Chapter Text
Spencer doesn’t get hungry anymore. He feels hunger, yes; he feels the growing black hole gingerly chewing at the nothing in his stomach, the TV static he sees when he stands up, his clammy hands clattering against his desk like cold teeth. But it’s not about a lack of food anymore. It’s just part of his existence.
He’s not hungry, he’s just awake.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize that he’s traded one deadly addiction for another like he used to paychecks for heroin. But he is a genius, and that’s the mind-fuck of it all. His IQ of 187 is shrinking with the number on the scale and for some reason he doesn’t mind. Why doesn’t he mind? Why doesn’t he care that he’s ruining the one thing that he has to offer? Shouldn’t he care that if his brain keeps dying he won’t be able to save people?
Inexplicably, thoughts like these just fuel his desire to be empty. He doesn’t deserve his body or his brain, so he’ll deprive it until it’s as pathetic as he is. It’s a paradox that even his five degrees can’t solve.
Spencer knows his teammates suspect something’s wrong. It’s written on their faces when he stands up too quickly or takes one trip too many to the precinct bathroom. He sees it when he skips out on team dinners to go to a “Star Trek showing” or a “16th century literature conference”. But he rattles off enough facts about the fake events that eventually they stop caring about the fact that they haven’t seen him eat in days. Part of him wishes JJ would ask, “hey, Spence, why aren’t you eating?”
The other half is relieved she doesn’t care enough to.
And that’s how his life goes now: a balancing act of eating enough to keep his job and starving enough to keep his sobriety. He figures that if he has enough willpower to resist hunger pangs, he has enough willpower to resist the goddamn cravings. It’s not entirely logical, but contrary to popular belief, Dr. Spencer Reid is only human.
Spencer arrived to his apartment that night exhausted. He flew in late from a case. It was a bleak one. The unsub was a chemistry professor at a community college in North Carolina who poisoned students that resembled his late son in grief. The professor was timid, awkward, and bookish. His team members saw the resemblance to Spencer and (in the nicest way possible) suggested that he be the one to talk him down. He failed. The unsub shot himself before they were able to disarm him, reminding Spencer yet again how ugly death is up-close. When the blood splattered against the professor’s tweed jacket, Spencer swore he owned the same one.
The doctor locked the apartment door behind him and let his keys clatter to the floor. He felt like a failure. If only he thought fast enough, the professor would still be alive. He didn’t predict the gunshot that still echoed in his memory. In a twisted way, the worst part of it all was that Spencer actually ate that morning in preparation for the takedown. He wanted to make sure his brain was fueled enough to do his job right, so he hesitantly scarfed down a blueberry muffin (470) and a banana (105).
But it didn’t matter, after all. All those calories curdled in his greedy stomach for nothing. It’s not like they fueled his brain, because he was too goddamn stupid to empathize with an unsub that was practically his spitting image. All those unnecessary calories went straight to his hips and thighs.
He didn’t deserve to eat if it didn’t help him do his job. He swore he still felt the useless calories in his stomach and yearned for a hit to numb the feeling. Heroin is zero calories, his brain unhelpfully supplied.
At least tomorrow, his eidetic memory won’t let him forget the torturous feeling of being full.
Spencer would do better tomorrow. He had to.