Spencer was falling apart.
He knew it. Everybody else knew it. It was only a matter of time before they acted on this knowledge, before they locked him away, before they forgot about him entirely. It was only a matter of time before he faded into nothing but a memory, until the Dr. Spencer Reid the world had become acquainted with was no more.
He was mad. He was mad and he was miserable and he was tired and he wanted to call for Morgan to come back, wanted to ask for the help he so desperately needed, but he couldn't and he itched to do something, to get up and solve a case, because maybe then this tangled mess of emotions would melt away on its own.
But he knew it wouldn't, He knew that these feelings would become progressively stronger and increasingly unpredictable, knew that eventually they would consume him entirely and there was nothing to do to stop it. No cure, no way out. Just time-endless time to succumb to his own mind.
He needed somebody. He needed somebody who would just listen and not talk, needed somebody who would be there and yet stay away, because he couldn't afford to hurt any more than he already had. He needed his family, his team, because he was slipping away and it was only a matter of time before he was too far gone to be reached.
For the next two days, he stayed at Hotch's house.
It was beginning to feel suffocating, being watched like some unknown variable in an experiment. He needed to get back to his apartment, needed to return to his home, because the walls were too close to his skin and the shadows were constantly reaching out for him and there was only a matter of time before he couldn't run any longer.
He just wanted to get home.
He expressed this several times to Hotch, keeping out the parts like the voices talking and talking and talking or the darkness that grew more and more with each passing second. He wanted to tell Hotch about everything, he did, but he knew that the man would never let her return home if he became even more acquainted with the horrifying visage of Dr. Spencer Reid's mind.
" Please , Hotch," he had said on more than one occasion. "I have things to take care of and you need to see Jack. Plus, you need to get back to work. The team needs you more than ever right now."
"Not now," the man would say and no matter how hard Spencer tried to change it, that was that.
It was 3 AM in the morning. It was 3 AM in the morning and he was still awake, trying to keep his eyes squeezed shut because he was scared of what he would see if he opened them. It was 3 AM and he really couldn't stand this, couldn't do this, and all he wanted was to get back to his apartment and end it.
Do it. It was one of the numerous voices that now echoed throughout his head. He had named this one Theodore because naming them helped to keep it organized, helped to give him some semblance of control in the chaos.
"I can't," he murmured, eyes still shut.
Yes, you can.
Go home.
You're nothing more than a burden to him.
Go.
He knew it was stupid. He knew that he shouldn't disobey Hotch, that doing this would cause unnecessary worry and probably a miniature manhunt. He knew why he wasn't trusted to be alone, knew why he shouldn't be, but he was sick of being treated like he was about to break- even though he, more than not, felt the same -and all he wanted was to return to his books of Edgar Allan Poe and Arthur Conan Doyle. He needed to get out and before he knew what he was doing he was opening his eyes and rushing out of the room, rushing away from the faces and the blurs and the smiles.
The subways were closed and the thought of going into a taxi with a stranger, with a threat, wasn't even considered an option to his mind. It was cold, air borderline frigid, but he needed to get home because the sewers smelled of blood and his skin was crawling.
It was cold. It was cold and his flesh was buzzing and he itched to do something, to find some sort of release. Maybe if he kept on walking, he would find the key to end the chatter and the whispers and the shadows. Maybe if he kept on searching, he would discover the cure, the solution, to all of this and he could go back to his life at the BAU.
He really wasn't sure how long he walked, wasn't even sure where he had been trying to go, but when he at last snapped out of this trance, this fixation of finding the cure, he was alarmed to find that the moonlit dark sky had been replaced by a sunny morning. Something in his pocket kept on buzzing and his shoes were all stained and dirty.
He surveyed his surroundings—he was obviously in D.C, the buildings stretching high towards the sweltering sunlight. Cars were honking loudly and it was so hot and he really wasn't sure what was going on, just aware of the fact that all those drivers were turning to stare at him .
They were all staring at him and suddenly all he could see were the faces of those high schoolers so many years back, all laughing and pointing as he stared helplessly from that cursed flagpole, and he found himself shrinking into himself.
Freak.
Nerd.
Geek.
"No," he murmured, stumbling away from all their cruel faces. He had escaped this, had left behind that horrible school, so why were they still here? Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He remembered each and every one of their faces, remembered the way they snickered and pointed as he begged to be released.
Look at the way he squirms.
Weak.
Thinks he's better than us.
"I don't," he whispered. "I don't, please , I don't."
"Are you okay, sir?"
He whirled around, finding himself staring at a brunette woman holding a cup of coffee. His stomach sank as he recognized her: Alexa Lisbon, the cheerleader who had acted as one of the main participants in the entire gag. He remembered the way she had smiled her perfect-teeth smile as he walked onto the football field, remembered the way she continued grinning as the jocks tied him up.
"I'm sorry," he said and he hated how small his own voice sounded, hated how weak and young and stupid he had been.
"Excuse me?" she asked, brow furrowed. "Look, if you need help—"
" No !" He wouldn't fall for this again. He wouldn't let her do this to him again. "No. No, get away from me. I-I'm not going, I won't—"
"Is something going on here?" It was a blonde man with a scowl across his face and it was Owen Sanders, the person who had started the rumor that Alexa wanted to meet Spencer at the field, and his heart rate was so erratic he genuinely felt as if he were about to throw up.
The two were still talking to him.
His pocket kept buzzing.
All the drivers were still staring.
He turned and ran, running as far as he could go.
