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Spencer’s tolerance for germs had built over the years, but there were still things that would persistently make his skin crawl.
Handshakes would always be uncomfortable, and he doubted that he’d ever get over his reluctance for them. Thankfully, he quickly realised that he could simply step back as he was introduced, and officers would only bother to shake the hands of those who held out theirs. They wouldn't force him to participate in the greeting if he kept his hands busy or his attention on the crime scene or evidence. If they did notice he was avoiding the joining of hands, they didn't say anything to his face about it, and he had little care for what they said behind his back.
Food was complicated. He was never a fan of group food, things like buffets or big pots of mystery stew or casserole prepared by a local community member to keep them warm during cold investigations. In the past, it’d been bad enough that he wouldn’t eat anything he couldn’t see being prepared, barring him from restaurants and eating at others’ houses. He got to the point where he could comfortably eat at a restaurant and at friends’ houses if he knew them well enough. Ferell’s case had him swear off group food altogether, and he never felt much desire to change that. It was unlikely that it would happen again, but it wasn’t impossible, and he didn't want to tempt fate. That was also easily avoided with the right excuses.
He hadn’t felt many setbacks since his brief stint in the dirty hut Tobias kept in him, though he had much bigger fish to fry when it came to that case, and the aforementioned Ferell’s case, until meeting Antionia Slade. His satisfaction when the case ended was only aided by his hatred for her.
He’d handled enough narcissists and psychopaths not to be particularly disturbed when she began sussing him out, testing both her limits in manipulation tactics and the limits of his control over his forced neutral expression as she tried to get under his skin. When she caught on about Derek, she admittedly struck a nerve and had him heated, but it wasn’t all that difficult to warp that into momentum for questioning her further. He could do something with anger, and he thought they were getting somewhere thanks to it.
Then she asked for his hand.
It took him a moment too long to realise what she was doing, and for the sake of the case, he couldn’t snatch his hand away when she regurgitated her dinner into his open palm and dragged her finger through the lukewarm beige mush. There wasn’t time to panic, so he clenched his jaw shut and let her finish, hoping his shaking hands hadn’t given her the satisfaction she was clearly fishing for as she worked her way through the team.
She finished, pleased with herself, and he left as fast as he could without looking like he was retreating. He studied the etching and then quickly dipped into the nearest bathroom and shoved his hand underneath the tap, turning it on to its fullest strength and letting the water all but scald his skin as the half-chewed food slipped off to sit in the bottom of the basin. The sight churned his stomach. His own lunch threatened to lurch up to join it.
The beige stood out against the dulled stainless steel. She spat into his palm. She was eating, got up and chose to spit up into his hand so the information she gave wouldn’t be preserved.
His hands shook as he pumped soap into them, scrubbing at his skin and wishing he had brought a nail brush to make sure he got every microscopic ridge. He began losing himself in the repetition, counting the seconds in his head before starting again. His hands were raw from the cheap soap stripping away the natural oils and being slowly boiled under the tap. Like when cooking crabs, bring lukewarm water to a rolling boil. They were beginning to get red like crab shells, too, but that did nothing to break him out of the cycle. He tried to keep his focus on the clue, but he kept getting flashed with images of the food leaving her lips as though she was a mother bird feeding her chicks. A full-body shiver hit him when he made the comparison.
“Reid,” Aaron called into the bathroom before turning the corner. He thought about stopping, but when he saw the remnants of the food, now only a few little specks clinging onto the edge of the basin as they battled against the constant flow of water, he decided against it. His hands weren’t clean enough yet.
“She said the boys are alive. I asked her to decode the message, then she spat food in my hand and wrote CH,” he supplied, his voice almost drowned out by the rushing water, or maybe it just felt deafening for him. He kept his eyes concentrated on the afflicted hand, and whilst he knew he couldn’t see any food there, he could feel it still. If he let his gaze slip away, he'd might lose his spot and remain contaminated.
“Reid.”
“I know I should’ve waited, but I remember.”
“I believe you.”
Spencer wished Derek were there. Derek didn’t always understand him; nobody really did, but he never needed to. He’d somehow say all the right things that would put him at ease, whether temporarily or permanently. A joke would set him right. A tale from Derek’s childhood that would end with a lesson that applied to their current situation would have him pause long enough to realise his skin was being battered. A look would be enough for him to take a deep breath. That look that would say anything Derek couldn’t verbalise fully would offer him some much-needed relief from Slade's smug expression.
Derek wasn’t here, though. It wouldn’t be the first time Spencer was left listless after being abandoned, and he doubted that it would be the last, given his luck. It was a pattern of behaviour at this point. He should know better than to cling to those who clearly wanted to be rid of him.
“You’re hurting yourself,” Aaron pointed out. He could vaguely feel his skin burn and threaten to tear if he put them through any more rounds of intense cleansing, but that wouldn’t stop him. He wasn’t sure what would.
“She’s disgusting.”
Disgust didn’t get you very far in terms of interrogation. Most became hostile, and the few that had goaded you for more led to not building rapport but collecting something to feed off. Anger got you somewhere. It could make you play the bad cop, it could intimidate suspects or possible sources of information, and it lent weight to any threat you made. Disgust was fickle and useless, yet he harboured so much of it.
“Stop,” Aaron ordered.
Make me, he was tempted to demand. It would be childish and unprofessional, but it would be the truth of how he felt. If it had been Derek who found him, he would’ve said it and the older would’ve lightheartedly chastised him. Maybe point out how much bigger he was in comparison to Spencer, and it’d lighten the atmosphere. Now the atmosphere was damp and oppressive, tugging on Spencer’s body and begging for him to have a meltdown in easily one of the most depressing-looking bathrooms he’d been in.
“Reid, we don’t have time for this.”
“I gave you the clue she gave me, and I will help with that in a minute, but right now I just need to wash my hands, so for fuck's sake let me wash my hands,” he gritted out. Aaron grabbed his wrist and dragged it out from the stream of water.
“Your hands are clean, and we need you to focus.”
“She spat half-chewed food in my hand.”
“And I understand you have a phobia in relation to that, but there is a case here that requires your attention. Victims are waiting on us. Get a grip.”
Derek wouldn’t have said that.
“I will. Just- let me wash them one more time.”
Aaron dragged him over to the paper dispenser and let him go, waiting by it with crossed arms. He defeatedly tore off the tissue and dried his hands. When he flexed them, his skin seemed to stretch and pull uncomfortably. He could see that there was nothing there, but again, he could feel it clinging onto him as it had clung to the basin. Would they truly lose that much time if he were just to quickly clean it again?
“Take a breath. Your hands are clean. Say it.” Spencer was tempted to refuse to. A bratty part of him that wanted to fight if it meant the attention he required said it would be worth the disciplinary action. The more logical part of him said that was stupid. The rest of his brain was taken up with screaming about his filthy hand.
“My hands are clean.”
“Go out there and present the evidence you’ve gotten. We don’t have time for this.” He nodded.
Derek would’ve calmed him down better, so he didn’t have to linger with the feeling of guilt from holding up a case or needing someone to be there for him, but Derek wasn’t here. He’d have to make do with what he had.