He knew he was better than this.

There was an instant rush to it, such an incredible high that made everything else feel a thousand times less significant. Those were the only good moments now, the only time he could find an ounce of solace.

It was obvious he wasn’t right; his hands twitched and fidgeted more than they used to, never settling. He was out of it, every new case sparking memories of what happened. The only thing getting him through it all was the drugs, slowly becoming solely reliant on it.

No one seemed to pay it much mind, assuming he was still a little fucked after what happened to him and, god, no one could blame him. But comforting pats on the shoulder and sympathetic (pitiful) looks were nothing compared to that high he chased. The fast relief, everything taking the backseat for a while. Nothing could compare really.

He got reckless with it. More distant and much easier to set off, paranoia mixing in with drugs. His carelessness got the better of him when he left the needle out on the bathroom, consequently leading you to find the two small vials of Dilaudid stashed away, hidden from everyone but him.

He spent a late night at the BAU, half focused (half out of his mind) as he tried to finish up some reports from the case. Once the effects of the drug were wearing off, he was rushing home, already craving another fix. He could already feel the tension leaving his bones as he stepped up to his apartment door, nearly able to taste sweet relief.

His face paled the second he opened it, color draining from his features as his eyes widened in surprise and horror. His eyes drifted to the vials and the needle sat on the countertop — he was feet away from what he wanted the most — and your hand lingering right beside them.

Fuck.

“Baby,” he started shakily, sliding his satchel off his shoulder and onto the floor. He put his hands up in surrender like he was trying to persuade you of his innocence. “It’s not what it looks like.” Lie.