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He couldn't stop thing about the medallion, as he made his way to the conference room.
It was gold, shining in the light. One year stamped, inscripted into the plastic. Light in the palm. He fingered it in his pocket, edges rough as he ran his finger along it. Not enough to cause pain, but simply a whisper of it.
He had been surprised, seeing the director at the Beltway Clean Cops meeting. There'd been rumors, of course, that there was a time where he was arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge instead of doing the arresting, but he'd never put much stock in it. He'd been a favorite of the rumor mill at every school he went to, and it taught him never to believe in something without all the facts.
It seems this was one time to believe the gossip.
He still didn't understand why he was given the medallion. Why someone so high up in the bureau, who could ruin his career before eating breakfast, would give away his most prized possession.
Shaking his head, he forced the thoughts away as he entered the conference room. Any thoughts about... that stayed as far away from work as possible. Those thoughts got people hurt. People killed. Learned that in New Orleans.
He startled a bit, seeing everyone already sitting. The NA meeting had been a bit out of the way, being in the near center of DC, but normally he wasn't the last one in. And he could tell everyone else noticed too.
Guilt welled up in his chest, guilt he knew he should not be feeling. Going to that meeting was the right thing to do, even if the addict in him tried to convince him it wasn't.
But that guilt was there nonetheless.
JJ had started the briefing but paused at his interruption. There was video playing, a fireball in the background, and he took a deep breath. This is work. People could die if you don't focus, so get a grip.
"Sorry I'm late." That feeling of shame welled up again, so much he felt like it was boiling over, and he could only tuck a strand of hair behind his ear and take his place at the table, hoping the others let it drop.
And of course they didn't. Because working with a team of elite profilers meant they didn't know basic courtesy, apparently. Just because you know someone's hiding something doesn't mean you need to call them out for it. Even he knew that, for all his social ineptitude.
"I hope she was worth it." Rossi said, tone neutral but obviously playful. A part of him ruffled at the suggestion, especially considering where he'd actually been.
Sexual banter. He'd learned about that in middle school, when he reached an age where the people around him seemed to think it was appropriate to include him (it was not). Maybe it was because he was introduced to it so young, when all he knew about love and sex was from books and he had a gross misunderstanding about the actual mechanics, that he obtained such a disdain for it.
Maybe it was because he was the punchline of all the jokes.
It only got worse as he got older.
Nearly thirteen percent of college students face violence on campus. And sixty-four percent of non-heterosexual students say they've faced discrimination.
When he did start exploring, when he was eighteen, the jokes turned from mindless banter to targeted attacks: hurled slurs across hallways, signs posted on his door. A petition to force him out of the dorms and into an apartment, citing 'safety concerns.'
From there, it only got worse.
Now that he's an adult (not to mention surrounded by Morgan and Garcia all day), he makes a concerted effort to let the comments roll off him. And he's gotten good at it, too. It helps that their comments are always meant in good fun, never to hurt him. That they're never discriminatory or homophobic. He's never once felt ostracized or bullied in the years he's been with the FBI.
But he's craving, has been since he saw that kid get his face blown off by a shotgun a month ago. It's late, and he's exhausted and running on no caffeine. The world seems too bright and he's having to force himself to mask, because stimming is the last thing he needs to do right now.
And maybe it's a combination of all those things that makes Morgan's next comment hurt so much. That makes it impossible for him to just let it roll off his back. Maybe because it was so similar to what he's heard all his life. From his father, his classmates.
That damn football team.
"I hope it was a she."
He says it with a smile on his face. Like it's just a joke.
But it's not a joke.
I hope it was a she.
His world grinds to halt, in that instant.
'She.' Pronoun. Referring to female-identifying people.
The dictionary definition, even if it's not entirely accurate.
I hope it was a she.
Maybe that's what Morgan said, but everyone knows what he meant.
I hope it wasn't a man.
He wanted to run. He wanted to run to the bathroom and lock himself in the stall and cry, just like he used to do when he was sixteen. There he doesn't have to worry about the tears on his face or the movement of his hands and body.
But he's not sixteen; he's twenty-four and responsible for finding a serial killer.
So he forces all those emotions away. Pushes back the feeling like he is jumping out of his own skin, so disgusted with himself for what he is, who he is.
He just keeps his head down, trying to focus on the case file even if it was swimming in front of his eyes. "I was at the movies."
He's almost proud at the fact his voice doesn't waver.
It's a bad excuse, considering his near-luddite nature and well-known lack of interest in popular culture, but it's not like he can say 'I was at an NA meeting in the middle of DC.'
He's always been a notoriously bad liar.
It doesn't help that his heart is beating out of his chest, the urge to run filling his veins, and he can't help but see Morgan's joking smile as predatory.
It's always those you're closest to.
I hope it was a she.
"Oh, really?" Morgan's grin only widened, and he clutched the medallion hard in his pocket. Don't run, don't run, don't run. "Why don't you tell us what it was about?"
Tears almost well up in his eyes, and he knows the gazes of everyone else in the room are locked on him. And the feeling is so distinctly like being twelve again he can almost feel the rope against his wrists.
The words come out in a nervous block, rushed and almost unintelligible, barely thinking about what he's saying.
"I had to leave early, so I can't really - "
Hotch's voice cuts him off, stern, the unit chief persona coming out in full force. " - I know it's late, I know we're tired, But we've got two dead cops."
And Reid can only sigh in relief, even as he forces himself not to scratch at his skin.
This only causes him to instead shake his hand so hard the bones in his wrist cracks, hoping beyong hope that the team of profilers won't notice his stimming under the table.
He barely understands a word about the case. When JJ's done with the briefing and Hotch dismisses them with only instructions to be at the jet within twenty, he bolts from the room.
The click of the bathroom lock is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. And he lets everything out: crying, pulling his hair, hitting his legs. It's all too much, too overwhelming, the emotions far too strong to handle.
And there's a constant backing track in his mind, playing again and again and again.
I hope it was a she.
I hope it was a she.
I hope it was a she.
The plane ride to Texas was a long one, and Derek Morgan was perfectly content to spend it listening to good tunes on his headphones and getting some rest. Hotch said they'd be hitting the road running when they touched down, so he'd much prefer to get some sleep.
But there was something bugging him.
And that something was named Spencer Reid.
He couldn't stop looking over at him, perched in his customary spot on the couch. He had a blanket half over him, eyes closed. But his hand wouldn't stop moving in his lap, running his fingers over his fidget tangle again and again.
Something was bothering him. Something bad enough that his mind was working in circles and making everything else go on overdrive. He only brought out that tangle when it was really bad; he hated showing that he was struggling, that he was, in his words, 'not normal.' So he must be pretty bad off if he was actually trying to take care of himself; sometimes it seemed like the kid had an actual aversion to self-care.
Staring at those fingers endlessly moving around plastic, his mind switched into profiler mode.
Reid had been last to the conference room earlier, and while that wasn't unheard of for a late night recall, it was out of the ordinary. And there was the way he came in, like the weight of world was on his shoulders. Reid has obviously been struggling since their last case, working long hours in the office and drinking more coffee than can possibly be healthy. And they've all seen the way his hand shakes sometimes, or the slight scratching at his inner elbow.
So he's craving.
It would explain the moodiness, the increase in stimming. Not to mention how cagey he was about why he was late.
He'd noticed those signs before, in the two months following Georgia. Before he took a week off for 'personal reasons' and came back their normal Reid, spouting off statistics and apologizing for the slightest inconvenience he causes someone.
They'd all thought Reid was clean, for good this time. But after today, witnessing him in the conference room...
Hopefully it was just an NA meeting. Hopefully he wasn't actually trying to get high tonight.
Either way, they'll get to the bottom of what's going on with Reid. And regulations be damned, they'll get through it as a team.
We always do.
The lights on the plane dimmed lower as they reached altitude, and he watched as Reid's eyes closed, almost against his will.
We'll get through this.
He tried, to put everything other than work out of his mind. To forget about the drugs and Morgan and everything else and focus on the profile.
He really tried.
But this case shook him to the core. The instability he felt on that jet when he couldn't stop thinking about 'she's and 'he's is magnified tenfold.
He must be cursed to have the worst luck, because he's seeing his own life being unraveled by the profile, seeing himself shoot people with an automatic rifle. If only things had been a little worse. If the students at his high school had had the benefit of modern video technology. If the people at college had decided beating him up wasn't enough to get the 'gay' out of him.
And suddenly he can't breathe in the hot Texas air. He feels trapped and stifled knowing this is going to end with Owen dying.
It'll end only with another kid blown away.
The cravings are back in full force, worse than he's ever felt. His emotions running high to the point where even stimming doesn't stem the tide.
Where the only thing that could help is the one thing he can't have.
So he lashes out. At the sheriff, the principal. At the whole police force. Tells them what he wished he could've told his own principal, or the head of campus police, when he kept showing up to class with bruises and his grades started slipping.
You should have done something.
They're everywhere. They won't stop.
I hate myself.
I can't handle this anymore.
They should have stopped them. For him, for Owen.
And he feels everything come to a head when Hotch pulls him aside in the middle of that profile briefing. When the door closes behind him and he can't help but speak up.
"It's the truth, they could have done something. They worked with his father, they knew Owen."
Hotch is standing close to him and he feels his breathing pick up because Hotch is mad, and Hotch is never mad. He's pressed against the door behind him; nowhere to run.
His hand is shaking violently at his side before he can stop it, and he wants to scream because it isn't working isn't working isn't working -
"You disgusting fag! We should have done this in the front of the school where everyone can see. Then they'll know just how much of a freak you are!"
He sees Hotch's eyes glance down, and Reid forces his hands to stop moving even as Hotch's expression softens. The unit chief takes a deliberate step back, moving until he's behind the sheriff's desk. His voice is still stern, but gentler. Understanding.
"I don't want you interacting with anyone on the local force more than is necessary from here on out. Go back to the Savage house and continue the profile of Owen's room."
"Morgan's already doing that." He muttered, keeping his gaze locked on the floor. The last thing he wants is to be in the same room as that man right now.
He hates you, he hates everything you are. I'm surprised he hasn't just taken you out back on a case and shot you.
He feels his hand start moving again and shoved them deep in his pockets.
"You're going to join him." Hotch gives him a pointed look, and he curls in a little deeper on himself. "I know you're struggling, Reid, with this case and that... movie from earlier. And I know something is going on between you and Morgan. But Owen Savage is not going to stop killing until we apprehend him, and I expect you to either do your job or tell me that you can't."
His fingers find the medallion in his pocket, and he takes a deep breath. Tries to believe the words he's saying. "I can do my job, sir."
Hotch nods, taking another glance at him. It's only then Reid realizes his leg is shaking. He doesn't have the energy to stop it. "Are you going to be able to drive there?"
He knows the question is out of concern, but he can hear freak in his head again and again and he needs to leave, leave the station and the case and Texas all together.
But that can't happen, so none of it leaves his mouth.
Instead, he just says, "Yes, sir."
At least it's quiet, at Owen's house. Morgan's downstairs, didn't even glance at him as he ran up to the bedroom. Like he didn't even notice he was there.
He was able to lose himself in the emails. And as horrible as they were, at least he didn't have to face Morgan.
That peace lasted for exactly seventeen minutes.
"Garcia restored those emails we were looking for."
He heard Morgan's voice seconds before the hand settled on his shoulder. But it wasn't enough warning. He jumped a mile high at the touch, scrambling out of the chair and against the bedroom wall. His skin felt like it was crawling, jumping.
He couldn't help but scratch at his arm. The pain barely took any of the overwhelming feeling away.
"Calm down, kid. It's just me."
You're alone with him. He could do anything to you.
He feels himself curl in tighter, knees barely holding him upright. And he sees a careful hand coming towards him and recoils further. "Don't touch me!"
"Okay, okay, I won't touch you. But Reid, I need you to listen to me, this is really important." Morgan's voice is soft, when he speaks. Calming. "Are you using again?"
Using?
Morgan thinks he's - ?
He feels bile churn in his stomach even as he lets out a little bitter laugh. He can't think, not through everything he's feeling. All he can remember are those words.
I hope it was a she.
(Freak. Abomination)
The words are out before he can stop them.
"So not only do you think I'm a disgusting fag, but that I'd be stupid enough to get high on a case?" He can feel the scratching get worse (harder, deeper), but he's helpless to stop it. "No, I'm not using, Morgan. I've been clean for ten months. Give me a drug test if you don't believe me."
Panting, heavy breaths are the only sounds in the room for long moments. He slowly glances up from the floor, seeing the shell-shocked expression on Morgan's face.
It's only when he starts to draw blood on his arm that the profiler talks.
"I believe you, Reid." Heart pounding, he's shocked to see something like sadness in the other man's eyes. His voice shakes. "But why would you ever think that I... that I would find you disgusting?"
He replays the conversation again and again in his mind, remembering the feeling of panic and fear. "You said... last night, in the conference room, Rossi said 'I hope she was worth it,' and you replied - " He stops, forcing the bitter words out. "'I hope it was a she.'"
He watches the realization spread across Morgan's face, and some part of him starts to doubt. "No, no pretty boy, that's not at all what I meant." He pauses. "Scratch that, it was exactly what I meant. But it was just a joke, I promise, kid."
Reid could only laugh, even as tears started to fill his eyes. "Just a joke? Do you have any idea how many times that's what adults told me? Like that makes it any better, to know everyone thinks that you're a freak just for being who you are? When they beat you every day and hurl slurs at you?"
Freak. Disgusting. Fag. I didn't even know they let people like you in this school, aspie.
His knees finally did give out, and he let out a loud sob as he kneeled on the wooden floor of a murderer's room. Morgan just settled down next to him, close but not touching.
"Reid, what I said was callous and insensitive and horrible and I am so sorry. I would never think you were disgusting, or a freak, no matter what your sexuality is."
Morgan reaches out a tentative hand, pausing above where he's scratching. He nods, shivering a bit at the touch when the older profiler moves his hand away from the bloody gash he'd dug. Instead, his fingers tap on his thigh, red dotting his pants.
"I can remember everything those people said to me, and I can never forget it." He looked up, met Morgan's gaze. "I won't ever forget what you said to me."
He sees something break, in those brown eyes. And part of him hates himself for causing that much pain in his friend.
"I will always love you, Reid. No matter who you are, what you do, or who you're with." Another hand touched him on his shoulder, pulling him into a hug. He sinks into the comforting weight of his friend. "If you can't forget what I said, just remember that too."
"I want to forget, more than anything." He whispers the words. "Just like Owen,"
"But you're not Owen, kid. You would never hurt someone the way he's hurting people, no matter how much they did to you."
Writing that list in his room, after. Rubbing the rope burns around his wrist as he remembered every face of the people who'd been on that field. Only burning it days later when he'd realized what he'd been doing.
"But I thought about it."
"And I thought about killing Buford." He pulls back at the revelation, sees the complete honesty in Morgan's eyes. The pain, decades-buried trauma. "He had a shotgun, up in that cabin. I spent night after night laying in that bed, staring at that gun. Imagining what it'd feel like to just kill him and be done with it."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I realized it would make me no better than him."
The silence was loud, in the room. And Reid couldn't help but imagine fourteen year old Derek, contemplating killing his rapist with a shotgun.
Sometimes he forgets that with everything he's been through, he's not alone.
Maybe that's why he starts talking again.
"I was in the library and, uh... Harper Hillman comes up to me, and she tells me that - " His throat closes, realizing what he's about to admit. And Morgan just rubs a comforting hand along his back. " - that Alex Lisben wants to meet me behind the field house. Alex Lisben's, like, easily the prettiest boy in school."
He remembers it like yesterday. Harper coming up to him, interrupting his reading. Following her to gym despite his instincts, thinking maybe, for once, someone actually wants to be around him.
"What happened? Alex wasn't there?"
"No, he was there. But so was the entire football team." He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the disgust in Morgan's eyes. "They, uh... they stripped me naked and tied me to a goal post. So many kids were there, you know? Just watching."
The fear he felt, held down by two boys as he was roughly stripped, is overwhelming. The helplessness, knowing they could do anything to him. Rope burned around his wrist as he twisted and writhed when they tied him. And there was laughing and jeering and the snap of a camera.
The tapping on his leg turns to hitting, until he feels Morgan shift, something pressed into his palm. His tangle. He runs his fingers over the bumps, trying to ground himself.
"Breathe, pretty boy." Morgan's voice was calm, but angry. He opened his eyes, surprised at the emotion in them. The hatred. Not at him, but at long-grown bullies. "Nobody tried to stop them?"
He could only shake his head.
"I begged - I begged them to, but they just - they just watched, and laughed, and said...." He choked on a sob, hearing those wretched voices in his head even as he repeated the words. "Said I was a freak, a fag, and this was what I deserved."
He shivered in the night air, the turf below his feet painful after hours barefoot. He could hardly lift his head. Tears had long since run dry.
"It took me until after midnight, to get free. My wrists were torn up for weeks afterwards. I thought... I thought it was one of those things that If I didn't talk about it, I'd just forget. But I remember it like it was yesterday.
"And that wasn't the last time. It only got worse in college. It really wasn't until I came to the BAU that it stopped." He meets Morgan's gaze again, trying to make him understand. "I just want to forget, Morgan. And the cravings, the cravings are so bad, so much worse than I thought possible."
Everything is quiet. He's breathing hard, the full force of the admission hitting him. About the bullying, his addiction, his sexuality -
Oh god, I just came out to Morgan.
"Reid, you know we'll help you through this, right? You don't have hide any of this from us."
"I know."
He tested his head against Morgan's shoulder, allowing himself to relax. His fingers started to tap patterns along the tangle, and he let them. It was comforting, a simple repeating movement.
They sat there for countless minutes, just breathing. Just gaining support from the other to move on, beyond the trauma of their past.
They both jumped when Morgan's phone buzzed. He fished it out, sighing at the message. "Garcia's asking us if we got the emails she decrypted."
"Tell her we did, I was going through them when you walked in." He sat up, before standing and testing his legs. They seemed stable enough. He waited until his partner was standing beside him to continue. "Morgan, can you not say anything to the team about this? I'm going to tell them, about everything, but I need some time."
Morgan bended down and grabbed his messenger bag, handing it to him. "I won't say anything to them, you have my word."
"Thank you," He whispers, before forcing himself to focus. Smoothing down his shirt and adjusting his tie. Turning from Spencer back in SSA Reid. "We need to get back to Hotch, tell him what we found. I think I know why he chose Jordan."
"Let's go, then."
Morgan started to walk out of the room, and he followed. "And kid," He stopped, turning. "I'm driving."
Reluctantly, he dug in his bag and grabbed his keys, handing them over.
"One of these days you're going to get us killed, driving how you do. Did you know that over sixty-five percent of drivers...."