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It’s not like he can’t talk, necessarily. If you put a gun to his head he could scream, but there’s no guarantee he’d manage to form a sentence. If someone paid him to recite the Gettysburg Address, he could probably do it.
Standing in front of a police station and presenting a profile, however, is different, and Spencer finds himself hiding.
He’s been fighting off the… Meltdown? Overload? For some time. Most of the day, maybe since they got on the jet. He’s just lucky it isn’t happening during a takedown or a shootout or some other less fortunate time. His nails have started clenching into his palms, trying to provide comfort in the presence of pain, a sick sort of reminder that he is alive. Proof that he bleeds. Proof that he can hurt so he can reassociate too.
Spencer begins pacing down the empty hallway of this Kentucky Police Department. He sees an emergency exit and briefly considers getting fresh air, even though all he’d get would be cigarette smoke.
Maybe a cigarette would help.
Almost as soon as the thought of cigarette smoke enters his mind the interior door slams behind him. Spencer whips his head around to see Hotch, concentration settling in his furrowed brow, and something akin to concern slipping past his eyes.
Hotch shoves his hands in his pockets. They stand some five feet from each other. “Reid,” he says steadily, calmly; it echoes through the empty hall. He feels alone. “Do you have written notes on the profile?”
Spencer finds himself furrowing his own brow slightly. The words don’t form in his brain, so he tips his head. He does. He does, yes, that’s what he’s asking. Spencer nods. His hands tangle in front of him, nails subtly digging into the skin there. If Hotch sees, he doesn’t comment on it.
“Where?” he asks this time.
Spencer forces a breath into his lungs. Conference—you can find them—the room beside the kitchenette—the coffee maker smells musty—the conference room. They’re in the conference room. “Conference room,” Spencer says, feeling the weight of the words in the back of his throat even though he barely says more than a whisper.
Hotch nods, and twitches to leave, but stops himself. “There’s an empty office on the east side of the building,” he says, a little softer than Spencer knows him to be. “It’s heated.”
At his words, Spencer feels the sudden lack of heat his body has provided him. It’s cold. Yeah, the back hall on the south side of the building during the Kentucky winter doesn't provide much for heat. Okay. Okay, he nods. Thank you. Thank you. Thanks. I appreciate it. “Thanks,” he mutters.
Hotch nods back, carefully. He moves, opening the door and holding it so Spencer will follow. As soon as the noise of the station hits him, Spencer wants to cover his ears, but bites his tongue and forces himself not to. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’ll be fine, no one is talking to you. You’re okay. As he follows the hallway to the end of the station, towards a vacant office he remembers seeing, Hotch branches off towards the conference room.
As he opens the door, Spencer mulls over going back for his bag, but thinks better of it. Right now he needs the silence and the privacy, and he’s not going back there. He clicks the door shut, and draws the curtains on the glass closed, leaving him in relative quiet and a dimmed environment.
No one knows he’s here. It’s okay. It’s fine, he’ll be fine. He shakes out his hands, his breath shaking. As soon as he’s done with that, his hands tangle back together, tearing away at his skin. The pricks of pain lead him back to himself when his body tries to convince him to fall away. He paces. Pacing helps. A breath through shuddering lungs, in, and out. Another. He has to think about it, and he hates that.
What could be minutes or half an hour later, he doesn’t know, there’s a knock on the door; mere seconds later, before he can come up with an answer to give, it opens and Hotch steps in, shutting the door behind him with a click.
Spencer looks up at his entrance, but doesn't have anything else to give. He continues pacing.
“Here,” Hotch mutters.
As soon as Spencer glances over, he realizes that the man has his bag, and is pulling out… Headphones. His headphones. Taking them quickly out of his hands, Spencer signs a simple, thank you, without realizing he’s done it. It feels easier than talking.
Nodding back, Hotch says softly, “Of course.”
You know? Spencer wants to ask, You understand? You don’t think I’m a bad person? You don’t think I’m incapable?
He doesn’t say any of this. He continues pacing the small room.
It takes some time for Spencer to feel like he can breathe again, his headphones still slipped over his ears, blocking out the noise of his own steps, and the bustle of the station, and the cars passing by the window. But it happens. Maybe minutes later, he feels the pressure dissipate, and in the same moment he thinks he’s stopped panicking, he remembers that Hotch is still in the room.
He’s leaning against the wall, phone in one hand, but glances up just seconds after Spencer looks at him, so he has to assume he’s been checking on him for some time. He has a sort of tension to his shoulders that comes with the concern of being a father.
“Better?” he asks, still softer than Spencer remembers often hearing him.
He nods, finally stilling, his fingers still digging into his palms. “Yeah,” he says, feeling the need to give verbal confirmation.
Hotch pushes off the wall, making his way a few steps forward, the two now met in the middle of the room. “Give me your hands,” Hotch says gently, but with a tone that suggests he isn’t asking.
He replaces the feeling of his nails on his skin by biting the inside of his cheek, though it doesn’t really work. Hotch still has a concerned crease between his brow as he takes the man’s hands. Spencer hates to admit that it feels nice, but after the initial flinch of being touched, he relishes in the feeling. Hotch separates his clenched fists, inspecting the long, red scratch marks across his palms. He nods, seemingly grateful he’s at least not bleeding.
“Does this happen often?” Hotch asks suddenly. “These… panic attacks?”
It’s a comfortable wording, a familiar one. One that doesn’t suggest autism, even though it’s on both of their tongues. “Not routinely,” Spencer says, slowly finding the words. “They’re hard to predict and impossible to prevent.”
Nodding, Hotch still doesn’t let go of Spencer’s hands, thumbs rubbing softly across his palms if only to give both of them something to do. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Spencer hates having to shake his head. “There’s not much anyone can do.”
“I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
There’s genuine concern in his voice, this time. Something that says, this is real. I’m scared.
“This is… is as far as it gets,” Spencer mutters, honestly if nothing else.
“Why do you do it?”
Why? Spencer can tell you why. He can tell you a multitude of reasons. Pain feels good, comes to mind, followed by, I’m not connected to reality, but settles somewhere between: “It’s grounding. Sometimes I… need to shock myself back to reality. This works.”
It doesn’t seem to satiate Hotch’s concern, but he leaves it there. Finally dropping his hands, to Spencer’s quiet disappointment, he continues, “The profile’s been delivered. The team’s on it. When you’re ready, come back for the geographical profile, alright?”
He nods before he’s fully processed the words, but as soon as he does, Spencer finds himself feeling guilty. He can’t quite form the feeling, but he knows he hates feeling like a liability. He hates Hotch seeing this. He hates all of it. Still he only nods, because he can’t put his thoughts into coherent words.
Hotch listens to these silent thoughts anyway. “We all have our moments, Spencer. Don’t be ashamed of that.”
The use of his first name shocks him more than he cares to admit. “Okay,” he says lamely, not knowing what else he can say.
It doesn’t fix things, not by a long shot, but Hotch eyes anyone who looks like they might question why Spencer is wearing headphones when he comes back to work on the geographical profile some five minutes later.
It’s not spoken, but it is clear.