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Spencer knows something’s wrong, but he can’t explain what. It’s a strange feeling—as though a pit of dread is filling his stomach. Something bad’s going to happen, he just knows it.
That’s probably why he decided to come home from work early.
You are Spencer’s best friend. There’s no doubt about it. You were one of the few people nice to him in high school, and despite the age gap, a friendship sparked between you two. When Spencer got an offer at the BAU, he took it and you fell out of contact. It wasn’t until two years later where a promotion at your job made you move to Washington DC. One particular case meant you ended up working with the BAU and thus Spencer. After, you decided to move in together, and the rest is history.
Spencer gets to your shared apartment, taking the stairs two at a time as he rushes up to the door. If you’d stopped and asked Spencer why he was rushing, he wouldn’t be able to give you a proper answer, just a hurried ‘I think something’s wrong’.
He unlocks the door, kicks his shoes off, and puts his messenger bag on the kitchen counter.
“Y/N?” He calls out. “You in here?”
In fact, as Spencer thinks about it, he realises that he hasn’t seen you for the past few days. Obviously he’s seen you in passing as you walk to the bathroom, but apart from that, you haven’t held a proper conversation since the start of the week. He makes a quick phone call, and upon the answer he receives, his face drops.
Spencer surveys the apartment, noticing nothing seems out of place. It’s like he’s the only one living here. Slowly, he makes his way to your bedroom door, softy knocking.
“Y/N? Are you okay?” He asks. When there’s no reply, the doctor feels as though he has no choice but to open his friend’s door and walk in, accepting any consequences later.
He notices the smell first. It’s grimy, as though someone hasn’t changed their bedding in a few weeks. Your clothes are on the floor, not put away in the basket like Spencer knows you do. You both like things neat and clean; it’s one of the many reasons you were able to coordinate living together.
Spencer’s eyes flit to the bed next to the window. There’s a mass lying there, who he can tell is you, but it’s unmoving. It’s almost as though you haven’t heard Spencer, or even acknowledged his presence. You’re in your own world, one Spencer so desperately wants to get into.
“Y/N?” He asks a little louder this time, stepping over the laundry to reach his friend. You can hear the concern in his voice, it drips off the end of every question, every sentence, every word, every syllable. “Y/N?”
You turn your head slightly, looking your best friend in the eye. You almost break there—Spencer’s eyes hold the kind of concern you only saw when he left his mother at home from time to time. It hurts, a pain blossoming in your chest.
“Sp-Spence?” You ask. “What’re you doing here?”
“Checking on you,” the genius replies quickly. “I haven’t seen you in a few days. I’ve barely spoken to you.”
“I’m fine,” comes the mumbled reply. Spencer lets out a small sigh and takes a step forward, sitting on the edge of your bed.
“I called your boss,” he starts, and if you had the energy, you would’ve shouted at you friend, “she said you haven’t been in the past few days. I’m…worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Spencer seems astonished by the question. “I care about you. You’re my best friend. I want to make sure you’re okay. What’s wrong?”
You scoff. “You’re the profiler, figure it out.”
Spencer looks around. “You’re depressed again, aren’t you?” You nod. “Why didn’t you say anything, before it got to this?”
You look down. “I-I don’t know. I’m sorry, Spence, I’m sorry.”
You let out a sob, the start of your breakdown. You start to cry, body shaking and Spencer moves quickly, pulling you quickly into a hug.
“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here,” you repeat, rocking back and forth in your friend’s arms. “I can’t do it Spence.”
“Yes you can,” he reassures. “You’re going to be okay. I’m here. You’re going to be okay now. I promise.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, I promise,” he replies, rubbing a hand up and down your back and placing a small kiss on your forehead. “You’re going to be okay.”
You sit there for a while as you calm down, your cries slowly coming to a stop.
“Do you…” Spencer doesn’t know how to phrase his question “…do you still speak to Mark?” You nod. “Do you want me to call him and set up an appointment?” You nod again. “Okay.”
Spencer stands up and picks up his phone, calling the number for the therapist’s office. After a few rings, a woman picks up. “Hi, Atlas Centre, what can I do for you today?”
“Hi, I’m calling on behalf of a friend of mine,” Spencer begins, “is there a chance I can speak to Dr Brown?”
There’s some rustling. “Sure. Let me put you through to him now.”
“Hi, this is Dr Brown speaking.”
“Hi, I’m Dr Spencer Reid, I’m calling on behalf of one of your clients, Y/N L/N.”
“Okay? What’s wrong?”
“I’d like to arrange an appointment for them for tomorrow, preferably morning.”
“Alright. I can fit them in at ten o’clock, is that a good time?” He asks.
“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.”
“No problem. I’ll see them tomorrow.”
Spencer hangs up the phone and turns back to you. “Okay. You’ve got an appointment at ten tomorrow. I’m going to order a takeaway. Do you think you can get out of bed to get in the shower? Or change clothes?” You nod. “Awesome.”
Spencer leaves the room and you look around. It takes you a minute, but you get yourself out of your bed and walk to your chest of drawers. You pull out a jumper and joggers before heading to the bathroom. If you payed more attention to your surroundings, you would’ve noticed Spencer smiling at him before he orders some pizza.
After ten minutes of a strenuous shower, you’re sitting on the sofa next to Spencer, who has his arm around his friend and flicking through the channels. He settles on Doctor Who, an episode with Tennant, and pulls a blanket over you.
“Hey Spence?” You ask, making the genius look down.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
Spencer smiles and pulls you into his side more. He knows how important human contact is for people, especially those who suffer with depression.
“It’ll be okay. I promise.”