For most of his life, Spencer Reid had been very proud that he had nearly perfect recall. Nothing ever slipped from his mind's grasp. Mere minutes or long decades later, he could recount every source of data, every occurrence, as though he'd just experienced it seconds before, no matter how long ago it occurred. But the last six months had made him reconsider. For once, his ability to recall, one of the defining elements of his identity, both professional and personal, seemed more a cruel punishment than the gift he'd always deemed it.
It's the little things that fade the quickest for most people. Not him. With an eidetic memory that was as reliable as a camcorder, if not more so, Spencer had a mind made for minutia. But tonight, on his first night home from prison, he chose to instead focus on every sense beyond the vision he so frequently relied on. He wasn't actually in his own home. His apartment was technically still a crime scene. Instead, the Bureau had put him and his mom in a safe house. He could faintly hear her, across the hall, even through her closed door. His was open, an option he'd been denied for months. Closing the solid door made him feel even more caged in than the slotted bars of his cell had even though, logically, he knew he could open or close the door, on his own, any time he wished.
His mom made small shifts as she tried to get comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings, soft whispers slipped under the door as she reminded herself she was safe, her combined paranoia and dementia never truly allowing her to rest. It was doubly hard for her given her very real and not at all paranoia-driven experience with Lindsey Vaughn, courtesy of Cat Adams. Spencer had spent years working to convince his mother that strangers weren't out to hurt her. He'd been wrong. Furthermore, Reid could now sympathize with that unsteady, constant state of fear and anxiety in a way that he hadn't before.
Further down the hall, Spencer could just make out SA Harris moving quietly in the living room, alert, but trying not to disturb the cabin's supposedly sleeping occupants. Spencer had to remind himself that Harris was not a jailer. The fall of his footsteps held no threat, and that he didn't need the man's permission for anything. It was actually quite the reverse. Harris would not come to the back of the cabin where Spencer and Diana rested unless specifically requested or it was absolutely necessary to do his job. Harris would go out of his way to respect their privacy.
The all-encompassing silence nearly hurt his ears. Prison was never ending noise, whether it was the wall-to-wall cacophony of clanging bars and slamming doors and yelling during the day or the sharp, unexpected noises at night that startled Spencer out of his sleep, fearful that the worst had crept into his cell without warning. This silence was different from the angry, pulsing one that filled the prison at night. This silence didn't hold the muffled tears of new, frightened inmates. It didn't force him to hear the quiet strains of someone trying to relieve their bowels in the dark, the only true modicum of privacy they ever received. This silence remained unbroken, both a relief and an agitation. With a sigh, Spencer rolled over and grabbed the small remote on his bedside table. With a point and a click, he activated the slim, oscillating tower fan that sat beside the door. The white noise the blades provided was a small mercy and, with their breeze, he could almost imagine he was out in an open field on a gentle night. Spencer examined the thought even as he enjoyed the blowing air, turning it over in his head, examining it from different angles. Even without his decade of experience as a profiler, he knew the preference for open doors and daydreams of stretching field was his subconscious crying out. Was he becoming claustrophobic? Did he need to talk to somebody? No. He was fine. He'd been unfairly imprisoned and didn't like to be reminded of the circumstances. That was a healthy thought process. Anyone would react that way.
As the fan continued blowing, Spencer slid his legs along the mattress, scissoring them towards the corners and back, noting the cool feel of the sheets as he moved. Taking in the softness of the mattress and its sheer breadth. Reveling in the ability to stretch his body out to his full length rather than having to curl up to rest. Not even his best attempts would allow him to touch both sides of the bed at once, a feat given his height and a change from months of his body startling him awake because he'd nearly fallen off his narrow bunk in his sleep. The softness of the sheets under his hands struck him and he ran his fingertips over it obsessively until they tingled from the constant friction. For some reason, the smell of the soft cotton blend sheets with their subtle lavender scent instead of the insistent smell of hot metal and diluted bleach made the reality of his situation set.
He was free.
The thought set off a thrill of warmth, a quiet adrenaline through his body, that made his heart speed up. He was free. He could do as he pleased. He could leave right now if he wanted. He could go watch TV. He could eat. He could workout. He could… sleep. A small smile crept to his face, the first since he'd seen JJ appear in the door of his holding cell and he'd nearly wept with relief.
The buzzing euphoria flowed and circled and swirled and eventually funneled and coalesced into a steady throbbing centered in his groin. If this was a movie, this would probably be where he'd go meet a random girl and have 'glad to be a live' sex, but that had never been his style. In truth, after months of forced living among strangers, the solitude was preferable. Acknowledging the sensations, Spencer slid a hand down, cupping himself. No real intent. He wasn't nearly ready to relax and indulge the impulse, particularly after his harrowing experience with Cat and her malicious whispers of violation. But it was nice to know he could. Prison had stripped him of even that private enjoyment. The often hurried act had actually been against the rules. No one would dare do it in the showers and his cell had a wide-open front that anybody could peer into at any moment.
He lay there, relishing an arousal unlaced with the insidious fear of discovery or assault. In his cell, he could hear other inmates and he assumed they could hear him. Catcalls. Name calling. They'd tarnished 'Pretty Boy', a nickname he'd cherished, in a way he would never forgive. Worse, being caught meant being punished and everyone knowing why, risking a burning shame and fear he'd never before experienced in conjunction with his sexuality. Almost in defiance, he gave himself a few solid strokes, the firmness reassuring, before letting his hand slowly drop to the mattress. He wasn't there anymore. They couldn't hurt him.
Today, he would rest. Let it all drift away. Tomorrow, he would go back to being the brilliant Dr. Reid who never forgets a thing.
Before finally allowing himself to be lured into sleep, Spencer pressed his fingers deep into the memory foam mattress and watched, motionless in the pale moonlight, as the material slowly pushed back, rejecting his forceful imprint, ever so slowly shifting to regain its original state. He could only hope that he could do the same.