Everything is so loud right now. Spence imagines he can feel the soundwaves pulsing against his skin, even though that’s ridiculous. That’s how bad it is, though. It’s loud and the humidity is high and he’s surrounded by strangers who want to talk to him and make eye contact with him and touch him, and it’s just too much.
At least, he thinks, at least he has his little room with the evidence board and the table all laid out the way he likes it. There is that. To make things better, no one’s in there right now except Derek, and Derek won’t push him to talk unless he really needs something. Wonderful.
Spencer opens the door and glances up at the board, hoping to start where he left off and make some headway before Hotch gets back, and nearly has a heart attack. He knows that’s nearly impossible, but again. That’s just what it feels like.
Now, to the outside observer, Spencer Reid is not an organized person. His desk is a mess, his apartment even more so. Wherever he goes, he leaves a trace trail of what’s going on inside his head, usually in the form of crumpled notebook pages, lost pens, and abandoned coffee cups. He forgets things. He hates cleaning. For all intents and purposes, he is a mess. But, that being said, he’s an organized mess. One might say that there is a “method to his madness.” He doesn’t quite have a system, but he knows what he needs and where those things are at any given time, and that’s important. It’s important to him to have a predictable Spencer space, especially in unfamiliar territory. He needs to know that his stuff will always be exactly as he left it, the last shred of routine in a topsy-turvy world.
And Derek has moved his stuff.
Fuck.
Spencer stares for a moment, dumbstruck. His eyes dart from the reorganized evidence board to the straightened-up table and back to the board before fixing on Derek, who looks very pleased with himself.
“You… I… You moved my- my stuff. Why did you move my stuff?” Spencer can hear his voice pitching up and cracking, knows he’s being unreasonable, knows Derek realizes his mistake, but he can’t stop himself. The moved stuff is the proverbial last straw. It takes the last of the energy Spencer had for the day, breaks down the wall separating him from a very public meltdown or shutdown; he can’t quite tell which. Either way, the pressure that’s been building in his chest is climbing up his throat and pushing at the backs of his teeth and eyes. This is not good. This is very much not good.
Derek frowns. “Spencer, I’m so sorry. I thought I was helping, I completely forgot-”
“My stuff. You moved it. How am I supposed to work on it now?” he demands, voice and body trembling. He lifts a hand to his head and starts to tap rhythmically at his temple. “You moved my stuff.”
It’s all he can say, because the rest of his head is blank save for bits of conversations and songs and books, memorized words coming back to steal Spencer’s own. “My stuff, my stuff, my stuff…”
“Oh, okay, Reid. It’s okay. I’m sorry.” Derek is coming towards him, he thinks. It’s hard to tell, because his world is quickly becoming reduced to an Impressionist abstraction, all colors and smells and sounds fleshed out in part by vague senses of motion and depth. His brain is overwhelmed and he’s compensating, that’s all. He’s shutting down. It’s fine. It’s not even that scary, just kind of…
Empty.
Derek is shutting the blinds and locking the door to their little room. Good. The last thing they need is for the local authorities to see a member of the FBI breaking down like a child over nothing.
It’s not nothing, he reminds himself. This is the result of a day spent masking and overstimulated. You’re not weak.
“Spencer? Do you want to come sit down?” Derek’s pulled out a chair and he’s gesturing to it.
Spencer nods. He’s scaring Derek, he knows. No matter how many times he sees it, Derek does not like to see Spencer emptied out, finds the vacant stare and the rocking off-putting. It’s not that Spencer scares him, he’s assured him, but that he’s scared for Spencer. That’s… nice. It’s not often that people go out of their way to tell Spencer that he’s not a burden or an oddity.
Derek goes to touch his shoulder, but pulls away at the last second, a thing for which Spencer is grateful. Spencer goes to the chair, feeling as though he’s moving in a dream. Everything is very far away, like he’s watching it all through eyes not his own. He makes contact with the chair, but it’s still not quite his body.
Derek crouches down in front of him. Spencer can’t bring himself to look at his face, but he would imagine that, if he did, he would find soft concern there. Instead, Spencer starts shaking his head in a sort of circular motion, relishing the effect it has on sound and his sense of balance, his inner ears and the Doppler effect working to ease some of the tension running through him like a live wire. Stimming pushes him further into the shutdown, but that’s alright. He’s safe here. He can stay shut down until he’s ready to come back. Here, it’s quiet and cool and he can just be.
“Do you need anything?” Derek asks, voice soft. Does he? Spencer doesn’t think so. He shakes his head. Derek nods, then asks, “Can I touch you?”
That one’s a bit harder. He has no way of knowing for sure whether physical contact will be overwhelming until it happens, and he knows Derek doesn’t want to hurt him. Fortunately, they’ve created a middle ground for exactly this situation.
Spencer reaches a hand out to Derek, palm up and fingers loose. He waits to feel Derek’s wrist against his hand before guiding him to touch Spencer’s hair. Instead of the dreaded overload, all Spencer feels is pleasure, a gentle rush of dopamine and a calm exhale. This is good. He lets go, and Derek starts to pet his hair, stopping occasionally to just let his hand sit, a grounding source of pressure.
Spencer hums, and the vibrations in his throat connect him just enough to the sound in his ears that he starts to come back to himself. He does it again, bringing a hand up to touch his voice box as he does so. It’s one of his favorite stims, and very useful in bringing him back after a shutdown. The humming combined with Derek’s hand in his hair drives away the ringing numbness, and then, once again, Spencer is left empty. It’s a good empty this time, though, the tired, quiet kind that lets the voices in his head rest and makes room for Spencer in his own head. Yes, sometimes it’s good to be empty, if only for a moment.