When his hands start shaking and his head clouds up, the first thing Spencer Reid can think is not now.
He's no stranger to being overwhelmed - it may as well be listed in his job description - which means he's also no stranger to pushing it away and getting on with it like the rest of the team, sifting through the avalanche of information, both physical and verbal, given to them by the local police.
And still. He's not naive enough to pretend he doesn't know what this is.
His throat feels like he's swallowed glass. He needs water, but he can't go and find some, because that means navigating the busy precinct and moving from the same spot he's been glued to for the past hour. The lighting doesn't lend itself to comfort, old bulbs flickering and emitting a tinny whine that penetrates his thinking and worms its way into the forefront of his mind whenever he feels like he's making progress on a theory.
He's so tired, and he can't think, and he's going to stop being able to cope before long.
He knows it won't stop until he's home, but home is 800 miles and a four hour flight away and the thought makes his hands want to flap at his sides. He wants so badly to go back to where everything is familiar, but he's not in DC, he's in Illinois, which is home to 12,768,320—
a hand on the small of his back startles him back into awareness. He squirms away from the touch with an annoyed whine, turning to look at whoever it is.
"Are you alright?" Hotch asks, tone gentle and precise.
Hotch. Team leader. Friend. Guardian.
He doesn't have to pretend in front of Hotch. He shakes his head.
"What's the matter?" Hotch keeps his voice low, already looking around for somewhere quieter they can go.
"I want to go home," Reid mumbles, eyeing the toes of his own grubby converse. His toes wiggle under the once-white rubber caps.
"Quantico home or hotel home?" Hotch questions.
"Quantico home."
His eyes are burning. His head throbs and his skin feels like it doesn't quite fit over his too-tall frame. He's done for the day.
Someone pushes past behind him (the precinct they're in is impossibly small, and there are bodies pushing and shoving everywhere he goes) and he stumbles forward a little.
He tries not to flinch when Hotch's hand reflexively comes up to steady him, but they've been touching evidence and CSPs and case files, and his skin is already crawling with the knowledge that there are lives that depend on him keeping it together.
"Don't—" he sidesteps away from the hand on his side, a shiver running through him despite how hot he feels under his clothes.
"Alright," Hotch's voice is full of understanding and Reid could cry. "Let's go somewhere quiet."
Reid doesn't know how the other agent manages it, but it's barely a few minutes before Hotch has found an empty, secluded side room away from the constant noise of the main precinct. But he doesn't feel any better.
"I need an honest answer," Hotch fixes him with an unreadable stare, "can you continue working this case?"
He looks down at his shoes again. Then at the wall, then out the window, before his gaze returns to Hotch.
"I don't know," he answers honestly. He knows he should; he can't just wander off mid-case whenever he feels like it, despite what the bureau-certified accommodations say. He may be technically entitled to a break whenever he needs one, but there are people, people whose names and faces are burned into his memory, who need his help.
Hotch nods. "Take a break. See how you feel in twenty minutes, and we'll make a call then. Is there anything you need?"
"Dim the lights?" the request surprises him as he says it. There seems to be a disconnect between his brain and his mouth. He's only glad he's still making sense.
"Sit down," Hotch gestures towards the only chair in the room (plastic, not designed for comfort) as he goes about turning off the overhead fluorescents. The softer lighting that remains is marginally less harsh on his eyes, but the last dregs of dusky sunlight that filter through the grungy window still irritate him.
It's almost laughable, he thinks, how overwhelmed he can get before he even notices it.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes. Try to relax." And with that, he's left alone, still feeling like the whole world is sat under his skin, pushing at his every joint and trying to break free.
He sucks in a deep breath, blowing it out slowly through pursed lips. Through the wall, he can hear the local news station reporting on their investigation, and he fights the urge to tug on his hair for want of escape. He laces his hands in the strands and just sits with his elbows on his knees, the pressure of his fingertips against his scalp just barely enough to keep him grounded.
He hates this. This liminal space between panic and calm, between coping and not. He'd almost rather endure a panic attack or meltdown just to get it out of his system, instead of sitting uselessly with a brain that won't let him get back on track.
He wants to open his messenger bag and find something in amongst its contents to distract himself with, but he can't get a signal from his brain to his hands to coordinate the effort. It's only sat at his feet, directly within his line of sight, but he just stares at it, as if looking at it for long enough will get his mind to realise what he needs to do.
He's had sixteen of his allocated twenty minutes when Morgan pushes the door open, making Reid jump.
He says something, but Reid's ears are still ringing from the unexpected noise. He shakes his head in an effort to clear it, coughing to clear his throat. "Hmm– sorry?"
Morgan sighs, looking mildly impatient, which makes Reid wince. "I said that Garcia's found the unsub's address hidden in the video. Hotch wants to know if you're coming. And quickly." Belatedly, Reid notices that Morgan is wearing his flack vest, and he has Reid's in his hand.
Realistically, he knows he shouldn't go. He's slow, he's burnt out, and he's going to be of very little use in an actual takedown. But logic isn't something he's got a good grasp of right now.
He nods his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm– I'll come."
Morgan hands him the flack vest, which he dons with practiced ease, despite his shaking fingers. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and makes for the door, brushing past Morgan as he holds it open, resisting the urge to recoil from the brief contact.
"Alright, let's go," Hotch moves for the door the moment the two arrive, and Reid pushes down the bitter tang of disappointment that arises when Hotch doesn't even take a moment to acknowledge that he's there or ask if he's okay.
Focus, he berates himself, trying to push himself back into the case mentality, even as his mind screams at him to sit this one out.
He spends the car ride pressing his body as close to the door of the back seat as he can manage without looking suspicious. Garcia's tinny voice on Morgan's phone penetrates his ears like a saw going straight through his skull, but he grits his teeth and bares it, trying to take in her words and work out what they mean.
The car skids to a stop outside an unassuming house at the end of a normal, residential street. They decamp immediately, drawing their guns.
As Reid looks up at the house for the first time, a man stumbles out of the door, a pistol pointed towards them.
"Roger Harries, FBI!" Morgan shouts. The man sways almost drunkenly, his pistol moving to aim at Morgan.
"It's over, Harries," Rossi calls. "Put down the weapon."
"I'm sorry," the man slurs. His aim slides towards Rossi, and he takes a stumbling step forward, and—
the shot from Morgan's gun that cracks through the air may as well have been fired directly into Reid's brain.
He drops his own gun, taking a stumbling step backwards, hissing in pain as he brings his hands up to the sides of his head, trying to stop his brain from pushing so hard against his skull, desperate to quell the pain.
Within seconds, there's someone at his side and hands on his shoulders, trying to straighten him up. He cries out at the contact, moving to press his hands over his eyes, needing the world to just stop for one moment while he works out which way is up.
Through the fog, he hears someone calling his name. "–eid. Reid. – hear me?"
He manages a nod. He feels the SUV behind him and leans heavily against it, trying to catch his breath. "Fuck," he hisses.
"Take a breath"—Hotch, it's Hotch talking to him—"slowly. Take your time. It's alright."
It takes a dizzying five minutes of gentle coaxing before the world comes back into focus for him. He realises that someone has taken his messenger bag off him as he notices it lying open on the floor a few feet away from him.
"We thought you might have something in there to help," Hotch says gently. Reid almost laughs; his messenger bag, much like the rest of his life, is a chaotic mess, filled with old paper and pens and food wrappers and more. Only he knows how to navigate it. "Are you okay?" he asks.
Reid nods, a little more sincere this time around. "I'm fine. Just– give me a minute?"
Hotch nods. "Of course," he says simply, striding off towards where Morgan and Dave are liaising with the local police. Reid feels his cheeks heat, very aware he'd been doubled over and hissing in pain not moments ago in front of locals who he hadn't even noticed arrive.
After taking some time to breathe in the cooling evening air, he eventually decides to get back into the SUV, feeling himself getting newly overwhelmed by the chatter and flashing lights and radios that accompany a suspect being shot.
He folds himself into the back seat of the SUV, crossing his legs on the black leather.
(He hears his father's voice in the back of his mind, telling him to get his feet down and stop getting wet shoe marks everywhere, but the safety and comfort of curling into himself is too good to miss.)
He closes his eyes, relishing the relative quiet that the SUV's closed doors afford him. He knows that, later on, he'll face repercussions for coming into the field when clearly not fit to do so, but he doesn't care, not yet.
After an indeterminate amount of time, someone – he doesn't look to check who – opens the door and drops his messenger bag on the floor where his feet should be without saying a word. The door shuts gently enough for him to not flinch, and then he's alone again. He's grateful for the mystery person (Rossi, he presumes) and their consideration.
He reaches down and pulls the bag up onto his lap, setting it down in the diamond space in between his crossed legs. Shaking hands fumble when undoing the two metal clasps on the front (he wonders who closed them), but he manages eventually, pushing the top flap of material backwards to reveal the contents.
The first item, pressed neatly against the left side of the bag, is his headphones. Big, blue noise-cancelling ones he'd bought for himself when he first started college and learned the hard way that lecture theatres and cafeterias could be unforgivingly loud. Alone in the SUV, it's quiet enough. He can hear the muted voices of the team talking in low tones outside. Talking about the case. Talking about him. He can't hear what's being said, but he can imagine it well.
He doesn't need the headphones now, but he thinks he might once whoever takes on the task of driving him back to the precinct climbs in. They're going to have questions, and the very thought makes Reid's head spin, so he sets the headphones down on the seat next to him, just in case.
As he'd expected, it's Hotch who eventually climbs into the driver's seat. Rossi accompanies him in the passenger side, but doesn't say anything to him as he buckles up.
"Okay?" Hotch looks in the wing mirror, eyeing Reid.
"Yeah," he nods his head, hands fiddling with his bag strap.
He does don the headphones, once Rossi and Hotch begin to talk, details of the case and plans for returning home being discussed. They don't invite him to join the conversation, but he has the option of complete quiet at his fingertips, so he takes it.
At some point in the journey, he starts rocking steadily, his back hitting the back of the seat at even intervals. Neither Hotch nor Rossi make a comment - as far as he can tell, their words now muffled before they reach his ears - and he's thankful for that. He's used to being surrounded by awkward stares and people pointing, but nowadays, with the team so used to his behaviour, he truly feels like he can stim without worrying whenever he needs.
He almost wishes the ride back to the precinct were longer, but they're back before he's fully unwound. He moves to unfasten his seatbelt, but Hotch turns around, gesturing wordlessly to signal for him to re-fasten it.
Confused, Reid pushes the headphones back until they're sat around his neck. "Are we not…?"
"The paperwork can wait," Hotch says simply, and Reid frowns deeper as the car starts to move again.
"What about Rossi?" Spencer turns his head to watch the precinct slowly disappearing behind them.
"He'll come back with someone else." Which is obvious, Reid realises, but obvious is good. Obvious is easy.
There's silence for a good while after that, while Hotch concentrates on the road and Reid concentrates on all the things he knows for sure, like what he had for breakfast yesterday morning (the last time he ate a proper meal) and the layout of his solo hotel room (standard layout, bed and desk and en suite and television). He's feeling a damn sight better than he did before, but he's still not at 100%, all the input and information from the past few days hitting him in periodic waves.
Hotch follows him to his room once they make it back to the hotel. Reid had expected he'd do as much, so he doesn't object when the older agent steps into the elevator with him despite the fact that his own room is on the ground floor.
It's with practiced familiarity that they both take their respective places in the room - Reid on the edge of the bed, Hotch in the desk chair, now turned around to face his subordinate. Reid wonders how many more times in his life he's going to be sat like this, facing his superior, but that's part of the comfort of it. It's predictable and familiar, and he knows that he'll always have someone to talk to process things out loud.
"You shouldn't have agreed to come," Hotch starts.
Reid looks at his lap. He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Hotch beats him to it.
"But I appreciate that you were already stressed and overworked, and that the decision shouldn't have been left to you."
"It won't happen again." Which he can't guarantee, but it's the only right thing that he knows he should say.
"I know," Hotch softens, leaning back in his seat. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Reid replies honestly. "I'm really sorry. About all that. I don't know what happened."
"You were overwhelmed. It happens."
It shouldn't, Reid thinks bitterly, but it's soon washed away by the tiredness creeping up on him.
"Get some rest," Hotch says, standing. It's times like this that Reid is really, really grateful for how perceptive Hotch is. It's only early evening, but Reid is wiped.
"I'll see you in the morning," Reid nods, for lack of anything better to say.
"Goodnight, Reid."
"Goodnight, Sir."