Waking Up, Criminal Minds (AU), R-ish
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Title: Waking Up
Character: Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 994
Summary: In a complete AU, Spencer breaks down and has his mother committed much earlier, and after suffering abuse, he runs away, only to find that life on the streets isn't any easier, until he finds a friend.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for angst_bingo, prompt "Regaining Memories". Immediately follows Running. WARNINGS: References to underage non-con, non-con drug use and allusion to rape while under the influence.
“Spencer?” The voice is half familiar, and he turns, still counting in Latin. At least he thinks it’s Latin. The face is not as familiar and he turns away, counting on his fingers. “Hey, Spencer. Remember me?”
There’s a hand on his shoulder and he lurches away. “Don’t.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t.” He lifts both hands. “You ran away before I could make sure you were okay the other day.”
“Okay.” He nods. “I’m okay. There are 839 bricks in this wall.”
“I’m sure there are.” That face was between him and the wall now. “You don’t look okay. Why don’t you tell me where you’re staying, I’ll walk you home.”
“Home?” He snorts derisively and shakes his head. “Where is home?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.” He looks concerned. “Hey, look at me.” His hand is warm as it cups his face. “Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”
“Everyone hurts you eventually,” he responds, though he isn’t really sure why. “I don’t know…” He frowns up at that face. “Do I know you?”
“Derek. We met a couple of days ago.”
“You don’t know where I live?” Something doesn't feel right. He puts out a hand to keep from falling, but the darkness is pressing in and he can't make his knees stop buckling. Arms circle him and the crash doesn't come, just the cocooning darkness.
He wakes to the smell of food cooking, his stomach rumbling. He rubs at his head and opens his eyes cautiously. The apartment is small. He's on a beat up couch and there's a tiny television and a coffee table that's seen better days. Just past the television is the smallest kitchen he's ever seen, and the back of a man.
He blinks and sits up slowly. The back is bare over tight black jeans, the skin sleek over hard muscle, dark, with a tattoo covering one shoulder. He turns and a name pops into his head. Derek.
"Hey, how you feeling?"
"Shaky."
Derek nods. "Figured you might. Someone dosed you pretty good. You been sleeping almost five hours."
"Dosed me?" He sees sparks of images, faces, voices, screaming, music rolling over him in waves, lights dancing through him. He holds his stomach as it rolls and breathes through the nausea.
"Bucket's there next to you. Bathroom's in the corner."
He holds up his hand. "Thank you."
"Oh, I have been there, pretty boy. I know." He turns back to the stove and pokes at something in the pan. "Do you at least remember your name now?"
His mouth is dry as he licks his lips. "Spencer. Reid."
"You were pretty out of it. I almost took you to the clinic, but you acted like you wanted to stay lost, so I got you here and stuck my fingers down your throat to get you to puke. Then got some water into you."
He came way from the stove. "You're probably going to want to shower, you smell like you've been sleeping on the streets."
Spencer nodded, standing on wobbly legs. "I put out fresh towels, and there's a pair of sweats in there that should fit."
He has questions, but no stomach for asking them so he stumbles into the tiny bathroom and relieves himself while he starts the shower. He locks the door and checks it twice before stripping and climbing in under the stream.
He can't remember the last time he showered, but the water feels a little like salvation as it runs over him and for the longest time he just stands there, letting it create rivers over his skin. He turns his face into the water and gasps as images hit him, people, yelling, a fire in a barrel, laughing, a bottle passed around.
He doesn't know where he was, but he knows something happened. He reaches for the shampoo and lathers up, watching the dirt flow with the water to the drain. There were guys under the bridge, hands, laughing, touching.
He shudders as he remembers the heat of the pavement, the squeaky wheels of the shopping cart. It skitters away and he shakes his head, tilts it back under the water to wash away the lather. He tells himself it doesn't matter, that not remembering was a good thing….but it bothers him deep down, reminds him of when his mother broke down, how she didn't remember important things.
He pushes it away and focuses on cleaning himself and getting out of the shower. He dries himself carefully on the threadbare towel and hangs it to dry before he lifts the sweats and pulls them on.
They're too big and even with the string pulled tight, they hang precariously on his hip bones. He emerges on a plume of steam and Derek smiles at him. It's a smile like nothing Spencer has ever seen. Genuine and happy. It doesn't feel put on or like he wants something from him.
"Sorry…I…thank you."
"Damn boy, there's no meat on your bones. You better get on over here so I can get some food into you."
Spencer shifts nervously, then goes to the table to sit. There are fried potatoes and eggs with cheese and toast and two sausages. "Sorry it can't be more, the good money only comes on the weekends."
"No, it's…good. It's fine." He lifts his fork and tries the potatoes, his stomach gurgling with desire.
"So, you wanna talk about what happened?"
"Not really." Spencer closed his eyes against the images. "I…I think some guys down…I don't know where…they put something in the drink they gave me."
Derek nodded and chewed. "You seemed pretty gone when I found you this morning."
"I…can't pay you…" Spencer said, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't know this guy, couldn't know what he'd want in return.
"Relax. I don't need your money. Or anything else. I don't have much, but we can share what I have until you figure out what you're going to do."
Title: Waking Up
Character: Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: 994
Summary: In a complete AU, Spencer breaks down and has his mother committed much earlier, and after suffering abuse, he runs away, only to find that life on the streets isn't any easier, until he finds a friend.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for angst_bingo, prompt "Regaining Memories". Immediately follows Running. WARNINGS: References to underage non-con, non-con drug use and allusion to rape while under the influence.
“Spencer?” The voice is half familiar, and he turns, still counting in Latin. At least he thinks it’s Latin. The face is not as familiar and he turns away, counting on his fingers. “Hey, Spencer. Remember me?”
There’s a hand on his shoulder and he lurches away. “Don’t.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t.” He lifts both hands. “You ran away before I could make sure you were okay the other day.”
“Okay.” He nods. “I’m okay. There are 839 bricks in this wall.”
“I’m sure there are.” That face was between him and the wall now. “You don’t look okay. Why don’t you tell me where you’re staying, I’ll walk you home.”
“Home?” He snorts derisively and shakes his head. “Where is home?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.” He looks concerned. “Hey, look at me.” His hand is warm as it cups his face. “Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”
“Everyone hurts you eventually,” he responds, though he isn’t really sure why. “I don’t know…” He frowns up at that face. “Do I know you?”
“Derek. We met a couple of days ago.”
“You don’t know where I live?” Something doesn't feel right. He puts out a hand to keep from falling, but the darkness is pressing in and he can't make his knees stop buckling. Arms circle him and the crash doesn't come, just the cocooning darkness.
He wakes to the smell of food cooking, his stomach rumbling. He rubs at his head and opens his eyes cautiously. The apartment is small. He's on a beat up couch and there's a tiny television and a coffee table that's seen better days. Just past the television is the smallest kitchen he's ever seen, and the back of a man.
He blinks and sits up slowly. The back is bare over tight black jeans, the skin sleek over hard muscle, dark, with a tattoo covering one shoulder. He turns and a name pops into his head. Derek.
"Hey, how you feeling?"
"Shaky."
Derek nods. "Figured you might. Someone dosed you pretty good. You been sleeping almost five hours."
"Dosed me?" He sees sparks of images, faces, voices, screaming, music rolling over him in waves, lights dancing through him. He holds his stomach as it rolls and breathes through the nausea.
"Bucket's there next to you. Bathroom's in the corner."
He holds up his hand. "Thank you."
"Oh, I have been there, pretty boy. I know." He turns back to the stove and pokes at something in the pan. "Do you at least remember your name now?"
His mouth is dry as he licks his lips. "Spencer. Reid."
"You were pretty out of it. I almost took you to the clinic, but you acted like you wanted to stay lost, so I got you here and stuck my fingers down your throat to get you to puke. Then got some water into you."
He came way from the stove. "You're probably going to want to shower, you smell like you've been sleeping on the streets."
Spencer nodded, standing on wobbly legs. "I put out fresh towels, and there's a pair of sweats in there that should fit."
He has questions, but no stomach for asking them so he stumbles into the tiny bathroom and relieves himself while he starts the shower. He locks the door and checks it twice before stripping and climbing in under the stream.
He can't remember the last time he showered, but the water feels a little like salvation as it runs over him and for the longest time he just stands there, letting it create rivers over his skin. He turns his face into the water and gasps as images hit him, people, yelling, a fire in a barrel, laughing, a bottle passed around.
He doesn't know where he was, but he knows something happened. He reaches for the shampoo and lathers up, watching the dirt flow with the water to the drain. There were guys under the bridge, hands, laughing, touching.
He shudders as he remembers the heat of the pavement, the squeaky wheels of the shopping cart. It skitters away and he shakes his head, tilts it back under the water to wash away the lather. He tells himself it doesn't matter, that not remembering was a good thing….but it bothers him deep down, reminds him of when his mother broke down, how she didn't remember important things.
He pushes it away and focuses on cleaning himself and getting out of the shower. He dries himself carefully on the threadbare towel and hangs it to dry before he lifts the sweats and pulls them on.
They're too big and even with the string pulled tight, they hang precariously on his hip bones. He emerges on a plume of steam and Derek smiles at him. It's a smile like nothing Spencer has ever seen. Genuine and happy. It doesn't feel put on or like he wants something from him.
"Sorry…I…thank you."
"Damn boy, there's no meat on your bones. You better get on over here so I can get some food into you."
Spencer shifts nervously, then goes to the table to sit. There are fried potatoes and eggs with cheese and toast and two sausages. "Sorry it can't be more, the good money only comes on the weekends."
"No, it's…good. It's fine." He lifts his fork and tries the potatoes, his stomach gurgling with desire.
"So, you wanna talk about what happened?"
"Not really." Spencer closed his eyes against the images. "I…I think some guys down…I don't know where…they put something in the drink they gave me."
Derek nodded and chewed. "You seemed pretty gone when I found you this morning."
"I…can't pay you…" Spencer said, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't know this guy, couldn't know what he'd want in return.
"Relax. I don't need your money. Or anything else. I don't have much, but we can share what I have until you figure out what you're going to do."