Chapter Text
Spencer was eighteen when he first read the word 'bisexual'. It was an instant moment of self-awareness, like when something finally fits and everything clicks into place, like nothing was ever lost in the first place. He stood from his desk, and he may as well have shouted 'eureka' like the hypothetical Archimedes did in literature (and this claim is actually thanks to Roman writer Vitruvius's ninth book of architecture in which he described the tale of the scientist leaping from a public bath, stark naked and screaming 'Eureka! I have found it!' the whole way home. Definitely untrue, because the volumetric method only works in theory-- even Galileo disproved the theory of volumetrics with his La Bilacetta experiment which--).
He was eighteen, and he had felt as if he was seconds from finishing his PhD in mathematics for the past four months. He had also felt insurmountable guilt crippling him following the hospitalization of his mother (his fault, his fault, but it was what was best) and would write daily. Between finishing his dissertation and writing letters and actually attempting to whip himself into shape-- sleeping, eating, you know-- he was falling short in most aspects of his life. There was no time for girls or parties, and he had no particular interest in joining the evenings of fun that other kids his age were interested in. On occasion, he'd receive an invitation from somebody-nobody from his hometown, mentioning a party or a night out. He'd decline each time.
But he didn't spend the entirety of his life sitting in his cramped-up dormitory, complete with tiny loft bed and tinier desk, that even his scrawny legs would not quite fit under. Armed with a tiny reading lamp and a tiny coffee maker, he would spend days-and-nights-and-days-and-nights working, then take off a day to sleep, then a day to visit a coffee shop or snag some Indian food. In particular, a certain young man who waited tables at the local Indian joint near campus that served abysmal coffee and phenomenal chicken tandoori.
The young man's name was Krishna, and when the evening light shone through the tall front window, the gold would caress his jawline and Spencer would stare just a little too long. He was tall, built well, always dressed in jeans and a buttoned shirt with a collar, sometimes a hooded jacket over that. Krishna always smelled of something indescribably strong and pungent, but he truly was beautiful. And they talked, too, frequently and flashing sweet smiles at each other over cups of tea and coffee.
If he chose to visit the coffee shop, there was a woman there named Laura, with long blonde hair that fell down her back like smiling sunshine on a summer day. Spencer bought her pastries, and she would snack on them while he sat and worked and sipped slow, warm coffee. With 'eight pounds of sugar', Laura always joked in a sing-song voice that was smooth and rich.
It was conflicting at best. There were some days he would visit both shops in one day, and then return home and completely distract himself from any questions that would bubble up from the pit of his stomach like boiling water in a pot. Instead of questioning anything about himself, instead of letting himself worry about his mother, locked away somewhere-- no, institutionalized, he'd remind himself-- he would just work. Work, work, work.
--
“Reid,” Hotch pages from his office, jutting Reid out of his introspective, nostalgic mood. Reid hops to his feet, standing to walk towards Hotch's office with his shoulders slung back, confidently. Though he's been sat there the past minutes, just revisiting old memories over and over, he suddenly feels a sense of equilibrium when he enters the office.
“What is it?” he asks, knitting his brows together.
Hotch's eyes fall from the papers on his desk back up to him, but never lacking in an ounce of confidence. “The paperwork,” he starts, his lips thin and pressed like his tie against his chest, “from last week's case. You never finished it.”
Reid falters. “I was just working on it.” He lets his stupidly lanky hands fall to his side, and meets the eyes of his team leader. Brown. So brown. So incredibly brown.
“It was supposed to be finished by Monday. It's Thursday.” He pauses, and there's a beat of silence shared softly between the two of them as something tense melts into a gentler pillowy feeling. “Are you alright?”
“Of course!” He answers quickly. Almost too quickly, and if Reid considers it almost too quick, then Hotch knows for certain that he doesn't mean it. Rehearsed. They all vowed to not profile each other, but it happens on the daily. Reid knows. Reid does it.
Hotch lets out a nasal sigh, and flips a folder over on the table. “Reid,” he presses.
“I'm really fine.”
But he's sure that Hotch knows already that it's come back-- the migraine and the leg pain and the mind pain that surges through his body and just reminds him that no matter how much coffee, how much information, how many books and movies and stories and ideas he consumes, he is still a human just as much, and hiding behind the wicker basket shield of intellect cannot save him from himself.
But he won't talk. He can't talk.