Chapter Text
The covers whipped and whirled in a flailing, violent sort of dance as Spencer Reid wrestled with the inability to sleep for the fourth full night in a row. He had gotten approximately seven hours of rest total in those linked days and had failed to get much more in the in the preceding weeks. He truly didn't know why he was still fighting so desperately with the inevitable. Ultimately, the agent understood that the war would wage on into the early hours of the still-darkened morning until he would finally raise a weary white flag and surrender, retreating to a book. Still, this had yet to help. It was simply just another battle. A task that had required very little effort of him before had now become a tedious chore. He failed to focus on the words in front of him and the constant sharp and numbing throngs that would clatter about in his head did little to help. He would sit there and read the same sentences again and again until he finally would thrust the novel closed in frustration and make yet another retreat. Then as always, around 3:00 am, Spencer Reid would find himself pacing back and forth along his bedside, staring down longingly at the rumpled pillow.
It was night number four and Reid had begun calculating exactly how long it would take for him to quite literally wear a hole into the floor, when, with a labored and agitated sigh, he turned and shuffled off to the bathroom. Out of mindless habit, his right hand reached for the wall and found the switch, flicking it upwards without a thought. Wincing and screwing his eyelids shut, Reid slapped at the light switch until he was plunged back into darkness, and relief. His head whirled and he stabilized himself against the counter. Ever so slowly, Reid allowed his eyes to open and embrace the shadows surrounding him. His hands reached out for the faucet and he twisted the knobs with ease. Over the past several months, Reid had grown quite accustomed to functioning in the dark; whether it was in his own house or while hiding behind his sunglasses on the job. He allowed the flow of water to beat against the palms of his hands as it reached his ideal temperature. Once satisfied, Reid bent forward and splashed the cool liquid onto his already sweat-soaked face. Running damp fingers through his disheveled hair, he allowed himself a single and overpowering yawn. He tried to hold them back when he could. Swallow them down, along with the fear. Their all too familiar sound did nothing but remind him of the dreadful exhaustion he was experiencing. With a shrug of his shoulders, Reid stretched out his arm and blindly pulled the towel off of its proper hanger. He gingerly pressed the cloth against his face to absorb the pellets of water but then neglected to remove it. He simply stood there, his neck arched back and the towel lying sloppily over his face. He no longer could find the will to remove it. He was utterly and completely, spent. Allowing his knees to buckle, Reid slid down the wall and collapsed onto the tiled floor. The contact sent pressure up his spine and rattled his already clogged mind. The panging intensified and Reid lazily dropped his head back against the plaster, the moist towel still shielding his eyes.
This was yet another new twist in the novel of his life Spencer Reid had grown to adapt to. While at work, he would slip off into an empty bathroom stall, an abandoned office, or any other sanctuary he could find and withdraw into the darkness and silence. In this entirely motionless state, Reid would desperately attempt to drain his mind of all thoughts, all ideas, all concerns. He focused solely on emptying his mind. He imagined the lack of clutter would deter the headache from increasing but sometimes only seemed to allow further space for the agony to grow. Reid had learned how to spend hours in this unique state and did so whenever possible. In these sessions, it was as if he was no longer there, or anywhere for that matter. He centered in on the black inside of his eyelids and hid there for as long as the pain or his life would allow.
Hiding his problems from the world was no easy feat either and most likely added to the strain. He had to reserve even more energy and even more tolerance in order to suppress the throbbing when it came over him in public. Without warning, a surge of pressure would overwhelm his head and he simply could not reel back in pain while pointing a loaded weapon at a serial killer. He also cloaked his struggles in non-lethal work scenarios as well as to not alarm his team members. The last thing he needed or wanted was for the only people he considered as friends to worry about him. He had already let his guard down and revealed the secret to two of his coworkers and wasn't about to make that mistake again.
He oftentimes wondered if he was going to turn out to be like so many of the protagonists of the novels that he buried himself in. Many of them tried so desperately to avoid their foretold fate or preplanned destiny only to walk right into it by doing so. He thought of the story of Oedipus and pondered if he too would seal his own fate by running from it. Was masking the pain and suppressing it to unhealthy levels going to end up being the reason for some terrible consequence that Reid could currently not bring himself to even think of? He did, at times, desire greatly to gouge out his own eyes in agony and frustration but shrugged that off as coincidence and not a connection.
Hearing the buzzing of his alarm from the other room, Reid gradually lifted himself from his place of rest and looked over his dim image in the mirror as small rays of sunlight seeped in through his partially closed bathroom blinds. His ragged appearance shocked even him and Reid turned away, readying himself to face and fake yet another day.