The last call you expected to get was that your boyfriend, Spencer Reid, was in jail. In Mexico. Accused of murder and drug laundering. And the worst part? His blood showed signs of heroin.

Whoever was clearly framing him had also made him relapse. It made you sick to your stomach.

You had hopped on the plane immediately with Emily and Rossi, too nervous to even sit. The whole flight was spent pacing, the mental image of his mugshot—bloodshot eyes and messy hair—flashing in your mind.

When you got to Mexico to see him, he looked…oh, god.

He’s so clearly still high, the drugs making him spaced out and spooked. His eyes are so vacant, so devoid of the light typically in them. And then there was the fact that he couldn’t remember anything at all, barely even remembering your name.

An hour passed, and you sat outside the bars of the cell. Your back was against the cold metal, as close to Spencer as you could be. He mirrored your pose, sitting against the bars on the other side, his bruised cheek resting on the metal so he could look at you. While he was still spaced out, uneasily so, he was coming to. He knew who you were and that he loved you. That’s what mattered.

“Hey,” he murmurs, incredibly scratchy and soft. “I— can you take me to a…a meeting? When I’m home?*

Your heart shatters.

He continues: “I…I know I’ll need a Narcotics Anonymous m-meeting.”