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“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all.
***
"Sammy's autistic. Getting him to tell us what happened isn't gonna be easy."
“Did you know that only twenty-five to thirty percent of diagnosed autistic adults are non-verbal? Most are able to communicate quite freely. Also, interesting fact - the current estimate is that around ten percent of people globally have an autism spectrum disorder, either ASD or Asperger’s, the latter of which is starting to fall out of favor because-”
“Wheels up in thirty.”
They’re not listening.
He’s info-dumping again.
He pulls his bag on and heads out.
***
On the plane, Seaver asks him about Doctor Who.
“Is that the one where they fly around in the phone booth?”
“First of all, it's a police box, not a phone booth.Second of all, Dr. Who started a quarter of a century before Bill and Ted even went on their bodacious adventure, so, really, they should have just called it "Bill and Ted's Excellent Rip-Off. I mean, at least then-”
“I’m really sorry.” The interruption throws him and he takes a second.
“For what?”
“For asking.” She rolls her eyes and walks off to get coffee.
He fiddles with his bag and doesn’t speak for the rest of the flight.
***
He’s seven and trying to make friends at school, and he sees a boy with a Superman action figure. “Did you know that Superman really shouldn’t look like the average human? The chances of another being in the universe being identical to humans is-”
The other person laughs, and Spencer doesn’t understand because he didn’t think he was being fun, so he frowns.
“Go away, freak. This is why no one wants to be friends with you.”
The other kid walks off and leaves Spencer standing staring after him.
He doesn’t try making friends again.
***
When he meets Sammy, he notices that he reflects the exact presentation that his psych textbooks mentioned. He also realizes that for all of his degrees, his knowledge is actually limited to three one-hour long lectures and a textbook that is probably ten years out of date.
Even so, when he sees the boy’s rocking, the way he reacts to touch… it pushes him into a memory.
***
Spencer is four, and his mom has cut her hair. It was long, and now it’s short, and she doesn’t look like his mom anymore.
So he cries.
He screams, and he cries, and he throws himself on the floor and rocks back and forth while sucking his thumb which is the only way he can ever calm himself down.
Eventually, he settles, but he’s so sleepy and falls asleep on the floor, right there.
When his dad comes home, he scoffs.
“You’re getting too old to act like this, Spencer. You’re a big boy now.”
He never rocks after that.
He presses his nails into his palms until they bleed instead.
His dad never yells at him for that.
***
Sitting next to Sammy… it feels like maybe he knows what he’s going through better than he should. He remembers what he said outside to the psychologist and Rossi.
"Children with autism normally think very logically. Their minds can pick up patterns that ours normally wouldn't recognize."
Saying ‘ours’...it feels dirty, like a lie.
He thinks he has some research to do when the case is done.
But he shoves it to the back of his mind for now.
***
He’s eight, and in middle school. It’s even worse. All the boys keep pushing him around in the corridor, and when he tries to dress like them, to fit in, he ends up wanting to rip his skin off because of the labels. He scratches his arms so much he makes his shoulders bleed.
He’s smaller than all of them, and he’s an easy target.
He spends most of his time in the library reading.
It’s quiet, and it’s safe.
***
He’s never touched a piano before, but Sammy wants him to do it. Maybe he’ll be able to communicate this way.
Maybe he can get through to him.
He takes a seat, and uses the notes as a yes and no option.
It works.
And then he’s playing piano with this little boy, and the world falls away. It’s him and the notes.
It’s the first time in weeks his head hasn’t hurt.
***
He doesn't let himself think about high school.
***
They catch the UnSub. Their work is done.
But he can’t stop thinking about Sammy on the plane. The tune they played is on loop in his head.
He thinks he’ll get a keyboard when he gets home.
***
He gets a keyboard, and a few textbooks.
***
The team notices he’s quieter than usual. Not withdrawn, exactly, but he’s not himself.
They’re worried.
It’s like…it’s like before. After Hankel.
The Dilaudid.
The question of if he’s relapsed is a silent one, but they’re all thinking it.
They watch him.
***
Dilaudid provides relief that nothing else can. For the first time he’s free of the constant stimuli, the constant input that leaves him feeling flayed alive at the end of the day, like every nerve ending is raw and in the open air.
It makes it so hard for him to give it up.
But he manages, and hopes no one asks about the scars that litter his arms afterwards.
***
He starts snapping at them, makes constant little movements like scrunching his nose, or stroking his chin.
His leg never stops bouncing his leg, or tapping with a pen.
They’re even more worried.
***
Spencer knows they’re concerned, because they’re not exactly subtle. If he can figure it out, they’re obviously not.
Morgan keeps inviting him to the bar. He turns him down.
Emily invites him to go see a Russian-language film at the local theater. He goes, and he enjoys himself, but he turns down the drinks after.
JJ invites him over for dinner, and he almost goes until she says she’s making lasagna. He claims he's not feeling too good, and promises to come round another time.
He appreciates them all, all of their effort, but…he can’t bring it up to them yet.
He’s not even sure he can bring it up with himself out loud.
His research.
It’s changed everything about how he sees himself.
He doesn’t know how to handle it, so he does what he does best.
He isolates. He pulls back.
He comes into work, he does his job, and he goes home.
When they’re on cases, he doesn’t go out for dinner with them, he just grabs takeout that he probably won’t even eat and heads back to his room. He doesn’t sleep much, but then again, he never has - his mom told him how much of a nightmare he was to get to sleep as a baby, but she thinks he grew out of it.
He never told her that he just stopped getting up.
***
Eventually, it’s Hotch that confronts him, calls him into his office and shuts the door.
And the blinds.
“Reid, is there something going on?”
“Uh, no, sir” - crap, Hotch hates when he calls him sir - “I mean, Hotch, - n-nothing.”
“You’ve not been acting like yourself, Reid. You’re withdrawn, quiet…it’s not like you. And I’m not the only one concerned. I have to ask, Re-Spencer…are you using again? Because if you are, there are programs we -”
What, they think-
“Oh God, no. I can promise you I’m not.” He rolls his sleeves up, above the elbow, in his desperation to prove to Hotch that no, he’s not there again. No matter what happens, he can't let himself go there again. He doesn't think he'll ever come back out if he does.
“Okay, Spencer, I believe you, I promise. We’re just concerned.”
“I - It’s something I’m working through, actually that I’m working out, even. I’m still figuring out myself. The case in Lafayette-”
Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and something he can’t quite read flashes in his eyes, and their Unit Chief leans back. “I see.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t read Hotch well at the best of times, and now is even harder.
“Well, when you figure it out, or if you just want to talk, we’re here.”
“I- Thank you.”
***
He’s ten, and Dad William has left them. Left him.
His mom won’t get out of bed, so he has to step up. Be the man of the house.
He takes her to her appointments. Makes her eat. Keeps the house straight.
He goes to school on time, and sleeps during homeroom when he thinks no one is looking.
He rocks, and bites, and scratches at his arms in his room when his mom’s passed out from her meds.
CPS never calls or comes round.
He copes. Barely.
***
When he finally feels ready to talk to someone about it, he goes to Rossi.
He thinks Rossi might understand the best.
He knocks on the door, and the man who replaced Gideon, who has become just as important to Reid as he was, looks up at him, smiling.
“Well, hello there, Boy Genius. How can I help?” He leans back and puts his feet up on the desk, loosely folding his arms. As obviously non-threatening as body language can be.
“Hi- erm, can - can we shut the door?”
“Of course. Come, sit.” Reid closes the door and sits. He doesn’t force himself to look Rossi in the eye. “So, how can I help?”
“Erm-Lafayette.”
“Ahhhh, Sammy Sparks. You did great on that case, by the way. I don’t think any of the rest of us would have been able to get through to him the way you did.”
Reid smiles at the praise, then frowns. Rossi’s given him the perfect opening. “So, uh, I was doing some, erm, research - whatdoyouknowaboutautismbecauseIthinkImightbeautistic?” The words come out so fast, but the second they’re out he feels…relief. Overwhelming relief.
Rossi chuckles. “I wondered if that was what this was about.”
What. “What?”
“You got on so well with the boy, and there were a few times - we don’t profile each other, as a rule, but some things are just obvious. You could relate to him more than you can to us, sometimes, am I right?”
Reid nods, the words caught on a lump in his throat. One of his hands starts to twist in his lap, his fingers waving. He holds it still with his other hand.
(He can see his father in his head, holding his hands down by his side when he was five, telling him he’s too old for that now.)
“Reid, can I touch you?” The remark pulls his vision from the floor, and he sees that Rossi has got up from his desk and is actually crouching in front of him, which can’t be good for his knees, but he nods again. He thinks Rossi’s going to help him to hold his hands still.
He isn’t expecting Rossi to pull his fingers off his traitorous hand while saying, “why don’t you just let yourself do that?”
The words are out before he can think. “It’s childish and I’m too old for that.”
“Reid, there’s nothing childish about self-regulating. Have you noticed how Morgan is always playing with his keys in his pocket? How Prentiss taps her pen almost constantly when she’s doing paperwork? Hell, Garcia’s got a drawer of Rubix Cubes and Jacob’s ladders she fiddles with when she’s working, and Gideon always rubbed his hands together when he was thinking.” He had noticed that, but it’s not-
“Reid, it’s exactly the same thing. Adults need to regulate, just like children. Autistic children and adults even more so. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Oh.
Oh.
“So do you think-?”
“Kid, I’m a profiler, not a psychiatrist. I can just tell you what I see in front of me. In front of me is a young man who finished high school at fourteen and had three PhDs by the age of twenty-three. He has a savant-level eidetic memory, and a near bottomless pool of information that he can't help but share with us, and we all appreciate it. He’s also highly empathetic, caring, intensely loyal, and has a black and white view on morality. His clothes are usually a little looser than good fitting would entail, and he always wears odd socks.”
He’s never felt so seen, and yet so unjudged.
“You might be autistic. In fact, knowing you, with all the research and brooding you’ve probably done over the last few weeks, you’re probably pretty sure you are, and you came to me because I was the one you worked with the most in Louisiana. But…Reid, the team already accepts who you are, even without a diagnosis. If you want to get one, officially, then go ahead if that’s what you need. It’s notoriously hard for adults to get a diagnosis, though, which I’m also sure you’re aware of. We can make accommodations for you without a diagnosis, if you feel like you need them.”
“I-I might. Sometimes, the bullpen…it’s loud. And busy. And-”
“It overwhelms you.” Spencer nods, fervently.
“Then you can wear headphones. Just keep them discreet so no one else asks.”
“And the lights?”
“Of course, flourescent lights. I see. Well, if you want to wear sunglasses, I won’t be able to stop Morgan from making Jack Nicholson jokes, but feel free. We’ll make sure Strauss doesn’t bother you.”
“Who?”
“Kid, have you been living under a rock?”
“No, you know I grew up in-oh, idiom, got it.”
“I’ll try to remember to be more plain-speaking in front of you.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
“Any time, Spencer.”
Spencer walks back to his desk, puts his headphones in, and settles down to his paperwork, feeling less like his chest is going to overflow.
***
He looks into the waiting list for adult diagnosis and finds it’s over a year, heading towards two.
Spencer decides against it.
Words on a piece of paper won’t change who he is.
***
The next time he’s on a case and feels like there’s something building up in his chest, he lets his hand shake out a bit next to him. He finds it helps.
When he gets stuck on something, he paces, and clenches his hands to his chest as he does (the first time he does it, Garcia calls them T-Rex arms, and the moniker sticks). One of the local uniforms laughs, and he looks up, but the glares from Emily, Hotch, Morgan and Rossi quickly shut him up.
He’s so grateful to them.
***
They stop asking him to the bar so often, because they know how uncomfortable it makes him.
He’d feel isolated, singled, if they didn’t also stop going to the bar.
Sometimes, they do movie nights round Garcia’s, where they all pile onto the sofa and watch a film that has been picked by one other person. No one groans when Spencer wants to watch Empire for the hundredth time as he mouths all the words.
Sometimes, it’s dinner round Rossi’s, and they eat around the table, and Dave makes sure he doesn’t get any mushrooms or tomato chunks in his. There’s always plenty of garlic and cheese though (he takes LactAid religiously on those nights).
He and Emily swap books every week, and discuss them on the flight. She never tells him not to stop talking, either.
None of them do, anymore.
***
One night, he dreams, and he comes face to face with a young boy at around the age of four.
He sees this tiny boy with messy blonde hair that will one day turn brown and tearful eyes, and feels a flash of anger at the way his supposed father treated him. He’ll never understand how someone can look at something so small and want to hurt them.
He kneels on the floor, and makes himself small.
“Hey, Spencer.”
The little boy - little him - looks up and looks like he’s looking into his eyes, but he knows.
The place he's looking at is called the glabella, the little space between the eyebrows.
“It’s gonna be okay, alright?”
“It…it will?”
“Of course, buddy.”
“Will people like us?”
“Spencer, they’re going to love us.”
“Even when-”
“Even then.”
He hugs this lost little boy who’s trying his hardest not to flap his hands, before gently taking hold of his wrists. Not the way his father did.
He loosens his fingers, and shakes his - little Spencer’s - hands for him.
“You don’t ever need to hide again.”
***
When he wakes up, there’s a space in his chest that doesn’t hurt anymore.
He smiles, and gets up for work.
***
I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
- Emily Dickinson