Well, uploading before 2 am was a bust. Note before we start: there is what I would consider minor ableist language in this chapter (referring to non-autistic people as 'normal' and an autistic character saying they wish they were normal). If that is something you do not want to see, skip this chapter. If you're like me and can start getting sensory overload from descriptions of sensory overload, skip this chapter. I won't hold anything against you. With that out of the way, today's chapter summary: Neal goes into sensory overload and Peter and Elizabeth insist on taking care of him.
It was a bad day. Nothing was externally wrong. But everything, everything, was internally wrong. It was a wonderful morning, by all regards. Sun was shining, not too hot, not too cold. And Neal woke up feeling awful. Physically, he was fine. Mentally, he was not. The sun was too bright. The small tick, tick, tick of his watch was too loud. His normally comfortable sleepwear was too close to his body. It was going to be one of those days.
If Neal had had the choice, he would have done what he wanted to. Wear safe clothes that didn't feel bad, have headphones in all day, not look at anyone, not talk all day, and find a way to shut off the rest of his senses too. However, this wasn't an option. He had to be in the FBI building. He had to look the part of a perfectly put-together conman. And he hated it.
As awful as it felt to drag the fabric over his clothes, Neal loved the way it felt once he had undressed. No fighting with bad feeling fabric, nothing too tight or too loose. It was perfect. And then he got dressed. A suit was not what he wanted to be wearing. The fabric felt weird. The shirt had darts in strange places. The jacket was too tight in all the wrong places. The pants folded awkwardly on his legs. The only thing that felt nice was his shoes. They were broken in well.
And it got worse from there. His hair felt weird on his face. The ends were just brushing his ears and forehead and it. Was. Terrible. He could feel every strand scratching against his skin. If he had his way, he would use a headband and push the long ends as far away as possible from his face. But that would look weird and break the 'normal' mask Neal wore 24/7. So, he had to do his best to style his hair and grit his teeth as little as possible.
He didn't eat breakfast. Nothing felt right and he didn't have any foods that felt good either. No fruit-and what he did have wasn't guaranteed to feel good in his mouth. He had apples. They were really nice and crunchy sometimes and really bad and only resistant other times. Not a good day to take a chance. So, he went to work with only a cup of coffee. Coffee was usually pretty good, as long as it wasn't commercialized and burnt. And June's wasn't.
The one thing that went right in Neal's day was that Peter, upon seeing him arrive, stuck him at a desk with a very tall stack of cold case files. Great. I don't have to talk to anyone. He knew listening to his music would still be frowned upon, but he'd take what he could get. He got through about half the day, suppressing all the unfortunate sensory input he could. What scents there were were mostly okay; he compromised his tactile sensations by twisting his legs under the table, rubbing his calves together tightly. It was working fine, he guessed. But he did have to skip lunch as well; he didn't feel like trying to explain safe foods when he wasn't sure if he'd have useful communication by the end of the day.
He was sitting at his desk, staring at a case file, when the worst problems started. Neal was twisting a pen between his hands, a common gesture for him. The repetitive motion was great, kept his hands moving and he liked the way the smooth plastic felt against his skin. He relaxed a little bit. It almost made up for how terrible his clothes felt. Almost.
And then he heard someone's watch.
It was faint, faint enough that no one else would have noticed. But Neal did. And it was awful. He'd forgone his own because the sound would be intolerable. And Neal knew that normal people wore watches every day. He knew that normal people weren't bothered by how loud the ticking-the endless, endless ticking-was. But Neal felt like it was drilling into his skull. His legs tensed up and he tried to talk himself out of what he was feeling. It's fine. It's fine. Watches go on all the time and it's never been a problem before. He took a breath. It's a problem now!
And then someone's cologne blew into his face.
It was a fine cologne, Neal figured. He might even have liked it if the day wasn't so overstimulating already. But, this exact moment, right now? Neal hated that cologne. It was suddenly flooding his senses: the only thing he could smell, the only thing that existed in Neal's mind. The horrible, horrible spicy wood scent. And it was strong. What little logical function was left in Neal's mind told him that he was overreacting. It wasn't that strong. But, the problem was, the overstimulation was overruling the logic. And it was too much of a scent. His legs started bouncing, which was fine until the fabric of his pants rubbed against them. Forgot I hated that fabric. He tried and failed to stop. His pen fell on to the desk as his fingers started flicking across each other. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.
"You okay, Neal?" someone asked gently from nearby. Neal couldn't be bothered to remember their name. They were loud.
He nodded. Apparently, he'd lost his vocal capacity because he tried to say 'yes, absolutely fine, what would make you think otherwise?' and didn't get anything to come out. That's fine. That's fine. Neal forced his hands to stop. It looked weird, it was drawing attention, and he didn't want more people to see how he looked. So, Neal gave himself something else to do with his hands. He started working on a case file again. He couldn't entirely focus, but he could give the appearance of productivity. He took a few notes.
And the ink smelled so strong.
It was sweet and bitter and metallic and sickly all at the same time. It was disgusting. Normally, the scent of ink was negligible, even with Neal's olfactory hypersensitivity. But it was overwhelming. It's never like that, he thought. It can't happen now. It can't happen now. Neal started to feel more and more uncomfortable sitting still. He'd love to fidget, to pace, to spin around, hell, even to just rock on the floor. But those would draw too much attention. So he settled with twisting his legs together underneath the desk, pressing his calves against each other. It felt good. Grounding.
And then the straw broke the camel's back.
Someone came in the office and had a late lunch at their desk. Fine. They were entirely entitled to do that. It was a normal thing for people to do, eat. Just because Neal had to go a day without any of his safe foods didn't mean that everyone was starving. He knew that this wasn't a problem most people had. But the scent was driving him crazy. Neal was across the room from this person and could smell their food. It was driving him crazy. I'll be fine. Everything will be fine, he tried to reassure himself. It won't be a big deal. Well, it has been a bad day. No! I'll be fine!
And then the man started eating.
Again, perfectly entitled to do that. If you have some form of food, you eat it. That's what you do. But the smacking and altogether disgusting sounds that came from his mouth as he chewed and swallowed (quite politely for someone eating quickly at his desk) drilled into Neal's mind and filled it. That was the tipping point. The final straw. It was all too much. He put the pen down on the table as his hands started shaking. What started out as minor shaking turned into something akin to jazz hands. That turned into full-on flapping, hands moving limply as his wrists twisted and bounced. He could feel people staring. It was awful. Neal knew one way to fix this situation. It would draw more attention, but Neal didn't care anymore. He needed out of this situation. He slid under his desk and curled into a small ball, knees to his chest, in the confined space. His hands kept flapping as he pressed his shoulders into the two sides. It felt stable. That was good. Stable was good. He started to rock back and forth and tucked his head into his knees. It was easier if he didn't have to see. Everything would be fine. Eventually. Tears pricked his eyes and began to run down his cheeks.
Diana realized that Neal was suddenly missing from his desk. So, naturally, she went over to investigate and saw him rocking under his desk. She crouched down. "Neal?"
Neal could smell her perfume. On a good day, he liked her perfume. It was floral and spicy at the same time. Today, on top of already sensitive senses and an already overstimulated Neal, it was intolerable. And, even worse, it completely shut off Neal's ability to speak. He wasn't ready to talk all day, and he'd already struggled, but now the air wouldn't even make its way to his vocal cords for him to try. He switched to the one way he could still think of to communicate: sign language.
"Leave me alone," he signed.
Diana stared at the pitiful man in front of her. "Neal, I don't know sign language. Can you talk to me?"
Neal repeated himself. "Leave me alone." She wasn't getting it. For this scenario, he'd made short sign names for everyone he could think he'd need to say. These were made while he was on the run, but Peter still had a sign. He tapped two fingers in a V with his thumb between them on the left side of his chest two times.
Diana got the gist and went to summon Peter. If Neal thought he'd know what to do, who was Diana to question it? Neal relaxed a bit as soon as the overwhelming aroma of her perfume was out of his vicinity. He tried to relax himself, to no avail. The only good thing was that Diana was also running interference and making sure that no more people noticed than already had. Which meant Neal was free to stim and shutdown without having to keep his mask up. Always good.
Diana returned (and with her, the obnoxious perfume), along with Peter and Jones. They crowded around, trying to be respectful of Neal's personal space. It wasn't working. His rocking became more aggressive, he curled up tighter, and his flapping became more agitated. He started murmuring to himself. Peter had no clue what was going on, but he had a good way to start helping.
"We're too close," he explained. "You two, back off." Diana and Jones disappeared back off to their work. It was better. Neal's hands calmed down a little bit and he slowed to the speed he was rocking at before. "Are you okay?"
Neal signed back "No."
"Can you talk to me about it?"
"No," Neal repeated in sign. "Can't talk now."
Peter sighed and tried his best not to be too irritated. "Neal, I can't sign. Talk to me."
"Can't talk now," Neal signed again.
Peter sighed again. "Would it be better if you weren't here?" he asked, gesturing to the small space Neal had tucked himself into.
Neal shook his head, still buried in his legs.
"What do you need?" Peter guessed next. "Can I get you anything you need?"
Neal made a gesture similar to putting in a pair of earbuds. Peter got the message. He took a pair of headphones off the desk and handed them over to Neal. He tried to touch the younger man as little as possible. It wasn't going to help him, Peter guessed, if he felt smothered.
Neal took the headphones and connected them to his phone. He had a playlist established for sensory overload. It helped to fill the senses he could control with things he liked. Which meant flooding his hearing with Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Paul Anka, and other Golden Age crooners. It felt nice, the way their voices moved. It was good sounds. Sinatra took over where the disgusting sounds of chewing and typing and ticking were. Neal started to relax. He was still teetering on the edge of another, worse, shutdown, but he was definitely better. He started flicking his fingers again, hands calming down from their flapping.
Peter watched this happen. He had no idea what he was doing. It seemed like something that should have been covered in a mental health seminar, but it didn't seem to be anything harmful. That didn't mean it was good, but...close enough. He decided, spur of the moment, that Neal wasn't going to improve by staying in the situation. If being around the office had started this, it sure as hell wasn't going to end it.
"Do you want to stay?" he asked.
"No," Neal signed back.
"Will you be okay if I take you to my home and have El look after you?" Peter was being gentle and firm at the same time. "I don't want to leave you alone like this." Neal hesitated and his hands began to flap again. His brain wasn't equipped for serious decisions right now. Peter immediately covered for himself. "If you don't want to, that's fine. But do you want someone to look after you?"
Neal slowly nodded.
"Okay. When you feel like you can, come down and I'll give you a ride."
With that Peter left, leaving Neal to try to calm himself down enough to leave the overstimulation. It wasn't long before he could reliably calm his hands down. As long as he didn't speak and wasn't spoken to, he could pass for a perfectly normal person. He grabbed all of the things he considered essential. He hadn't worn a hat in (if his hair was bothering him, he wasn't going to add another thing on his head), so all his important things were his phone (in his pocket) and what he called his safety bag.
It was his bag of emergency sensory overload supplies. Safe snacks and water in case it was hunger or thirst that pushed him over. A spare set of headphones to cancel out noise. Sunglasses to cancel out brightness. A soft toy in case he needed tactile stimulation. Compression sleeves to help his proprioception. A notebook and pencil for when he went nonverbal. A list of his safe foods in case he needed to communicate that to someone who didn't know him. And a spare set of safe clothes in the event that became necessary. He took the sunglasses out and put them on. The offices were always bright, but now they seemed blinding. Neal fled the building. Everyone had seen him shutdown. Everyone knew something was wrong with him. Everyone knew.
"Feeling better?" Peter asked when Neal got to the car. He just shook his head and climbed in.
The ride was silent. Neal was still flapping his hands and twisting his legs. Peter decided to respect him and not add to his discomfort by turning on the radio. The ride also, conveniently, took much less time than expected and Peter pulled up almost directly outside his house.
"Do you need more help?" Peter asked kindly.
Neal hesitated, then shook his head. Still mute, he escaped the confines of the car and entered into the Burkes' ever-welcoming home. Elizabeth looked up from her workstation at the kitchen table and saw Neal standing in the doorway. She smiled.
"Hello, Neal."
Neal froze. He thought he'd be fine. But now there was a new person. El was a good person, he knew that. But a new person and he'd have to talk and explain and get out and-
He managed a few steps before curling up again. He wedged himself into a corner, grounding himself by pressing his shoulders into two walls. It was a comforting place to be, feeling three different contacts. He put his sunglasses away and buried his face in his legs. His hands started flapping again as he tried to control his senses.
El watched this and realized that she knew what to do. When she babysat, way back when she was sixteen, she had a kid who would do things like this, especially when the world became too much for him. She guessed that was what happened with Neal. That kid had cards made by his parents to communicate what he needed. Simple cards like 'food,' 'water,' 'quiet,' 'help.' She figured it was worth a shot to see if Neal had anything similar. El knelt a safe distance away from Neal.
"Do you have some way to communicate?" she asked, as gently as she could.
Neal's mind actually processed her question in its entirety and he calmed down enough to pull the notebook and pencil. He wrote down a few words before standing, grabbing his bag, and going to the bathroom. El read over what he'd written. 'Need to change.' That made sense, El figured. She'd never worn one, but suits didn't look comfortable in the best of circumstances. And a shutdown definitely wasn't the best of circumstances.
Neal came back, looking completely different. He had on a loose t-shirt with a stretched-out neckline. It looked perfectly worn and quite soft. In addition, he had on tight pants and his compression sleeves. Tight in some parts, loose in others. That was the way Neal liked his clothes to fight when he was like this. And now that he was in good clothes, he was starting to feel better. El also noticed that he had a headband on. It was pushing his hair away from his ears and forehead, which she figured was necessary for him. Nevermind that it made his hair stick up at angles like an angry cockatiel. It made Neal feel safe and that was what mattered.
"Are you feeling better?" she asked.
Neal managed to find his voice, now that he was in a place where he felt comfortable unmasking. "Better. Now that I changed." Two full sentences. He was relaxing.
"Suit that uncomfortable?"
"Yeah."
"Do you need anything else?" El asked.
She hadn't meant that question to be a disaster. But, unfortunately, that question was too open-ended. Neal froze again, trying to process what she meant. There were many things he needed, but only a few within the limited purview of 'things El could give' and 'things she meant to ask about.' Neal didn't know where either of those categories started or ended. He tried to answer, but couldn't manage anything. El saw this and thought to clarify.
"Are you hungry?" Neal had to take a minute to assess his body. Yes. He was hungry. He nodded. "What do you want to eat?"
Neal passed her wordlessly and fished the (conveniently laminated) list of safe foods out of his bag. He didn't have safe foods at his apartment, but El probably had at least one. They were simple things, foods that he remembered eating when he was little and associated with comfort. Always good when he had these days.
El took the list he extended to her. "Okay. These are safe?" Neal nodded. She disappeared into the kitchen before asking "Did you wake up like this?"
Neal nodded. "Yes. I woke up like this." He knew that he was just repeating her question back to her, but it worked as an answer. And, anyway, El seemed to understand.
"And then you had to get dressed in bad clothes and spend time with bad things?" she guessed.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry." She sounded genuinely sympathetic, even to Neal's limited emotional processing at the moment.
"It's fine," he replied instinctively.
He swore he could hear the sadness in El's smile.
A few hours later, Peter came back to his home, off work. He opened the door to reveal Neal sitting on the couch next to his wife. Neal wasn't talking, but was writing in a notebook that was balanced between El and himself. He still had headphones in and was holding a small stuffed dog that he pet every so often. El was talking to Neal and he was writing his answers down. He seemed better.
Which was when Peter tactlessly asked "Neal, what was that?"
Neal paused. He blinked at Peter. "What?" he signed.
"Neal," El said with a calm voice and reassuring hand. "You know him. Is he a good person?" Neal hesitated. Pet his stuffed dog. "Is he not a good person?"
Peter looked between the two of them, absolutely lost. Was this something El knew what to do? Did this happen between the two of them frequently?
"He's a good person," Neal eventually concluded.
"Good. Can you answer him?"
"Good," Neal repeated. It was an answer, although not a particularly great one.
"Good," El said to him. Then, to her husband, she asked "Can you be a bit more gentle?"
Peter sat down in a chair next to his wife. "What happened back at the office?" he asked, trying to be more gentle.
"Sensory overload," Neal said. His voice was flat and almost clinical. "Shutdown. Bad clothes. Bad smells. Bad sounds."
Peter noticed then that Neal had changed out of his suit. He didn't bother to question it further. Instead, he looked at his wife, silently begging for an explanation.
She shook her head. "It's his to tell," she whispered. "Give him some time."
"What do you mean 'shutdown?'" Peter asked.
Neal took a deep breath and looked at a spot above Peter's head. "Too much around me. Couldn't handle it, so retreated inside until it was enough."
"Was that why you changed?"
"Bad clothes," Neal affirmed with a nod. "It's a bad day." Peter nodded. All he could do was pretend to understand. Neal took a deep breath and managed one sentence in something similar to his normal tone. "I...I'm autistic."
Peter started putting puzzle pieces together in his mind. That made sense. It certainly explained a lot of things about the young man. The way he always moved. His almost obsessive knowledge of certain topics. The way he never properly made eye contact. The way he always looked at something else. How he could focus on what seemed like everything and nothing all at once. And, most importantly, what had happened at the office.
"Okay," Peter replied. "Anything I should know?"
"You're not surprised?" Neal blurted out, as much as one can blurt when they're refusing to speak above a soft speaking voice.
Peter shook his head. "If you say you're autistic, I'll go with what you say. Is there anything I should know?"
Neal launched into what sounded like a script of everything Peter might ever consider important. "I don't like strong smells or repetitive sounds. Diana's perfume is really good, but too much when I'm already overloaded. I wish I could wear safe clothes to work, but I have an image to uphold. The foods I like aren't always safe foods and it annoys me. I like my things in straight lines. My special interests are art, vintage wines, and puzzles. That's why I like forgery and solving cases. I like small spaces when I get overwhelmed. I internalize and shutdown instead of meltdowns. Safe music helps me come back to normal. When I shut down I go nonverbal and start signing. Sometimes I can write. Tight clothing feels good and tight pressure helps sometimes. I used to wish I wasn't like this but then I realized that maybe there's a reason I'm like this. And I do like you, you're a good person, and I trust you."
Peter knew that was a lot for him to admit all at once. So, he asked one final question that only required one word to answer. "Do you feel safe to spend the night?"
And Neal, to his credit, answered "I think so."
If you read this, I do hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review if you particularly liked it! I apologize, but autistic Neal has become ingrained in my headcanons now. It's just a thing I believe now. To NaNoWriMo participants: you're doing great!
