Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.
Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.
Summary (Feed the Rain): Spencer reflects upon his new friendship with the new librarian at Georgetown University. Shutting off the behavioral analysis that has become second nature was next to impossible, but maybe that was a good thing since it seemed like said new librarian refused to acknowledge that he just might need support.
Series Note(s): This fic take place within the continuum of The Quiet Calm. Specifically, it follows the oneshot Under the Sea. While care has been taken so that this story can stand on its own, reading the preceding fics will increase one's understanding and enjoyment of things. Since this series is being written out of order, I recommend going by the series order given on my profile.
Song Recommendation(s): "Carnival of Rust" by Poets of the Fall
Episode Reference(s): S01Ep01 (Extreme Aggressor); S01Ep02 (Compulsion)
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Feed the Rain
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"It is the children the world almost breaks who grow up to save it." – Frank Warren
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Spencer was used to being the one on the outside in every room he entered. He knew that it was rarely anything that could be helped. No child of Diana Reid would ever think that intelligence was a terrible thing to have, because she wouldn't stand for such thinking, even in her more lucid moments when it would have been painfully obvious that his intelligence was simply more than anyone could be expected to handle. Spencer would always be his mother's son before all other things. He was still intelligent enough to know that the degree of his intelligence was a primary source of his feelings of isolation from those around him. Knowing that did not give him the tools to successfully integrate into a group on a social level (not when he couldn't stop his observations from escaping his mouth), but if his intelligence made him an outsider, at least it also gave him a way to be useful enough that he could find stimulating enough employment to prevent himself from worrying too much about losing his mind as his mother had, as would be so easy when the world screamed at him to be noticed.
Splitting his time between the university and the BAU kept Spencer busy. It filled the nights when he couldn't settle enough to sleep, couldn't stop tugging at things like they were loose threads. The perseveration had been one of the reasons his father had initially had him assessed as a child and it was what made him so good at his job, even as it hampered his effectiveness in other ways. He had been content to shadow Gideon both on campus and in the field, filling in as the great man had needed especially after he had fallen apart in the wake of the case in Boston that saw six agents killed in an explosion that had immediately followed Gideon's near-death by the Footpath Killer.
Taking care of Gideon had a lot of similarities to taking care of his mother. Neither Hotch nor Morgan had visited Gideon during his six-month sabbatical to Spencer's knowledge, but at least Garcia had been predictable with her calls to Spencer to check on the man. It helped with the strain of being pulled back into the field unexpectedly to know that someone at the FBI cared about them.
After returning from Seattle, Spencer had been compelled to follow his own ritual for soothing the ache brought up by the case that had been a reminder of how easily he could have become the very thing he hunted. Breaking into Georgetown's main library was ridiculously easy with his personal knowledge of Salwa and the skills he had honed over the years of caring for his mother on his own. It had been a while since he had needed a private visit to the books, so picking the lock on the door took longer than it should. The lights were still on, but it was likely just Salwa doing the pre-finals inventory she liked to do.
It had not been Salwa.
Instead it had been Salwa's newest staff member. Harry Black was being brought on as a research specialist for the main library of the university, a position he had held while attending Cambridge. The man had been a pleasant surprise and even better than remembering his mother reading to him. It had taken less than five minutes for Spencer to realize that Harry had a quick and agile mind, and only until the end of the meal Harry had insisted on making certain Spencer ate to realize that Harry was capable of keeping up with him, though the other man tried to downplay his intelligence and knowledge.
Harry downplayed a lot.
Spencer found himself relying heavily on his behavioral knowledge when around the man, because while Harry never said much about himself, he also never lied about anything. He clearly knew that Spencer could read him, clearly understood what that meant because Harry was just as proficient at reading and analyzing people as Spencer. Yet he never attempted to be anything other than himself, comfortable in his own skin in a way that Spencer still couldn't manage after years of failing at every attempt to fit somewhere, anywhere. Harry also took advantage of every scrap of kindness offered him, savoring each one like a treasure about to be stolen. Harry was just as well-acquainted with deflecting inquiries as Spencer was, and the number of ways an individual could learn that skill in combination with certain other reflexive behaviors was fairly finite. Spencer didn't like the picture being built in his head of his new friend's formative years.
Spencer didn't like the idea that if he asked directly, Harry's most likely response would be to downplay everything. His mind unhelpfully provided him with the terms Stockholm Syndrome and internalized abuse. Spencer still found himself researching the therapeutic options and despairing over the sheer lack of them. There was no way to solve the problem with it unacknowledged, and even acknowledged, the conditioning of a lifetime would never be truly gone. Spencer folded Harry into his protection just as he had his mother, just as he had Gideon and the tiny but growing BAU. If all he could do was let Harry feed him, then that is what he would do.
In the time since that first meeting, Spencer had had dinner with Harry a couple of times a week. Several times a week beyond those meals, Spencer found himself sitting at the research desk instead of hovering around Gideon. After the second time he had dropped in on Harry, a wooden chessboard joined the single photograph that marked the desk as occupied. They played between Harry helping students. Harry was not a terrible player, just nowhere near Gideon's level, and yielded easily to Spencer's choice in color. (Harry yielded on things so easily, like his opinion didn't matter as long as he was helping someone—Spencer had to ignore the whispers his mind made of handicapped self-worth.) While Spencer ended up winning most of their games (a welcome relief from how things went playing Gideon), Harry often made move choices which threw off Spencer's careful strategies. It was like Harry was not capable of thinking like other people, like his mind was always—
"Outside the box," Spencer muttered as he watched Gideon pace the space they had claimed in Bradshaw College's main quad. He leaned back, letting his head thud against the tree at his back as he draped his arms over his bent knees. The box suggested that Gideon was barely holding himself together, and no amount of time would stop his unraveling altogether. The box suggested that Greenaway was likely to either fuck or kill Morgan before the year was out. The box said that Harry was hiding something more than a bad childhood. The box also meant that Spencer needed to focus on the case before someone else died. "What is the box in this case?"
"The profile of a serial arsonist," Gideon answered easily. Spencer hummed as his mentor left, too manic to even stay near another member of the team. Gideon would probably walk the campus like he did back at Georgetown when the restlessness became too much. Certain in that knowledge, Spencer let himself tumble various bits of things in his head, compulsively picking at the puzzle. There had to be some pattern that they were missing.
Like a song stuck in his head, Spencer's thoughts turned back to Harry. In his memory, he watched the man go through the ritual of preparing tea with all the careful precision of an artist at work. A single mistake would be enough to make Harry dump out entire pots of the stuff before he started from scratch. It was not the only behavior that made Spencer suspect that his new friend had OCD. Harry had a habit of stroking the lintel of his front door when entering or leaving his house, and would tap three times on the outfacing facet of the hinge-side gatepost when doing the same with the yard. It was a bit of a stereotype, but Harry also kept his house and work station extraordinarily spotless, despite seeming to spend a great deal of time buried in his research projects. Spencer knew from watching him do it, that cleaning was something Harry did with ruthless efficiency and without really thinking about it.
Like it was a compulsion.
They had all assumed they were dealing with an arsonist. Before they had stepped foot in Tempe, they had created a box for the unsub. It was that box which was causing the problem, though. Gideon had said it, hadn't he? The profile was the box and they had to think outside of it. Ignoring everything they thought they knew, what was left? What had the box made them ignore? He closed his eyes to review what they had and could only see Harry stirring a spoonful of honey into the tea that he made whenever Spencer showed up after a restless night. He didn't stir in circles for that tea, just half around the edge, three times both back and forth. Then he would take the spoon to the center before pulling straight up and tapping the bowl on the mug's rim.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Twist. Twist. Twist.
That was the piece of the puzzle they were missing.
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The tea that Harry pushed into his hands during their next visit tasted strongly of mint and chamomile, cool and soothing. It washed away the imagined feel of Clara Hayes' desperation that lingered in the dark corners of Spencer's mind. The librarian also had a full dozen of the cookies that had a way of settling on his stomach even when the world was so loud and chaotic that nothing else would. Despite making sure that Spencer had food and tea, Harry didn't push any other form of comfort on him or challenge any boundary that Spencer set in any way.
It was ironic that he had to go outside the box to find someone who didn't demand he change to be included in anything.
Spencer resolved to never ask about his suspicions about Harry's childhood, to just offer any degree of comfort he could and accept any boundary Harry indicated. Taking care of him clearly helped Harry, so Spencer was going to let himself be stuffed with food and drowned in tea.
He ignored the small whisper that it was nice to being on the receiving end of care for once.
It didn't matter.
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An Ending
Series to be Continued
Full List on Profile under The Quiet Calm
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