompanying the glaring warning sign that set off in his head. MIGRAINE INCOMING: SHUT SYSTEMS DOWN.
Normally this wouldn’t be much of an issue; so long as they weren’t on an active case, his job generally revolved around being seated at his desk in the bullpen, filling out paperwork (along with the files Emily and Derek not-so-sneakily stuck in his pile), and if need be, hiding out in Penelope’s “bat cave” of low lighting and multitudes of places to plug in headphones to listen to classical music.
However, today was not normal. Today, they were in the middle-of-nowhere, Wyoming, working on identifying a rapidly devolving unsub that had taken new victims only last night, leaving their bodies scattered through the freeway in pieces. Today, he was working on a geographical profile and victimology analysis from inside the community center (the police station being too small to accommodate an FBI unit), which had only one whiteboard, one that wasn’t of much use from a seating position. And today, he couldn’t spend the morning moving slowly, popping (non-narcotic) pain pills in hopes that none of his team would notice, because he was rooming with one Derek Morgan in the only motel in the entire town, and if Derek noticed something was wrong, he would tell Hotch, who would send him back to the room (or worse, if he started vomiting, the hospital) where he wouldn’t be of use to anyone.
So instead, he just had to fake it.
Multiple studies show that repeatedly telling yourself that you are experiencing something, even if it’s not true, can actually have a placebo-like effect on the brain. He knew that study revolved largely around convincing oneself of emotions, not a physical affliction such as a migraine, but in theory it could work, right? (The brain fog was able to put a stop to the voice telling him the statistical unlikelihood of such an outcome).
He stood up slowly, thankful that Derek wasn’t fully awake yet, and managed to amble his way through getting ready, using sleight-of-hand to grab some ibuprofen from his go-bag without the other profiler noticing. He received some suspicious looks, and exactly one eyebrow raise, but the two hadn’t roomed together often enough for Derek to certainly say that that wasn’t how Spencer always was in the mornings. Within the hour, the two were fully dressed and prepared to try to catch this killer, and Spencer only had one more obstacle before he was somewhat alone and could brush off his being quiet as thinking, and brush off his limping as sleeping oddly.
Unfortunately, that obstacle was breakfast.
As small as the motel was, they knew that their guests were FBI and had offered to put together a meal for them before they got back to work. Hotch insisted all of them were expected to be there (to make sure all of them actually ate something, which he didn’t say, as most of them tended to forget while in the midst of a case). Breakfast, in the small but bright dining room, flooded with natural light (good for the body and mind, terrible for a migraine) and expected conversation (not something he was normally good at, but his team knew how to actually get him talking, and they knew each other well enough to deem small talk meaningless. In Spencer’s opinion, it was always meaningless, but he digresses).
The small size of the motel meant there were only two floors, the second with rooms and the first with the check in desk, kitchen, dining room, and break room, but it was also old enough to have no elevators (Spencer made a mental note to make a report under the ADA to have that remedied), so he stuck close to the railing and hobbled his way down, ignoring Derek’s looks all the while.
They were the last two to make it into the dining room (as usual, Hotch being the leader and prioritizing punctuality, as well as him and JJ having small children, meaning they were used to being up early; Rossi and Emily were forced up with them and Penelope, able to do tech analysis back in Quantico, blissfully unbothered). Spencer noticed Hotch and Derek make eye contact, but he chose to ignore it in favor of all but collapsing into the nearest chair, head throbbing at the sudden change in position.
He was able to get through most of breakfast without incident, blaming his quiet status on the lack of coffee (the staff apologetically explained they had run out of sugar, and Spencer would rather get shot in the leg again than drink it black. The stab of pain to his browbone in response to withdrawal from his mild caffeine addiction nearly made him reconsider). However, near the time they were to head into the station, Hotch received a call and stood to go into the other room to take it.
Conversation halted while he was gone, fearing a new body, but instead, his return heralded good news. “They pulled over the unsub this morning for speeding, found him covered in blood matching the most recent victim. They’ve offered to comp us for another day for the inconvenience, to rest before heading back to Virginia, I told them I’d see what you guys wanted to do.” The team quickly agreed to the rare day off, Emily already pulling out her phone to check for any bigger cities or attractions nearby that they could visit, when the onslaught of noise caused the pain in Spencer’s head to multiply exponentially, causing him to grit his teeth.
“Spence? You ok?” JJ asked, always keeping a close eye on her best friend, especially with how quiet he’d been.
“Yeah, I’m alright, just need to run to the restroom.” The staff pointed him toward where it was, on the other side of the dining room, but as soon as he stood up, his vision went black and his knees buckled.
“Grab him!”
“Hey kid, c’mon, look at me.”
“Reid!”
He felt a rough texture beneath his head (Hotch’s suit jacket, he registered faintly), and a hand shaking his shoulder. He forced his eyes open, but he still couldn’t see, only able to focus on the cloud of pain that was his head and the harsh ringing in his ears. “Ow…”
“Reid, what hurts?” Hotch’s authoritative voice came from beside him.
“’m fine…”
“Kid, you look like you’re about to pass out, cut the shit.” Came Derek’s voice from his other side.
“Spence, is it a migraine?” He nodded to JJ's question, barely able to tell where in the room she was over the blood rushing and tinnitus masking his hearing (and wasn’t that an odd thought, he’d gotten so good at finding people by sound in middle school that it was now second nature to him).
He could practically feel the look that Hotch and Derek exchanged over him, but he was far beyond caring, simply closing his eyes and trying to give in to the peaceful sleep that had been drawing him in since he woke up. “Hey hey hey, genius, don’t pass out on us.”
“Jus’ sleeping…”
“Whatever you’re trying to do that involves losing consciousness, don’t.” Everyone in the room collectively waited for Spencer to go on about the levels of consciousness in someone who was sleeping versus someone who fainted, but they were only met with the sound of his somewhat labored breathing.
“Alright, Morgan, help me get him to your room. I need to go talk to the chief of police and take final statements, but I don’t want him to be alone-”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Rossi piped up. Normally Spencer would be incensed that they were talking about him like he wasn’t there, but at the moment he didn’t have the energy to care, slowly regaining the feeling in his extremities but no less exhausted than before, and uncomfortable at the sweat that was now wetting his hair to his forehead.
“You sure, Dave?”
“You go, I’ve got him. The rest of you go do whatever it is you were going to do; my plans revolved around staying here anyway.”
A beat of silence, where Spencer imagined Hotch nodded, but didn’t open his eyes to confirm. “Alright. The rest of you still deserve your break, we’ll fly out at 7 tomorrow. Try not to be too hungover. Prentiss.” Snickers rang throughout the room, as well as a huff from the aforementioned woman.
“Alright kid, we’ll do most of the work but you should try to help us out, at least with your good leg.”
“Good leg? Is his other giving him trouble again?”
“He was limping down the stairs. I don’t think he wanted me to notice, so the fact that he was means it’s pretty bad.” Spencer reached out a weak arm for a flimsy slap to Derek’s bicep, barely able to mutter out “snitch” at his roommate.
“I’ll grab some ice while you two bring him upstairs.”
“Alright kid, there’s a lot of stairs so help us out some.”
It was quite a process getting the 6’1 man up to their room, but they made it and successfully got him into bed, spots in his vision beginning to recede enough that he could see his boss’ and friend’s worried faces. Rossi came in mere seconds later, holding two bags of ice wrapped in dish towels that he must have gotten from the motel kitchen. “He’s sweating through his shirt, I figured some ice on the back of his neck would feel nice.”
Derek nodded. “Hotch, you go to the station, we’ve got him.”
“I said all of you enjoy your break. I know you well enough to know that you were planning to tag along with Prentiss.”
“I don’t-”
“Go,” Spencer interrupted. “Maybe you can try learning some magic to pick up girls.”
“Oh, haha, even half unconscious, kid’s got jokes. Fine, let me help you get into comfy clothes and I’ll go see what Emily’s found.” Thanks to Spencer’s habit of getting into trouble (and getting hurt), it isn’t the first time Derek’s helped him change into a pair of sweats. Rossi dutifully turned around while they changed Spencer from his dress shirt, cardigan, and slacks into a large hoodie and shorts that, now that some of the fog is clearing, Spencer thinks came from Derek’s own bag. He hesitated when he finished, but Rossi shooed him out.
“C’mon, you’re young, go have fun. An old guy like me doesn’t have anything better to do anyway.”
When they finally got Derek out, Spencer tried to protest Rossi’s presence as well. “You can go back to your own room, I’ll be fine, I’m probably just going to sleep-”
“Not a chance, kid, I’m staying right here. Your mom used to read to you, right? I don’t know how good your Italian is, but I’ve brought Faust with me, I can read it out loud to you. Just rest, Spencer, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.”
So Rossi read, and Spencer rested, and it was one of the most peaceful bouts of sleep he’d had since Georgia.
And when Spencer woke three hours later to vomit, pounding in his head only getting worse and tears falling from his doe eyes, Rossi faithfully held his hair back and sang Italian lullabies until he fell asleep in his lap.