Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own Criminal Minds or anything else copyrighted herein. Homage, no $$$ made.
He has always, always, hated being touched.
He started dressing in layers and refusing to wear shorts as soon as his parents let him pick his own clothes. He couldn't articulate why, exactly; he just knew he was less anxious and could think better under cardigans and sweater vests and coats. He flatly refused jeans after his first full day of school - denim pressing into his skin was far too distracting.
His dad, so many times: Spencer, the other kids are going to make fun of you if you dress like that.
Not that that mattered, the kids already made fun of him for practically everything, and the clothes helped when the class seating was too close or they bumped him ("accidentally", of course) on the playground. He couldn't describe how awful unexpected touch was, until the first time he accidentally shocked himself changing a light bulb finally gave him a comparison.
The bullies just loved his exaggerated startle reflex, of course. Prodding, poking, coming up right behind him and refusing to move, whatever it took to make the weird kid (in a sweater in 90-degree heat!) jump and screech. Jimmy Dunn, second grade, who always poked him in the stomach, the worst feeling of all.
He'd punched Jimmy in the face after one too many times. The detention was worth it.
Ever after, when he feels crowded, he finds himself folding his arms protectively over his front.
The therapist who diagnosed him (off the books, paid in cash, the FBI finding out would be a bad idea) had explained about the sensory profile testing, how he had visual and hearing hypersensitivity and was off the charts on the tactile scale. I guessed as much from your clothes, anyway, the doctor had said. You're very well-adapted, but if any of this is causing you problems, sometimes occupational therapy...
No, he was used to the senses he had, and who knew trying to fiddle with them wouldn't hurt his ability to work?
The doctor had attributed his better-than-expected results on reading facial expressions to profiler training, and then gone on at length about how "textbook" all his other test results were. He'd been staring into the patterned carpet when the doctor actually said the diagnosis, and all he felt was bemused. Of course.
He's still trying to really get his mind around the word autistic. (The doctor had said Asperger's, yes, but the clinicians were going to start calling everyone on the spectrum just autistic soon, and why worry about semantics?)
After Sammy, after Braden, after Blake's stumble into prying far too much, he thinks the others have probably figured it out. The same way they know about the Dilaudid, the same way he knows Hotch's family used to hurt him and that Morgan's coach abused him, the same way everyone knew about Emily's PTSD. The same way they all know roughly a billion of the details about each other's lives and histories and never talk openly about any of it, just adjust their behavior accordingly.
The intra-team profiling ban is like the Prime Directive in Star Trek: often cited, seldom actually followed.
Play on, playa, Morgan had told him, and he'd laughed at how ridiculous that was. Playa status, even if he'd wanted it, wasn't going to happen. Not when you were always a step behind parsing all the input of voice intonation and rapid-change expressions, appearance, movement, sound, and you were too flustered by finding her attractive to apply profiling principles and keep up an end of the conversation.
Lila, kissing him in that pool years ago, and the completely unexpected onslaught of tactile input everywhere and he'd had to extricate himself and make some excuse about it being an ethics violation if he was supposed to be guarding her. The diametric opposite of playa.
All that first kiss had done was show him he didn't like being French-kissed.
Sunday, and he's commandeering the corner phone booth again, letting the first call ring through as they arranged and fidgeting till she calls back.
They have a couple of hours to talk this time, she says, and then, hesitantly: If you want to... Of course he does, he thought she knew that by now. He tells her so, stuttering a little trying to get the words out, and she laughs.
He's amazed at how easy this is, actually being able to carry on a conversation - for hours! - with all input stripped away except her voice. When he doesn't have to look, he can listen: all the rise and fall of her tone and prosody, what the way she breathes and pauses and emphasizes really means. She's so enthusiastic about literature and mysteries that it makes him smile, a big, doofy grin that he doesn't have to worry about her seeing and judging.
She wouldn't judge. She knows his diagnosis. He'd blurted it out to her the Sunday after getting it, and she'd said: Your speech is distinctive that way. Also your MRIs. There are certain subtle brain differences, you see... She'd given further details about that, which he didn't remember. He'd been too busy leaning against the dirty booth wall and taking deep breaths of relief.
Today, he tells her about the softball game, Morgan's training and how the game actually turned out okay.
No offense, but somehow I never figured you for the athletic type, she says.
I'm not, he tells her. If we can ever meet...I don't know what you'd think. I move funny and walk funny and I dress like the world's biggest dork.
That's fine with me.
He pauses, then plows on. And I can't stand being touched unexpectedly.
If we can ever meet? I'll keep that in mind.
And then she wants to discuss The Sign of Four's ending, and he has to admit the recent caseload has kept him from finishing yet. She starts teasing him about needing an upgrade, and her voice is making him smile again and he thinks: he wouldn't mind her touching him at all.