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He gets it. He really does. Emily was so excited about telling her story and he corrected her before completing her puzzle without her asking. Anyone would be upset with him for it now that he thinks about it. That was the problem wasn't it? He doesn't think; not about things like that. He just does it then he gets scolded for it. A glare from Hotch or getting cut off by Morgan. It all mixes together. But he does understand that Emily would be mad at him. He just didn't expect her words.
"There's a lot to hate about you doctor Reid."
She said it with a mostly unreadable tone. But then again a lot of what she says to him is hard to read. Her words were quite clear though. She hates him. She hates a lot about him clearly. And that fact alone hurts more than he expected because he thinks the same thing about himself but for some reason it feels different coming from her. And as his mind starts to push into overdrive it gets worse.
"Try playing chess with him."
"Or poker."
"Or go."
Morgan and Rossi and Garcia chime in from their own spots on the plane. Hotch doesn't say anything but when Spencer turns to look at him for anything the withering gaze he gets in response says enough. Hotch definitely agrees with the rest of them and when Spencer turns to JJ she isn't even looking at him. His brain supplies that it's because she thinks he isn't even worth the effort it would take to look up.
They all agree. He is awful and annoying and he should just die. Well that's not really what they said but that's how it feels. No one says that he is a good guy. None of them say that maybe their words were a bit harsh. They just all agree with the statement and that hurts so much more than just Emily saying it. Their words all silently confirm his fears. They all have finally realized how worthless he is.
He watches each of them as they seem to glare holes into him before they go back to what they were doing. He fights back the shame and anxiety that comes with their actions because even if they aren't looking at him, he can still feel their gazes. They all hate him and it's his fault. He should have known they would have seen it soon enough. He can't pretend forever unfortunately.
The rest of the trip is a blur when he looks back on it which is unsettling for the man. He can remember picking up a book but he doesn't know what he did with it. He does remember the thoughts. The words that have burned themselves into his mind.
They know now. They know you're a fake.
You're a wimp behind the facts and even those suck.
They know you're worthless, they have probably known for a while.
Why did you ever think they cared? No one will care about a failure.
And so many more. He can feel the gazes of each person he came across as he got off that jet and moved on with the actions of going home. He knows now what is happening, he is cutting off his mind from the situation because the last thing he wants is to give them all another reason to hate him.
He gets on the bus and he mutes his phone because he knows none of them want to talk to him anyways. The thoughts don't stop either.
Annoying worthless brat.
Of course they hate you. You annoy them every single day.
You were a fool to ever think anything else.
He tries to ignore it as he gets off at his stop and walks to his apartment but they just get louder. By the time he gets into his apartment they are screaming in his ears. He sets his phone down on the counter and ignores the piles of books on the floor as well as the grime on the counters and the dirty coffee mugs in the sink. He hasn't had the energy to clean this week much. He stands in the middle of his living room for a few seconds before he sits down on the couch.
Maybe his thoughts were right. Maybe that voice that was whispering that he deserves to feel like a disappointment is accurate. He knows the thought process is a dangerous route but he can't help it. This route has an action at the end. A way to fix how he is feeling the other ways don't. That's a lie too, but he doesn't care. They wouldn't respond to him anyways. Why would they? They hate him; they probably want him to spiral like this.
His gaze hovers on his phone as he thinks. He blocked his dealer's number when he got clean but... he didn't delete it. He could still find it. That thought gets shut down by small medallion in his pocket and the fact that the team would notice. He refuses to give them another reason to hate him. There is another way though. It's the reason he has always worn long pants and refuses to go swimming. The neat and orderly lines of raised scars that go along his thighs and up along his hips to just below his ribs.
He stopped before he applied to the FBI so that he could pass the physical and mental screening. But he doesn't feel so guilty about starting again, it isn't that hard to hide.
He stands up and instinctively slips his phone into his pocket as he walks into the bathroom. He never really got rid of his blades because he couldn't make himself do it. Now he is happy for it because it's now how he can punish himself for being so awful towards the team. He watches his hands shake as he grabs the box and opens it before grabbing a fresh and clean blade. The weight is familiar in his hands and this part is basically muscle memory.
Annoying drip.
Loud drip.
Disrespectful drip.
Wimp drip.
Disappointment drip.
He doesn't stop until he sees the blood stains on his pants from all the blood flowing from his sides and he starts to realize the problem. He feels tears on his face, from the pain or the thoughts or the bottled up feelings, he doesn't know. He tosses the blade in the trash and watches the blood flow for a few seconds before he presses one of his towels against the cuts while he searches for the first aid kit. He doesn't stitch or clean them because he doesn't deserve that but without the gauze the team will really know how big of a fuck up he is.
He takes the towel off once it is mostly soaked and the bleeding has slowed down dramatically. He puts some gauze on the cuts before he wraps his torso and puts the first aid kit away. His fingers have blood on them but he doesn't really care. He's breathing pretty fast but he doesn't really know why. It takes him a few seconds with the swirling thoughts and the loss of blood to realize that he shouldn't have soaked an entire hand towel with blood. His hands are really shaking now as he opens his phone and sees a few missed texts from Morgan and one from Garcia but he doesn't read them. He clicks on his first contact and calls it without reading the name. Or the time.
Emily picks up four seconds later.
"Spencer? It's 2:35 in the morning, you better have a good reason for calling me."
Spencer tries to breathe more normally as blood gets all over his phone from his hands and tears stream down his face.
"S-s-sorry, I- I didn't s-see how l-late it w-was. I-... Emily I-... I think I messed up th- this time."
He says softly into the phone through fast breaths and hiccups and sobs. He shouldn't have called her. She hates him. She said so literally earlier today and now he is being a whiny and needy child on the phone.
"Spencer wha-"
Emily starts before he cuts her off.
"I-... never mind... I- I shouldn't have called, good-... goodnight."
He says before he hangs up and tosses the phone on the floor. He's a genius and yet he caved to the dumbest idea his mind could give him then he called the person who hates him for help. He pulls his legs up against his chest while ignoring the sharp pain from his torso at the movement; he doesn't care anymore. He feels almost happy that it hurts. He deserves it anyways, he always does.
At some point the door to his apartment opens and the two people there see a small trail of blood leading from the bathroom to where Spencer is curled up and passed out with blood literally on his hands.
When he wakes up he is in his bed in a pair of sweat pants and a hoodie. He is confused because he definitely didn't make it to his bedroom let alone his bed last night and he definitely didn't get changed. He slowly blinks his eyes open to see that his room is wonderfully dark. He goes to sit up before hissing in pain from the cuts on his torso. He lifts his hoodie slightly to see that his cuts were rewrapped and he is even more confused before he remembers that he called Emily last night in his panic. And he immediately starts to panic again.
She came here because he was too much of a bitch to take care of himself. And when he listens closer he can hear at least two voices in the kitchen. He curls up the best he can as he tries to breathe but ends with him crying as silently as possible. Which is not quiet at all. After a few seconds Emily carefully steps into the room and walks towards him while turning on a dim lamp to see him better.
When he looks up at her he just sobs again before he goes back to looking back at his lap.
"I- I'm sorry you-... you didn't have to come here... you- you could've stayed home."
He says softly as he ignores the fact that he probably would have had to go to the hospital if she hadn't shown up. His brain helpfully supplies that she decided that he sounded weak enough that she needed to help him, even if she hates him. She just shakes her head slightly with a frown before she pulls his hands away from his legs and looks at him.
"I don't mind it Spencer, you needed help. I will always help you."
She reassures him softly as she looks at him carefully. Her words don't make sense in his head at all. She hates him. She said it herself. She hates him and that's ok. He gets it, he hates himself too. Especially now.
"Don't lie to me Emily... it- it just makes it worse."
He says softly as he looks at her with dryer eyes and she looks... confused? She looks like she doesn't understand what he is saying at all.
"I'm not lying Spencer."
She says gently as she studies him and he just shakes his head and pulls his hand out of hers.
"You said you hate me. I-... you-... you don't have to lie and act like you-... you actually want to help me."
He says as he looks at her, tears welling up in his eyes again as he does. She actually freezes at his words before she realizes what he is talking about. She quickly shakes her head and she had the most heartbroken expression on her face.
"No Spencer, you're-... you're like my little brother I-... I don't hate you. I could never, it-... it was supposed to be a joke. Obviously a bad one but still."
She says carefully and now Spencer feels like an even bigger idiot because he took her joke as a fact and that means the rest of the team was just joking as well.
"S-so-....so you don't all hate me?"
He asks softly and his expression would make even Hotch cry if he was here but it is only her. Morgan is in the kitchen cleaning up and talking with Garcia about what to get for breakfast.
"No... no we don't- we love you Spencer. You're our little brother. We wouldn't trade you for anything."
She says gently as she looks at him and tries not to cry because he looks so worried about it. If Emily hadn't already called him in sick for the painfully obvious self inflicted wounds on his sides and a few on his stomach she would have right now. They stay there for a few seconds before she carefully wraps an arm around him and he leans against her as he processes everything. After a few minutes he sits up as well as he can and smiles slightly at her.
"Thank you..."
He says softly as he looks at her and she just nods and stands up before turning on the main light and looking over at him.
"You are on strict bed rest according to the doctor who happens to be Derek Morgan."
She says with a smile and he nods before she opens the door and Morgan and Garcia walk in with sympathetic smiles. Spencer knows it isn't perfect but they understand now and... maybe that's enough for it to get better now. So for once he doesn't worry about the future and just enjoys the peaceful moment here. There will be questions later and a new psych evaluation for him at his job but he will wait to worry about that until it happens. And for once, there is a genuine smile on his face.