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Reid squints at the evidence board, marker pen hovering at eye height as he tries to take in the overwhelming mass of information in front of him for the third time in the past twenty minutes.
It feels like he’s been holed up in the round table room for hours, the evidence they’d pulled from the dusty box labelled ANTHONY - 2001 still sitting dully where he’d pinned it up this morning, no new connections jumping out at him like they normally would. Behind him, Derek sighs. Spencer hears the ballpoint pen he’d been twirling drop to the table.
It’s a cold case. The type they bring out when they think it applies to a recent profile. Their last case had been similar, and they’d solved it, so Spencer knows he should be able to make links here where they hadn’t managed before. It should be easy, straightforward, but he can’t see it. He can’t seem to see anything.
“Reid, what do you make of the careers the first three had? I mean, one worked in finance, one worked in healthcare in various capacities, one—“
Reid doesn’t really hear what Morgan says after that. It feels like his ears are full of cotton wool. He blinks hard, turning around; maybe if he can see Morgan, can watch his mouth moving, he’ll be able to process the words. But then Morgan has stopped speaking, and he looks at Reid expectantly.
“I, uh…” he trails off, and shakes his head. “Sorry.”
Derek’s expectant expression morphs into one of concern. “Kid? You okay?”
Spencer’s breath catches, though he doesn’t know why. He presses a hand to his eye and tries to remember how to breathe. “I can’t focus.”
His stomach growls and he instinctively wraps his arms around himself, his cheeks heating.
Then Morgan is beside him, pushing him down into a chair. “Pretty boy, when’s the last time you ate?”
“This morning,” Spencer replies miserably.
“A proper meal?” Morgan pushes.
Spencer doesn’t want to answer that. He knows Morgan won’t like it if he does.
“Alright. Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Derek’s voice is gentle and understanding and Spencer hates it, hates how he’s being babied because they all seem to know he can’t take care of himself. “We’re gonna go to the cafeteria and I’m gonna order you something proper to eat. You’re gonna eat it, and then I’m gonna take you home so you can get some rest.”
The very idea of changing his schedule and of forcing himself to eat something makes his heart speed up in his chest and his stomach churn. “You don’t have to do that,” he tries lamely.
“Yeah, I do,” Derek insists. And then Spencer is being hauled to his feet and near enough dragged to the bureau cafeteria on the eighth floor.
The smell of cooking food hits him the moment they step out of the elevator and through the glass double doors. Spencer instinctually wants to bolt, get away from the overwhelming mesh of foreign sounds and smells and tastes that blanket the place, but Derek’s hand on his shoulder stops him.
“Go take a seat,” Derek points to a cluster of empty tables, “I’ll grab you a sandwich.”
Spencer wills his shaky legs to carry him to a seat. He doesn’t know why he’s so anxious, but he doesn’t have time to think on that. The shaking that’s set in his hands tells him he’s probably running on adrenaline right now, which means fight or flight, which means all non-essential functions are shut off, like eating and moving and performing like a normal human.
Derek pulling up a chair makes him jump. The sandwich that’s set in front of him would look vaguely appetising on a good day, but the thought of chewing on the stodgy bread and warm filling sends his stomach into knots.
Derek must catch the panicked look in his eyes. “I can swap it if it’s not your thing.”
“No, it’s— it’s fine, it’s not—“ Spencer rushes his words and stumbles, “I’m just not that hungry? I guess?”
Derek laughs at that, and Spencer feels his cheeks reddening. “Like hell you’re not hungry. Or was that somebody else’s stomach I heard singing an anthem?”
Spencer looks away and he knows he’s going to have to eat something if only to please Derek.
The sandwich has a texture like glue in his mouth. The taste is fine – Derek knows him well enough to know his lunch order – but the feeling of queasiness won’t settle even once he has the first few bites down.
It’s less than half-finished when he sets it down on the plate, pushing it away. He feels like he probably looks a little green around the edges.
“Done?” Derek asks, uncapping a bottle of water and handing it across the table. Spencer nods and takes a few sips, ridding his mouth of the gummy, bready texture.
“Thanks,” Spencer hands the water back to Derek, not trusting his shaking hands to re-cap it properly.
The ball of anxiety is still sat firmly in his stomach. He’d thought that he’d maybe feel better once he was no longer running on empty, but the sick feeling is still there, making him feel weak and dazed.
“What’s going on with you, Reid?” Derek asks gently.
Spencer looks down at his lap. “I just don’t feel good.” It’s the best answer he can come up with.
“You getting sick?”
Spencer shrugs. “I don’t know. I just… I feel off, but I don’t think I have a fever or anything. And it’s not— it’s not a headache. It’s not that.”
“Right,” Derek doesn’t sound so certain, “how’s your sleeping been?”
Sleeping isn’t exactly a thing Spencer does anymore. He can’t remember the last time he went to sleep when he wanted and woke up feeling refreshed. He shrugs. He doesn’t feel like lying anymore.
The shrug is how he ends up in Derek’s car on his way back to his own apartment, being lectured on the importance of a good sleeping pattern.
“Call me if you need me,” Derek says as Spencer climbs out of the passenger side. “I mean it, Reid. Now go get some beauty sleep.”
Spencer bids Derek a weary thanks and waits for him to drive off before he steps inside his building, making a bee-line for the elevator, desperate now to be in his own space.
Getting his key out of his bag is one problem, but getting it into the lock of his door is an entirely different hurdle altogether. He misses the slot enough times that the persistent scraping of metal on metal is starting to make his teeth ache. When he misses a sixth time, he drops his key and his bag on the floor, wincing at the resulting clatter.
He leans his forehead against the door, taking a few steadying breaths, willing himself not to cry. He’s a grown man, thwarted by a door. Pathetic.
After a few minutes of door-leaning and deep-breathing, the nervous rattling inside him has morphed into a bone-deep weariness that creeps up his neck and across his limbs. He reaches for his keys and ignores the lightheaded feeling that assaults him as he comes back up. The door opens first try.
Being back in his apartment feels good. He absently wonders what Derek will tell Hotch about where he is. Oh, Spencer was sad and anxious, so I took him home probably won’t wash with HR, but he knows Hotch and near enough everyone else on the team must have noticed his steadily declining mental state.
He snorts at that. Once upon a time, the thought that he’s losing it would have terrified him, but now it resonates deep within his bones with a bitter green sort of acceptance that this is how he is now. Off. Defective. Wrong.
He peels off his cardigan and then his shoes and socks, padding to the bathroom so he can splash his face with water. Miraculously, he’s stopped shaking. He wonders if it’s because the anxiety is finally going to leave him alone, or if he’s so tired that his body’s given up expending energy on something as insignificant as an earthquake in his hands.
He’s tired enough that he doesn’t really recognise that he’s brushing his teeth and unbuttoning his shirt and removing his work pants until he’s done them. A glance through his open bedroom door at the alarm clock tells him it’s just gone 5pm, which is far too early to sleep, and yet somehow not early enough.
He barely manages to pull on some pyjamas and flop under the covers before he’s asleep, exhaustion pulling him under quickly for the first time in months.
When he wakes, three and a half hours later, his head is spinning, the anxiety back surging through him.
His entire body feels like it’s on fire. He’s surely melting, slipping through the cracks in his well put-together demeanour. He yanks his pyjama top over his head in one swift motion, desperate to get the cool evening air on his boiling skin.
The rational part of his mind recognises that he really, really shouldn’t be alone, not right now. He scrabbles around blindly on his bedside table with a shaking hand, locating his phone.
He fires off two texts in quick succession.
Could you come over
Please
Morgan’s reply is almost instantaneous.
On my way
What’s wrong?
Spencer chews on his lip, scratching his nails absently across his chest, leaving little pink trails.
Don’t feel good
He drops the phone onto his bedsheets, closing his eyes and willing himself to take a deep breath. Derek is coming. There’s no need to panic. He’s on his way.
The knock at the door still makes him jump half a mile.
“Reid?”
Reid’s heart jumps to his throat. In his haste to get in, he’d left his front door unlocked. He’d been vulnerable, a glowing red target, since he’d got in. Stupid.
Stop this, he begs himself internally, please, stop.
"Reid,” Derek’s voice is more insistent this time, “where you at, kid?”
“In here.” Spencer hates how much his voice shakes.
Moments later, a worried-looking Derek appears in his doorway, gun hanging in his right hand. He holsters it the moment he sees Spencer, sat cross-legged and shirtless on his bed, scratch marks fading on his chest and sweat cooling on his neck.
“Hey,” Derek crosses the room in an instant. “What’s going on?”
Spencer wills his heart to stop pounding so forcefully. Derek is here. He’s here, so calm down. Calm down before you embarrass yourself. Grown men don’t cry in front of each other. Federal agents don’t cry in front of each other. Get it together, before he—
“Kid,” Derek urges.
Spencer’s breath hitches and the dam breaks. Tears start to fall from his eyes and he can’t stop them.
He tenses when Derek wraps a strong arm around his shoulders. He knows it’s supposed to be comforting, but he suddenly feels crowded and overwhelmed and like he’s flying apart, breaking into a million pieces, and he needs up–
“Sorry—“ he chokes, pushing himself away from Derek and standing up, his entire body vibrating. “Sorry, I— I need—“
“Stop that,” Derek is on his feet, too, taking Spencer’s clammy hand in his own. Spencer hadn’t realised he’d been scratching at his chest again, or that he’d been doing it harder this time, almost drawing blood. “I’ll give you space, Reid, but I won’t let you hurt yourself.”
“D-don’t mean to—“ Spencer insists. He knows the exact number of days since he’d intentionally hurt himself, and it’s enough that he can confidently make that assertion.
“I know,” Derek’s voice is soft, soothing, a stark contrast to the whirlwind raging in Reid’s head. “Take a breath. You’re getting too worked up.”
Spencer tries, he does, to take a deep enough breath, but his chest is heaving and the air he painfully manages to drag in rushes out far too quickly. He swipes a hand across his face, stuck half way between composure and breaking down.
“Hey, look at me,” Derek encourages. “What do you normally do to get through anxiety attacks?”
“Don’t have anxiety attacks,” Spencer replies truthfully. He’s no stranger to panic attacks, he’s been having those on and off since he was a kid, but they come on quickly and abate after no more than half an hour. The drawn-out torture he’s experiencing right now is a first. “N-never like this. Not this long.”
Derek regards him worriedly. “Talk to me,” he says decisively. “You can pace, you can do whatever you need to do, as long as you’re talking. What’s got you feeling this way?”
Spencer starts to pace, his brain following Derek’s suggestion on autopilot. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I was fine, I was doing fine, I’ve been… seeing the bureau therapist and speaking to Hotch and asking for what I need, I’ve been doing everything by the book, and I still can’t focus.”
“Was fine. Past tense,” Derek notes. Spencer tries not to shrink away from the observation. “What changed?”
“Nothing,” Spencer asserts. “Nothing changed. I just woke up one day with this— this thing, inside me. And it makes everything I already find hard impossible.”
“Like eating and sleeping and focusing,” Derek finishes for him.
“Yeah.” Spencer stops pacing at the turn of his loop. He looks up at Derek. “I know I’m autistic. It’s like it’s suddenly… ten times worse. I can’t do anything I’m supposed to be able to do.”
Derek sighs, giving Spencer a long, analysing look. “Reid,” he starts carefully, “have you thought that you’re maybe having a burnout?”
Spencer frowns, confused. He knows what the words mean, but he can’t gather the pace inside his brain to put them together as a whole sentence. The surging anxiety from before has left him with another bout of bone-deep weariness, and his shoulders sag with exhaustion.
“Reid?” Derek coaxes.
“Sorry,” he apologises automatically. “Burnout?”
Derek shifts. “Sit down.” He gestures to the spot next to him on Spencer’s bed and waits for him to sit before continuing. “When I found out about your… diagnosis, I did some research. Burnout happens when an autistic person spends so long keeping up appearances and pretending to be neurotypical that they just… burn out. And suddenly everything is real hard real fast, and it’s described as feeling like you’re getting ‘more autistic’. Kid, that sounds a lot like what you’re telling me. I think you’ve pushed yourself too hard for too long, and now you’re paying.”
Spencer blinks at his carpet as he processes the information. He remembers reading about the topic, once, but it’s not recognised in medical or scientific journals, so he hadn’t even thought to consider it as being a viable explanation for what he’s been going through.
“Yeah,” he croaks. He doesn’t look up at Derek. “I don’t get why. Why now? There have been so many events in my life where this could have happened. Why now?”
“Because you’ve convinced yourself you’re supposed to be fine, and that is exactly why you burn out. You’ve pushed yourself because you have this image of what others expect from you now you’re supposed to be doing fine, and you’re trying so hard to keep up appearances that it’s taken a toll on your health.”
“I’m not,” Spencer insists. He instinctually wraps his arms around his midriff. “It’s– I don’t need accommodations. I don’t need to ‘keep up appearances’. I can work just fine.”
“Kid,” Derek says seriously, “when was the last time you let yourself stim at work?”
“I don’t need to,” Spencer replies defensively, “I can wait ‘til I get home.” ‘
“Sure. And the last time you put your headphones on or asked to work in Hotch’s office because the bullpen is too distracting?”
“I don’t need that,” Spencer repeats, his cheeks flaming. “I don’t— I’m fine. I don’t.”
Derek sighs. “Kid, this is exactly what I’m talking about. You have to let yourself do these things as and when you need them. There isn’t any shame in taking time to do what you need to do to stay on track.”
Spencer shakes his head. “There is shame. It’s not normal.”
Derek scoffs at that, and nudges Reid’s shoulder playfully. “Sorry, remind me what part of our team cares about what’s normal.”
A small smile pulls at the corners of Spencer’s lips, but it’s quickly wiped away by the crushing awareness that it goes much, much deeper than that. He’s never been normal. He knows now that he’d wanted to try. The realisation that he’s failed – that he’ll never, ever be able to manage in the way the rest of his team do – leaves his chest aching in an entirely new way.
“Kid,” Derek says softly. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself.”
Reid just nods, exhausted again. He doesn’t have the energy to pour more of himself into the conversation. His entire life seems to be an uninterrupted cycle of exhaustion-anxiety-exhaustion-anxiety.
“Did you sleep?” Derek notes the pyjama pants.
“A little,” Reid nods.
“Are you tired now?”
Reid swipes a shaky hand over his face, shrugging. “I don’t know.”
“I think you should try to get more sleep,” Derek says softly. He stands from Reid’s bed and waits for Reid to do the same before he shakes out the covers, readying the bed for sleep. “Get in. I’ll see myself out.” Reid climbs back into bed, still shirtless, and pulls the covers around him. He feels… different. Lighter, maybe. He can’t tell.
Morgan makes sure the younger man is settled before he says his goodbye and turns off Reid’s light. As he pulls Reid’s door closed, he hears the young man call out.
“Derek?”
“Yeah?” he asks, hand still on the door handle.
There’s a pause, and then, so soft he almost doesn’t hear it, “thank you.”
Derek smiles. When he speaks, affection is clear in his voice. “Yeah, kid. Any time.”