Prompt: Imagine Reid staying with you for a few days so he could look after you after you suffer from a mental illness relapse.
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The office was unbearable today. You sat at your desk in the bullpen, trying to ignore the stagnant atmosphere. Nothing was happening. Something should be happening. You looked at your hands and noticed that they were trembling. Stop, you told yourself. Get it together. The paperwork on your desk stared back at you, challenging you to a duel of persistence and will. You couldn't shake the fog that had settled over you since your…episode. Call it what it is, you told yourself. You had a panic attack.
You were mentally kicking yourself, although it was nothing to be embarrassed by. But you thought you had them under control. You didn't like needing the medications, but you could admit that they helped. But then last night…it wasn't triggered by anything, it just…happened. And it was exhausting. You barely even made it out of bed this morning, and you didn't even try to fight it with coffee out of fear that the caffeine would make it happen again.
Now, as you were trying to make it through a pile of tedious paperwork, you were distracted by trying to assess your body in case it happened again. Most people would consider it hypervigilance, but you were too busy wondering if your foot always jiggled as severely as it did now, or if your shoulders were always this tense. Running a hand through your hair, you exhaled deeply, trying to simultaneously relax and wake up.
Give up. Go home. You tried to shake away the thoughts and power through, but you knew that you wouldn't be able to accomplish anything until you got the anxiety under control. And that couldn't be done here at the BAU. You pushed your chair back and stood up, taking a moment to try and force breath into your lungs. As you walked to Hotch's office, you cracked your knuckles. This was your sign that you were on the verge, it was a bad habit from childhood that had turned into a tell that you couldn't control. You knocked on Hotch's door, then walked in. "Hey Hotch."
"(Y/N), come on in," he said, finishing what he was writing. When he looked up, he focused first on your face, and when he saw your expression, he looked immediately at your hands. "You're having panic attacks again."
"It was just one, last night." You explained, trying to keep your voice level.
"I thought you had them under control." His voice had no sign of disapproval, but your anxiety was never content to take things at face value. He's disappointed.
"I tried, and they were good for a little while, but last night I just…And today, I think it's happening again."
"(Y/N), are you having one right now?" He stood up, moving towards you. The embarrassment you felt was beginning to build, and you could feel the familiar adrenaline that moved through your veins. Tears began to leak from your eyes in embarrassment, but Hotch had been through this with you and knew what to do. He led you to the couch with a hand on the small of your back, and sat down next to you, rubbing your back.
"Just breathe." He murmured. He stood up and quickly shut the blinds, then returned to your side. "In…Out. In…Out." He took your hands, opening them from the fists that you don't remember clenching. "You're okay. You're here."
His words and calm demeanor quieted your breaths, and though you still trembled, it felt like you were regaining control. "I'm okay, Aaron."
"You're going home," was his response. You nodded, relaxing backwards into the cushions.
"I just need to relax before I leave, I don't like driving afterwards." You rubbed your hands over your face, trying your hardest not to be completely weak. Hotch was great in these situations, but he was your boss.
"I think you misunderstood. Someone is driving you home. I have a meeting this afternoon, but I could get Anderson, or Morgan."
The whole team knew about the attacks, two or three years ago it wasn't uncommon to have one every week. They were the ones that insisted you see someone about it. When you left Hotch's office, it didn't surprise you that their eyes followed you, but you knew it wasn't in judgement. You approached Morgan, and he spun to face you. "How are you doing?"
"Not so well." You admitted. "Will you drive me home?"
"Sure thing." This is what you loved about them. They didn't ask questions. Morgan grabbed his keys and jacket, and you grabbed yours from your chair, and took a couple of files as well, in hopes that you could finish them at home. "Not a chance." Morgan said, tossing the files on his own desk.
"Can I come?" Reid asked, taking a few more files from your desk. "I'm already done for the day."
"Of course you are. Spence, it's really not necessary."
"I know, but I want to. I can cook you dinner." You and Spencer had bonded over your mutual lack of cooking skills, and early in your friendship the two of you had taken cooking classes so that you could make passable food, although it was by no means outstanding.
"I was going to grab her some indian food on the way home."
Their banter relaxed you, and their concern was reassuring. You're such a bother. No. No, you weren't. You let them lead you outside and unlocked your small car, handing Morgan the keys. He opened the passenger-side car door for you (a true gentleman) as Reid hopped into the back seat, then made a show of scooting the seat back. "You're so short." You smiled, but all of the energy had been drained out of you, so you let your head fall against the cool window. "Music?" Morgan asked.
You reached for the knob, turning it to a soccer podcast that you had been listening to on the way in. "I said music." He repeated, a smile playing across his face.
"Morgan…" Again, you didn't have the energy to argue, but Morgan let it go. He's annoyed, your inner critic said, and you leaned forward to flip it to a classical music station. Leaning back, you let the smooth purr of your car fill your head, trying to force yourself out of the headspace that felt so suffocating sometimes.
It wasn't a long drive to get to your house, but you were already close to sleep. The three of you rode the elevator silently to your floor, and Morgan unlocked the door to let you in to your place. Morgan wrapped you in a strong hug and looked expectantly at Reid, who was standing further into the entry way. "Can I stay?" Reid asked awkwardly. "I know you'll probably want to rest, but I brought some work and I could be here when you wake up."
"Yeah, thanks Spence." You said softly. Not even bothering with further conversation, you dropped your bag and let your body fall onto the couch, pulling a warm fleece blanket up to your chin. Usually, you didn't like having people around after your panic attacks, but these people…they made you feel safe.
You woke up to a darkened apartment, with a glow from the lights of your kitchen. You wrapped the blanket around you as you stood up and wandered into the other room, where Reid was scribbling something on a legal pad. "Hey." You said, walking towards the fridge.
"How are you?" He asked, shoving aside the papers.
"Thirtsy. Tired." He gave you the softest of grins, the sort that conveyed familiarity and a bit of pity. "Frustrated." You added, making his eyebrows lift. "I'm supposed to have these under control. I don't know why it happened, and it all just seems ridiculous."
"Ridiculous how?"
"I'm an adult. I know…how to deal with things. I should know how to…be in control. There's no reason."
"There's a reason." Reid interjected. "You just don't know it."
"I want to know it." You said, slamming the refrigerator shut. "I hate having a panic attack. It feels like the floor has just been dropped out from under you, and I can't focus on anything except that I'm getting more and more panicked. And it's for no good reason."
Reid was quiet, and he chose his words carefully. "Mental illnesses…are so hard. It's not like a physical illness, no matter what people say. I think that most people, without realizing it, push you into giving in to the illness, when what you really need is just to look past it. Before…before my mom's schizophrenia got bad, she tried so hard to control it, and it wore her down. But when people told her to stop fighting and learn to work with it, or around it, it just made her feel weak."
"I can't separate myself from it." You said honestly. "And I'm afraid other people can't either."
He just nodded thoughtfully, and began to doodle on his notepad. "You're a capable agent. You do your job. We all have shortcomings that make us wish we were better. Achilles' heels." You leaned against your counter, staring into your glass of orange juice. "That sounds wrong."
"No, Spence. It really doesn't…You get it. I mean, Morgan and the others know what's going on, but understanding it is something else."
"Speaking of the team…" His phone buzzed. He checked it, then tucked it back into his bag.
"We have a case?"
"You should stay here. Recover."
"Reid, what did we just talk about?" You tossed the blanket on the couch and rinsed your glass, making a decision. "I'm okay, I'm ready. Let's go."