Disclaimer: Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, not me.

give them no reason to stare

The invitation had a clown on it, but the envelope had a puffy unicorn sticker. It was left in the mailbox with just his name in bubble letters, no address. He handed the invitation directly to his mother.

"What's this, baby?" Diana asked.

"It came in the mail," he said, sliding his glasses up his nose.

"Oh, it's for the Bradley twins' birthday," Diana said. "I think they're inviting all the kids in the neighborhood. Oh, and it's a pool party! That'll be fun, huh?" She didn't give him the chance to object. "We;ll go shopping for their presents tomorrow, okay? And I'll call their mother, let them know you're coming." She handed the invitation back. "Put that on the fridge so we forget."

And that's how he found himself walking down the street, dressed in his swim trunks and a tee shirt and flipflops, a gift bag clutched his hand. He wished his mother would walk him to the party, but she was busy working on her new research project, now that she was coming back to the university, now that she was on new medication. He could tolerate going to a party alone if it meant his mother was going to get back to the way she used to be.

The Bradley house was a couple streets away, just far enough for the lawns to be better kept and the houses farther apart. A bouquet of balloons gently swayed over the mailbox and streamers dangled across the white picket fence. He could hear delighted screaming, splashing, music playing on a boom box. With a deep breath he squared his shoulders and walked through the gate.

The backyard was filled with shrieking kids, running around the swingset and splashing in the pool. A couple of parents lingered on the deck; Mrs. Bradley, dressed in a floral shift dress, poured lemonade while Mr. Bradley flipped burgers on the grill. Spencer spotted the gift table and set the bag down carefully. It looked a little shabby next to the pile of brightly wrapped presents.

"Why, is that Spencer Reid?"

He jumped about a foot in the air as one of the moms smiled down at him. "Ashley H.'s mom, remember?" she said. "I was-"

"Our chaperone on the zoo field trip in first grade, I remember," he said. "Hi, Mrs. Howard."

She tilted her head. "You always were a smart little thing," she said. "We haven't seen you at school in a long time, though. Did you transfer?"

He shifted his weight. "I'm starting ninth grade in the fall," he said.

Mrs. Howard's eyes went wide behind her sunglasses. "Ninth grade?" she repeated. "But you're only eight, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"You certainly are smart," she said. "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

"Probably the FBI," he said. "I've done a lot of research. I think it would be a good fit for me. Did you know that there's an entire department devoted to creating profiles of criminals and murderers? It's called the Behavioral Analysis Unit, they-"

She smiled again and patted his shoulder. "Now that is a very nice goal for someone as bright as you," she sad. "Why don't you go play? I'm sure your old classmates would be happy to see you."

She walked up the stairs to the deck to join the other parents, and for a moment Spencer wondered what it would be like to have a mom like that, someone who smiled pleasantly and volunteered in his classroom and could carry on a nice conversation with other grownups. But the sense of disloyalty seeped in fast, and he shook the thought away as he went to join the other kids.

He set his flipflops and his tee shirt down near the edge of the pool and crept closer to the stairs. No one had noticed him yet. The pale concrete around the pool dug into the soles of his feet. The girls clustered at the edges of the shallow end, playing mermaids; the boys yelled and crashed through the deep end, diving for rings and flipping into handstands. He stepped down the metal ladder, cold water catching at the hem of his swim trunks.

"Hey! It's Spencer!" a voice yelled, and the kids in the pool swiveled their heads around to stare at him. "Spencer Weed!"

He flushed red up to his ears, clinging to the cold metal ladder. The nickname had traveled all the way down to the lower elementary, apparently. "It's not Weed," he attempted lamely. "It's-"

The Bradley twins splashed up to him, dark haired and dark eyed and already deeply tanned from their summer soccer camps. "Our mom said we had to invite everybody," Jessica Bradley said, pushing her hair back from her face.

"Yeah, everybody," Tyler echoed. He splashed into Spencer's face; he ducked and gasped as the water hit his eyes. "Hope you brought a good present."

The twins swam away to their respective groups, and Spencer sank in the water up to his ears, hiding behind the ladder. Anxiety twisted his stomach into a knot. He wasn't a strong enough swimmer to join the boys, and the girls would never let him play. Not that he wanted to play mermaids, they were physiologically impossible. So he huddled in the pool instead, the water a cool contrast to the summer heat beating down on the top of his head.

"Spencer, catch!"

He looked up just in time for a water-soaked ball to hurtle over his head and into the yard, close enough to brush his hair. The other kids groaned. "Aw, come on," one of them complained.

Spencer scrambled for the ladder, his hands slipping and sliding. "I'll get it!" he said. "I'll get it."

He ran through the short bristling grass, dirt clinging to his toes, and he fumbled to pick up the ball from the bushes around the fence. "I got it!" he called, and he threw the ball into the water.

No one said thank you. They didn't invite him to come play. The boys dove for the ball, fighting and thrashing in the water, and the girls shrieked as they got splashed. He stood at the edge of the pool for a while, until it sank in that they weren't going to acknowledge him. So he sat down and dangled his feet in the water quietly, watching the ripples.

After what felt like an eternity Mr. Bradley called them out of the pool to get lunch; Spencer was the last one out of the pool, pulling on his shirt as he went, and the last one in the line. The twins ran up first, yelling and elbowing each other until Tyler knocked Jessica over. She burst into hysterical wails, which set Tyler off, and their parents hurried over to them, soothing them with hugs and kisses and reassuring words. Mrs. Bradley brushed the invisible scrape off of Jessica's knee and Mr. Bradley said something to make her laugh before sending them off to get their lunches first before the other kids.

Spencer hung back, waiting his turn to get food, and Mrs. Bradley handed him a plate with an absent smile. The kids paired off in little groups across the lawn to eat, and Spencer sat under the swingset by himself. The burger was good after he scraped off the pickles and mustard, and the potato chips filled up the last empty spaces in his belly. Even with the new medication his mother still wasn't a reliable source for food. She was in the mood to experiment lately, testing out recipes that she'd never tried before and laughing when it ended up oversalted or burned or otherwise inedible. More often than not he still went to bed hungry.

He opened the can of Sprite with a crisp click and drank it slowly as the afternoon breeze dried off his hair, ruffling over his forehead. The girls were still arguing about mermaids- who got to be Ariel, apparently. And the boys were throwing chips at each other, trying to catch them in their mouths and shrieking when somebody missed. Spencer sighed. He didn't know how to talk to these kids, much less make them into friends. And the Bradley twins' words kept echoing in his head. Our mom said we had to invite everybody. Any hope he had that any of these kids wanted to be his friends had flown out the door.

He had friends, he did. Jeff still came over sometimes, and they played with legos or erector sets or watched movies. That was happening less and less though, as Jeff prepared to start fourth grade and Spencer was taking SATs. He just had trouble fitting in, that was all. A normal by-product of academic overachievement.

He picked up his paper plate and the empty can and carried them over to the trash. "Thank you, sweetie," Mrs. Bradley said, offering him a real smile this time. "Go on and play with the kids, okay?"

The kids were playing soccer now, boys against girls. He picked up his tee shirt and pulled it back on, then jogged slowly over to join the game. "I want to play," he said, but no one heard him.

A couple of taller boys ran past him, nearly knocking him over. "I want to play!" he repeated, a little louder.

"You can play, but you can't get in the way!" Jessica said, darting around him.

"Hey!" Tyler complained. "You're only letting him play 'cause he sucks and he'll make us lose!"

Spencer felt the back of his neck turn hot. Now he had to do it. He had to prove himself. He ran back and forth, following the ball but staying on the outskirts, staying out of the way of the faster, stronger kids. The sparse grass of the lawn scraped his bare feet, the dirt hot against his ankles as he kicked it up. The kids screamed and shouted, calling names, squabbling over the ball.

Suddenly the ball shot his way. Spencer's heart skipped a beat. This was it, this was the moment, he could finally-

"Move, Weed!" Tyler said, and he jerked his elbow back.

Spencer's vision exploded into stars. He fell back hard into the packed dirt and the rough grass, rolling over on his side and covering his nose. Tyler jumped over him and kicked the ball towards the goal.

No one noticed him on the ground. Spencer scrambled to his feet, whining behind clenched teeth, fighting back the hot tears burning the edges of his eyes.

"All right, kids, time for cake!" Mrs. Bradley called cheerfully, and the kids ran past him in a delighted shrieking mob. Spencer wobbled on his feet, tasting blood in the back of his throat, pain spreading like a spiderweb crack in glass across his face.

And he ran, leaving his flipflops behind, abandoning the party, the balloons waving him a mocking goodbye.

The pavement under the Las Vegas sun blistered the soles of his feet. He held his hand over his nose, but hot blood spurted between his fingers and dripped down the front of his shirt. Little drops spattered on the sidewalk no matter how hard he clamped his hands over his face.

He made it home in record time, his feet burnt to the point of numbness and his breath tight in his lungs. The garage door was open and he ran inside, stumbling over his feet.

"Spencer? What are you doing home so soon?"

He stumbled to a stop, catching himself against the door to the house and smearing blood over the handle. "Dad?" he said.

William stared at him in shock. "What the hell did you do?" he asked.

"Fell," Spencer said, wiping blood on his shirt.

"Doing what?"

"Playing soccer."

His father looked at him with with an expression that Spencer couldn't read. "Where are your shoes?"

He shrugged. William continued to stare at him, and slowly Spencer realized what the expression meant. Shock. And disappointment.

"Is it broken?" William asked.

Spencer stared back at his father, unable to speak. His father was disappointed in him. He had never realized it before.

"Spencer," William said, and he looked like his own father again, tired and patient. He cupped Spencer's chin in his hand and examined his nose, touching the pad of his thumb against the bridge gently. Spencer winced at the touch.

"I don't think it's broken," he said. "But you're still bleeding. Go get cleaned up, okay? I'll get you an ice pack."

Spencer nodded and stumbled into the house. The room spun around him and the carpet felt too rough on his feet. He did his best not to touch anything, keeping his bloody hands to himself, and he used his elbow to turn on the bathroom lightswitch.

Spencer caught sight of his own reflection and stumbled back. Dried blood turned dark maroon and crusted around his nose; fresh blood dripped over his mouth and chin and turned his shirt brilliant scarlet. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth for a moment, attempting to slow his racing heart.

After a moment he pried the wet tee shirt over his head, careful to keep the neckline from brushing his nose. He sank down on the floor, tilted his head down, and held the bloodied shirt over his nose, pinching the bridge as tight as he dared.

It felt like an eternity, the blood trickling down his face and running into his mouth. He could taste it, hot and coppery, a mouthful of liquid pennies. He scrunched himself into a smaller, tighter ball, holding the shirt over his face until he was lightheaded and dizzy.

"Spencer? Come, on, buddy, sit up."

He looked up at his father. William swam in his vision, doubling and tripling. "Let me take a look," he said, tugging the shirt away. "Oh, good, you've stopped bleeding."

William picked him up and set him down on the bathroom counter. Spencer's whole body felt limp, like all his lifeblood had been drained from him. William ran the cold water in the sink, held a washcloth under it, then dabbed it at Spencer's face. He was too rough, but Spencer didn't protest.

"You're going to have a pretty rough black eye, buddy," William said, wiping at the blood around his nose. He grinned. "Maybe make you look a little bit tougher, huh?"

Spencer bit his lip as William scrubbed at his face. "Dad?" he said. "Are you mad at me?"

"No, I'm not mad," William said. "Accidents happen. Happen to you a little too often, but…"

His voice trailed off. "Are you disappointed in me?" Spencer asked quietly.

William paused. "What?"

"Are you disappointed in me?" Spencer repeated.

"No, no," William said. "Not at all." He used the washcloth to wipe the blood from Spencer's hands, then set it aside. "You're only eight years old and starting high school already, you kidding me? I'm lucky to have such a smart kid."

He smiled, but Spencer didn't feel any better. "Put this on your face, and lie down," William said, handing him a ziploc bag of ice wrapped in a towel. "Maybe watch a movie or something, put your books down for a little bit."

He ruffled Spencer's hair and walked away. Spencer watched him go, his narrow shoulders slumping. He thought of the Bradley twins, how their parents ran to their sides, kissed them, hugged them, said kind things. A lump rose in Spencer's throat. His dad loved him. Of course his dad loved him. His dad just wasn't affectionate, that was all.

He shimmied down from the counter, the homemade ice pack clutched in his hand, and headed down the hall to his mother's office. "Mom?" he said, hovering in the doorway.

Diana sat at her computer, clicking away at the keyboard. He edged closer. "Mommy?" he said.

"Hm," she said, and he wasn't sure if that was directed towards him. She seemed completely absorbed in her work, surrounded by stacks of books and at least three coffee cups.

"What are you writing?" he asked.

Diana leaned closed to the screen, frowned, and delete something. "Preparing my research," she said. "I think I have a new book in the works." She smiled absently. "I'll definitely get back on my tenure track, won't I?"

"Uh-huh," Spencer said.

He sidled closer and wriggled in between Diana's arms and the keyboard. She didn't seem to acknowledge him, so he leaned closer until his head could rest on her shoulder. "What's all this about, Crash?" she said. She brushed his hair back from his forehead and kissed his temple. "This isn't like you."

It wasn't like him, no. His father was too busy, his mother was too distracted. That's what he always told himself.

Diana lifted him onto her lap and he tucked his cheek against her shoulder. "Oh, don't let me forget," she said, her fingers still flying busily over the keys. "We have to buy a present for the Bradley twins. For their birthday party." She kissed him again. "Are you excited? You get to see your old elementary school friends again."

His heart squeezed in his chest. "Party's canceled, Mom," he said. "They're not going to have the party."

"Oh, they're not?" Diana said. "What a shame. It would have been so much fun."

"Yeah," he said, his voice coming out small and choked, and he held the ice pack to his nose.

Author's Notes:

OOF.

So I feel like Spencer mentions childhood friends here and there throughout the show, but I don't think he had any close friends as a little boy. I also think that his parents loved him, but had trouble connecting to him for their own various reasons. Now that I think about it...I think that's the recurring theme of this whole fic, Spencer being unable to connect with people.

Also this chapter is definitely a precurser for the goalpost incident. Which, incidentally, I've already written. (I'm still working on Revelations. It's going to be a two parter; I've written about forty pages' worth so far. I may split part of into a separate fic.)

What are your headcanons on baby Spencer? Or any Spencer headcanons at all? I'd love to hear them!

Thanks to Allie, nitrogentulips, fishtrek, and -Fray-Chase for reviewing! I appreciate y'all.

Up next: his father left on a Tuesday.