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Spencer laughed, laughed in a way he couldn't remember laughing before, as he tripped going up the stairs in Hotch's house and nearly dropped his bag in the process. Even though he wasn't really paying attention, he knew it was a sound he hadn't heard spill from his own lips until that very moment; dizzy amusement combined with anticipation and with a hint of desire that was also brand new. It helped that Morgan was half a step ahead of him, his feet tangling with Spencer's as they kissed and broke apart, and Hotch a step behind them with one of his hands supporting Spencer's hip and his mouth working at Spencer's shoulder blade through his shirt. When Spencer looked down he saw Hotch's right hand on Morgan's body, a few inches lower and further back than where his left hand was on Spencer's. He laughed again, nearly missing the next step in front of him, though this was more a laugh of disbelief and incredulity. He could have never imagined this, and he'd always thought that his imagination ranked as one of his best mental abilities.
"Careful, pretty boy," Morgan said, pausing to bite down on Spencer's lower lip. "Don't make me carry you to bed."
Spencer grinned. "You wish," he said, feeling a squeeze on his hip as Hotch urged them all up the rest of the stairs.
When he'd agreed to go out to socialize with the team that night he'd never imagined that he'd wind up in Hotch's house, stumbling up to Hotch's bed with both Morgan and Hotch eagerly leading the way. He'd known that Hotch and Morgan were an item, the entire team knew even though no one ever said anything. For a group of people that specialized in discovering and sharing insight to human behavior there was an awful lot that they let go unsaid. Spencer had thought about Morgan and Hotch together on occasion, he felt he could hardly be blamed for that even though he usually had a hard time meeting either of their eyes for the first few minutes of the next morning. They were both attractive men; intelligent, strong, resourceful, and trustworthy.
So when the three of them were left at the bar, long after the rest of the team had called it quits for the night, and Morgan was pressed up to him on one side, Spencer had clumsily placed a kiss on Morgan's mouth. He'd immediately blushed and stammered as he tried to apologize.
Hotch leaned over the table half a moment later and pressed his mouth to Spencer's, drawing him into a long kiss as Morgan's arm wound around his torso. The moment had seemed to last forever, caught between the two men as his brain tried and failed to process anything except for how good, how right, it felt. When Hotch offered to bring him back home with them, Morgan taking his turn to nip gently at Spencer's neck, it was all Spencer could do to nod with wide eyes and let them both guide him out of the bar. Morgan had all but pushed him into the backseat of Hotch's car, and they'd kissed and basically crawled over each other with as much leeway as their seat belts would allow while Hotch's gaze travelled to them frequently through the rearview mirror.
Spencer would say that all of this had to be a result of having too much to drink except for he hadn't had anything with alcohol in it that night and he'd seen that Morgan and Hotch hadn't had anything more than a beer or two each. Instead, on Spencer's part, it was more of an overwhelming need for things to be safe, and right, and to have someone touching him who he wanted touching him and to have the freedom to touch them back. It had been so long since he'd really wanted something other than the dilaudid that it was a relief to discover that he still could. As for Hotch and Morgan's motivation, he could only guess. He supposed he was a safe person to be included in their arrangement if they wanted a third person in their bed for a night. There was no chance that he would ever make a problem at work about it and they knew him and trusted him.
Hotch's bedroom was bigger than Spencer had expected, Hotch breaking free of them to turn on the lights and pull the blankets off the bed. Spencer grinned a little at the obvious division of the room; Hotch's side impeccably neat while a drawer from the second dresser had clothes spilling out slightly and the nightstand on the left had a pile of assorted objects scattered on top. Morgan took the opportunity of being on a flat surface again to pull Spencer back into a deep kiss as he led him across the room. Spencer found himself balanced on the edge of the bed on what must be Morgan's half, dropping his bag to the floor by the bedside and quickly toeing off his shoes as Morgan silently urged him to move further back onto the bed.
Spencer pulled his feet up and scooted back, his blue argyle sock complementing Hotch's sheets nicely though his black sock with neon fish seemed a little out of place. Hotch had already rearranged the pillows at the head of the bed and Spencer took a moment to watch the man pull his shirt over his head and step out of his pants before climbing onto the bed and pulling Spencer in to kiss him, first on his mouth and then brushing his hair aside to kiss down the side of his neck. Spencer gasped as his hands met Hotch's bare chest, the sudden heat and the texture of his chest hair somehow shocking.
He wasn't inexperienced, in the way that he had at least some experience, but he'd never felt quite this out of control and overwhelmed before either. In his other relationships he had always been careful to ask where he could touch and what activities the other person would be interested in. To find that he could move his hands up and down Hotch's naked arms and chest without asking permission, as if he could even find the breath to ask for permission, was thrilling and compelling. Spencer could feel the heat of Hotch's legs, bare up to where his thighs were covered by his boxers, through the fabric of his pants as Hotch pulled back from the kiss and maneuvered them so that Hotch was on his back with Spencer balanced above him.
A moment later he felt Morgan kneeling behind him, his legs nestled in between Hotch and Spencer's and his mouth descending where Hotch's had just left. Spencer leaned back a little, savoring being surrounded by their warmth, their hands enthusiastically reaching for him as often as they reached for each other. He let his head fall back onto Morgan's shoulder, not very surprised to find it bare, and managed to land a kiss on Morgan's mouth despite the awkward positioning. His hips jerked forward as he felt Hotch's hands investigating his pants, still on top of the fabric but definitely exploring with interest.
With a nudge from Morgan, Spencer fell forward onto his hands, just barely managing to catch himself with Hotch's help.
"Sorry about that, pretty boy," Morgan said, not sounding particularly sorry.
Spencer just moaned, about the only thing he could do with Hotch's mouth covering his. The nickname Morgan had given him suddenly had much more meaning than Spencer had ever applied to it before. He had attributed the first part to his more slender build and longer hair; more than one person had called him pretty instead of the more normative masculine term of handsome. The 'boy' part he'd figured was part of Morgan's teasing about him being younger than the average FBI agent. But here, with Hotch's lips on his and Morgan's hands slipping under his shirt to feel his chest, the name became something that meant Morgan wanted him. Spencer shivered involuntarily as Morgan pressed against his back, his thighs flush with Spencer's.
It wasn't until he felt Morgan's hands reach the buttons at the top of his shirt at the same time as Hotch moved one hand to the buckle of his belt and his other hand to grip Spencer's upper arm that Spencer's eyes popped open with sudden realization of exactly why he couldn't be doing what he was about to do.
"Shit," Spencer breathed, almost completely inaudible, though the exclamation would have undoubtably been misinterpreted if it had been heard anyway.
Hotch's hand around his arm hurt, not intentionally, but it was enough of a wake up call that Morgan was about to try and pull his shirt off as soon as he finished with the buttons, and that Hotch was intent on getting his pants off, already past the belt and the button and moving onto the zipper.
Spencer tried to push back, knowing that if stayed put any longer his clothes would be off before he had a chance to tell them to stop. Morgan took this as a sign of his arousal and ground down against Spencer with his hands briefly stopping their descent along the line of buttons. Between Hotch and Morgan's bodies he was desperately outweighed and outmatched. The muscles in their arms, shoulders and chests made an unmovable cage around Spencer without them even realizing it. They were the safest, most trustworthy men Spencer had ever known and he was suddenly as terrified and helpless as he would be if he was trapped by a pair of unsubs.
His body acted without the consent of his mind, something that Spencer thought was the only way he'd managed to stay alive in physical combat situations thus far. Whenever he used his mind to try and engage with someone physically, usually Morgan in the gym, he wound up sprawled on his back faster than he could take a breath. But when fear and adrenaline powered him the movements that Morgan had made him practice repeatedly kicked in all by themselves. Spencer ducked his head down to one of his shoulders and used all the strength in his legs to push himself through the empty space between Hotch and Morgan's bodies.
The landing was rougher than he expected. He hadn't realized they were so close to the edge of the bed and he wound up sprawled on his back on the floor. His head was ringing and he felt a little like he'd had the air knocked out of him. Hardwood floors, Spencer realized as his hands clawed for purchase, trying to push himself to his feet. Why Hotch had to have hardwood floors in his bedroom he'd never know.
"Spencer?" Hotch asked.
Spencer looked up and found both Morgan and Hotch leaning over the edge of the bed, their expressions identical in concern.
"I have to go," Spencer said, wheezing a little as he tried to get his breath back. He finally made it to his feet, his socks slipping a little beneath him as he darted for the door. He wasn't thinking about much of anything other than keeping his pants up as they tried to slide from his hips and getting away from the bedroom as quickly as possible. He stumbled into the closed door, his hand slippery with sweat as he turned the doorknob and managed to make it through the door and close it behind him.
It was a testimony to how panicked he'd been that it took him more than a few seconds to recognize his mistake; he was now in the bathroom with no exit other than the door he'd just come through. He managed to turn on the light and press in the lock on the handle, little good it would do him but it might buy him a minute, and leaned against the door. His entire body was shaking and he was rocking his head in a steady nod as if it would help soothe him. His mind supplied a brief flash of when he was a child, hiding in a classroom and pressed against the door, knowing that if he was found he would have more bruises than the ones already on his arms and public humiliation would just be the start of what he'd have to endure.
He turned his head as he pushed back the memory and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His eyes were round, his face pale and sweaty, and his lips were still slightly swollen and red. Spencer almost didn't recognize himself as he stood there and felt his heart pounding away in his chest and listened for any indication that someone was trying to get in the room. He zipped up his pants, though it took his shaking hands a few tries before he could manage the button and belt buckle.
Spencer froze at the sound of movement coming from the bedroom, voices speaking but too muffled for the words to be clear. He quickly scanned the bathroom, desperately looking for another way out. The only window in the room was at the top of the wall, too narrow for Spencer to fit through it even if he managed to shatter the glass. The idea of falling from the upper level of the house wasn't appealing in any case. His mind quickly flashed through all of the things he knew about bathrooms, identifying likely chemicals that could be stored under the sink that could be used as potential weapons and the back of the shower as the most sheltered place in the room in the event of an earthquake or a tornado.
Still frantically trying to come up with a way out, Spencer continued to visually search the room, coming up short when he saw a navy blue tie with a curling pattern in a shade of darker blue. It was the tie Hotch had been wearing earlier today; Spencer remembered sitting across from him at the briefing room as they finished preparing a consult they were sending to Indiana. He had already read through all the information that had been provided by the local law enforcement and was deep in thought about potential connections between the victims, but his eyes were resting on Hotch's tie and idly tracing the pattern over and over.
That one piece of normality was enough to help Spencer back to himself, now finding evidence of Morgan and Hotch scattered throughout the room. It was Morgan's brand of cologne on the counter and Hotch's comb, one he'd found tucked into his bag on more than one occasion and seen Hotch use just before the jet landed to tidy himself after a long flight.
"Shit," Spencer said again, this time for an entirely different reason.
He pulled himself away from the door, cringing a little as he realized that he'd actually been standing there trying to plan a violent escape from Hotch's bathroom. Glancing at the door he found he could still hear movement from in the bedroom. He wondered if he waited long enough if Morgan and Hotch would just go to sleep or go downstairs so he could grab his shoes and his bag and slip out. He doubted it; the better question was probably how long would they let him hide in their bathroom before they decided to kick him out.
"Such a genius," Spencer muttered critically as he stood in front of a mirror. "Worst escape attempt ever."
He moaned quietly and covered his face with his hands, not even wanting to know what Hotch and Morgan must be thinking. Probably that they weren't going to let him on another raid anytime in the near future if that's how he reacted when he was panicked. The movement pulled painfully on the skin of his upper arms and reluctantly he let his hands come down. His shirt was still halfway unbuttoned and he shrugged the fabric down from his shoulders to check that nothing had opened up.
The scars on his upper arms were varied, some dated back more than a decade, some were as new as three weeks and still pink and in the process of healing. Most of the marks were vertical and about the same thickness, the white ridges clearly visible even if they could barely be felt. He had grown since he'd done those and the stretch of the skin left them mostly flat. There were three deeper horizontal slashes on his left bicep, the scar tissue still a deep pink and more than a quarter inch wide in some places. He probably should have gotten stitches for them, the scars wouldn't be so thick and noticeable if he had, but he had locked himself in his apartment as he struggled to detox.
It hadn't even been something he'd thought out at the time. All he'd known that he was shaking, in pain, and craving like he'd never felt before. The blade had been wrapped his his hand before he'd really processed what he'd been doing and the cuts more uncontrolled than he'd have otherwise allowed. But it had helped, not a lot but enough. He knew that he was trading one addiction for another, that he now had to carry two time tables in his mind; the last time he'd used dilaudid and the last time he'd cut. But cutting helped keep him from the drugs and the needle even when sitting through an NA meeting couldn't.
And at the very least, cutting wasn't illegal and wouldn't get him thrown out of the FBI. Spencer glanced to the door; cutting wouldn't get him kicked out of the FBI but if Hotch had seen the fresh marks he would at the very least be back in mandatory counseling sessions and probably barred from going on cases until he was cleared again for field work. The entire team, following Gideon's example, had ignored the dilaudid as long as Spencer was careful to keep it concealed. If they had no obvious evidence they were willing to let it slide and trust that he could get himself back under control. He didn't kid himself that they hadn't known, or at least guessed. They were profilers and couldn't have missed his mood swings and brief disappearances even if they could hand wave it as potential symptoms of PTSD. With Gideon gone Spencer had his doubts that they would be so willing to let evidence that he was harming himself go, especially with the scars right in front of them.
Spencer could pretend that he hadn't known what he was doing by coming here; he hadn't known that Hotch would leave the lights on and hadn't been thinking about his scars when he'd had their hands and mouths on him. The very physical presence of Hotch and Morgan against his skin had washed the memory of everything else, and it had been such a relief that he'd let it. If he was in the habit of psychoanalyzing himself he'd probably suggest that this had been a cry for help, that he'd wanted Hotch and Morgan to see the scars. He gave that about a fifty percent probability of having any truth to it. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers over the scars, swallowing as he realized that even if Hotch had left the lights off they couldn't have missed feeling the unevenness of his skin if their hands had ventured to his arms. The scars on his upper thighs were just as deep, though he had fewer fresh wounds there.
When he opened his eyes he took one last glance at his arms, unerringly finding each of the needle marks that were left in his skin. They were barely visible anymore, no one would notice who didn't know to look for them. With a sigh he pulled his shirt up and did up the buttons, taking the extra time to do up the buttons on each of his cuffs. He smoothed his hair down, trying to make himself look marginally presentable and unlocked the bathroom door. The plan was still the same; apologize and get out of there as quickly as possible. With any luck, not that his luck had ever been particularly good, Hotch and Morgan would write it off as another example of 'Spencer's bizarre social ineptitudes' and that would be the end of it. He held his hand on the doorknob, picturing where he'd left his shoes and bag as well as the actual exit to Hotch's bedroom.
The door pulled open easily enough and Spencer slipped out into the bedroom. The light was still on; Hotch was sitting at the end of the bed with one of his ankles resting over his knee and Morgan was leaning against the wall by the door to the hallway. They were both dressed, even though their feet were bare, and were intently watching him.
Spencer felt himself coloring with embarrassment and forced himself to straighten his back and stand at his full height. "Sorry, about that," he said, waving his hand toward the bed to indicate what he couldn't bring himself to say.
"Are you alright?" Hotch asked, remaining seated even though he kept his gaze focused entirely on Spencer.
"Fine. I just need to go," Spencer said, as careful as possible to keep his voice even. He resisted the urge bring his hands to his arms, the prickle of need surging forward and his mind automatically reminding himself that he couldn't have the dilaudid nor the touch he was craving.
"Want to tell us what happened back there?" Morgan asked, not leaving his place by the exit.
Spencer glanced restlessly around the room, noticing how Hotch had positioned himself so that Spencer couldn't reach his shoes and bag without going directly past him and he couldn't leave the room without stepping into Morgan's reach. Sometimes socializing with people who were very tactically aware as well as mindful of his penchant for avoidance created more problems than it solved.
"Nothing," he blurted out, immediately mentally slapping his forehead as soon as he said it.
Sure enough, one of Hotch's eyebrows raised just as it did when someone was lying to him during an interrogation.
Morgan, however, only frowned and shifted uncomfortably. "You seemed like you were," he paused as he tried to find the word he wanted. "You wanted to do this, right?"
Spencer felt his stomach drop as soon as he realized exactly how Morgan had interpreted his abrupt and panicked departure. "Yes, I did. I do," he said firmly, meeting Morgan's eyes. He couldn't let Morgan think that even if it meant spilling his own secrets.
Morgan's relief was obvious in the way he bowed his head and let out a long breath but Spencer didn't miss the way the tension in Hotch's shoulders dissipated as well.
Taking advantage of the quiet moment, Spencer edged toward his bag and shoes, stopping when Hotch's eyes immediately honed in on him. "I need to go," he repeated, unable to stop his fingers from nervously twisting together. In all his time at the BAU he thought he should have gotten better at masking his emotions, but instead being in the constant presence of other profilers only seemed to make him more aware of his own tells.
"You're not calling for a cab at two in the morning," Hotch said, quiet yet direct just like at work. "When we're finished talking I'll drive you back to your apartment if you want to go."
Spencer blinked and glanced at the clock on Hotch's nightstand. It was just past two in the morning and he had no idea how it had gotten that late. He didn't think they'd been at the bar any later than midnight and surely it hadn't taken them that long to get to Hotch's house. Just how much time had he lost while he was panicking in the bathroom?
Sighing quietly, Spencer glanced around the room once more before giving up on his escape plan and moving to the next step on his list: minimize the damage. He sat down on the edge of the bed, not directly next to Hotch but not out of his range of reach either. Both Morgan and Hotch let down their guard, enough that the atmosphere wasn't quite so tense, but not enough that Spencer would be able to slip out of the room. Morgan came over so that he was sitting on a the edge of a nearby chair.
"I overreacted. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to concern either of you," Spencer said, digging through his mind for the correct response - the magic words that would ease their concern.
"You don't need to apologize, Spencer," Hotch said. "We just want to know what happened."
Spencer captured his lower lip between his teeth and bit lightly, his mind creating, analyzing, and discarding dozens of potential responses as he tried to remember the last time Hotch had called him by his first name. Knowing that he couldn't lie to them, they would know even if they chose not call him on it, he was left with some variation of the truth. "I didn't want you to see my arms," he said, focusing his eyes on the rug at the foot of the bed and wondering why he couldn't have landed on that instead of the hardwood flooring. "I'd forgotten, just for a few minutes I'd forgotten, and I didn't remember until we were…" Spencer shrugged to finish his sentence.
"We already know," Morgan said hesitantly, glancing quickly at Hotch.
"No, you don't." Spencer folded his arms, knowing that it made him look defensive and not caring. Morgan didn't know, and neither did Hotch, and he'd gone through a lot of trouble in his life to make sure that no one knew. For Morgan to claim that they knew felt like an affront to him, even though he knew he was being completely irrational.
"Are you using again?" Hotch asked quietly.
"No!" Spencer leapt to his feet, turning so that he could glare at both of them. He could feel that his face was flushed with a combination of anger and humiliation. He'd never even considered having this conversation in Hotch's bedroom. In his office, after a bad case, maybe. They should know if he was using, just as they should have known the first time. "I am not using," he said, keeping his voice steady even though he could feel his hands shaking again.
Morgan considered him for a moment, still seated with his body angled so that he could get between Spencer and the door as soon as it looked like Spencer was going to bolt. "You're not making much sense, pretty boy," he used the nickname gently and as a reassurance. "What don't you want us to see?"
Spencer bit his lip again as he dug his fingers down into his forearm through his shirt. He was shaking again, the conflicting needs to finish this conversation and to either be slipping a needle under his skin or have a blade clenched with his fingers were starting to become overwhelming. He blinked hard, forcing back the wetness that was threatening to overspill, and wondered how it was that he always managed to get himself into these situations.
"It's alright," Morgan said, suddenly right next to Spencer and softly resting his hand on his back. "We'll help you, you just have to let us know how."
For the first time Spencer heard the guilt in someone's voice for not being there when he was first struggling with the dilaudid and when he opened his eyes he could see the finest hint of the same guilt hovering around Hotch's eyes. He shook his head even as his hands moved up to the collar of his shirt and started at the top button. Maybe he'd known from the minute he'd leaned in and kissed Morgan in the bar that he wouldn't come out of the night with any of his secrets still hidden. Maybe that's why he'd gone home with them, Spencer thought as he focused on unbuttoning each button and moving to the next one. His own motivations were occasionally murky to him even though he was sure anyone else on the team would be able to spell them out clearly for him if he asked.
Spencer focused his eyes on the far wall, running along the edges of the blinds Hotch used to keep his bedroom safe from the eyes of prying neighbors, and slipped his shirt off. He held it in one of his hands, ready to pull it back on as soon as Hotch and Morgan had finished looking.
He didn't dare look for either of their expressions; his was mind filled with the memory of sitting in the bathroom when he was ten, his shirt off and arm dripping blood and the bruises from other kids at school dark on his forearms and chest. He hadn't locked the door, maybe his reckless desire for someone to know had been present longer than he'd realized, and his mom had walked in. The knife was still in Spencer's hand, just as bloody as his arm and the counter, and his mom had stared. She had been at least semi-lucid that day and Spencer had turned to her and waited. After a long minute, blood still trailing down his arm even though there was a paper towel sitting on the counter for that exact purpose, she'd turned away and shut the door behind her. As an adult, Spencer knew that she just wasn't equipped to handle her son having a mental crisis of his own, but at the time the rejection had stunned him far more effectively than the blade in his hand ever had.
"May I?" Hotch asked, bringing Spencer's attention to him.
Spencer looked down and realized that Hotch's hand was held out towards his left arm, where the worst of the scarring was. He nodded, knowing that Hotch wasn't about to hurt him but that he deserved it even if that was his intention.
Hotch's touch was light, the sensation of his fingers skimming along the older scars barely felt. He outlined the area around the newer scars that were still healing, not touching the sensitive skin, before continuing down to touch the barely visible track marks on his lower arms.
He took a deep breath, not able to remember the last time someone had shown so much care with him, let alone someone who would be willing to touch the plain evidence of what he'd done to himself. He shivered as Morgan leaned in on his other side, pressing a chaste kiss to Spencer's shoulder.
"Thank you for showing us," Hotch said quietly.
"You're going to take me off the team?" Spencer asked, not yet daring to look to assess Hotch's expression.
"No," Hotch said. "But we're going to deal with this. We can talk about it more tomorrow."
The emphasis was on the we're and Spencer immediately got the message. They weren't going to make him fix this by himself. They weren't going to make him face his own demons alone as surely as he hadn't been alone in that shack in the graveyard. "Thank you," Spencer whispered, letting Morgan embrace him more fully as the trembling traveled from just his hands to encompass the rest of his body as well.
"We're always here for you," Morgan said firmly. He took Spencer's shirt from where it was clenched in Spencer's hand, gently tugging the fabric away. "If we take you back to your apartment tonight, will you be safe?"
The hesitation as Spencer formulated a response was apparently enough of an answer.
"There's a guest room, if you'd prefer to sleep in there. Or you can stay in here with us," Hotch said, his meaning clear.
"In here with you, if you don't mind," Spencer said, looking down. Right now the thought of being shut in Hotch's guest room was about as bad as remembering his mom shutting the door on that bathroom.
"Come on, pretty boy." Morgan kissed the edge of Spencer's jaw and urged them all toward the bed. "It's late and you are sleeping in the middle because Hotch puts off heat like you wouldn't believe. And not just in the sexy way."
Spencer nearly laughed, grateful that Morgan was at least trying to make things seem normal. Taking a quick look at where Hotch and Morgan were both stripping down to their boxers, Spencer slipped out of his pants and socks, hyperaware of the scars that started just below his briefs and continued for another six inches down the front of his thighs. He climbed up onto the bed, wishing it was about an hour ago and he had Hotch and Morgan both eager to touch him again.
When Morgan looked up and saw the scars on Spencer's legs he just sighed and climbed in next to Spencer. One of his hands gently traced one of the older ones, nothing sexual in the touch despite the location.
Hotch turned off the main light in the bedroom, having already turned on a small lamp so they had some illumination in the night, and climbed in on the other side of the bed. It took a few minutes before they were all comfortable, Spencer leaning back into Morgan's chest and letting his knees bump against Hotch's.
He could see Hotch's thoughtful expression in the near dark of the room and from the way that Morgan's hand kept slipping forward to feel along Spencer's upper thighs, he doubted that any of them were going to get much sleep that night. Spencer shifted once more, forcing himself to be content with the fact that he was still welcomed in their bed even if they apparently weren't interested in him sexually any longer. He couldn't blame them, not really. He'd seen the scars in the mirror and knew they were only a reflection of the scars that were etched in his psyche. Hotch and Morgan were adept enough profilers that they had to know that as well.