The Keeping of Words | Spencer Reid

12 |An Empty Hallway

The keyboard was position in front of his armchair, and he was strangely proud of having carried it all the way from the music store in its bulky box.

"I'm ready to be wowed," Bianca said. She was perched on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs back and forth over the edge.

After their last phone call, when he'd lashed out at her, Reid spent the rest of the week feeling guilty. The headache had finally subsided, and he when he returned from Louisiana, he asked her to come over, with the promise of wowing her with his newfound musical ability.

He flashed her a grin, and flicked the keyboard on. How had the tune gone? The keys appeared in his mind, a pattern of notes and finger movements, Sammy's hands guiding his as he mimicked the music. It came easily, his fingers flying over the board, producing something harmonious that came with little effort. When he had played all he could remember, he slid his hand across the keyboard with a flourish, and Bianca applauded, hopping down from the counter.

"Is there anything you can't do?" she laughed. "I had no idea you could play piano!"

"Me either, until yesterday," he confessed. "The boy whose parents had been abducted, his name was Sammy. He was autistic, and he communicated through pictures and symbols. It was fascinating, once we made sense of it. Music was his obsession, and he was really good at piano. That was the easiest way for him to say something, through music. He showed me how to play, and honestly... it was the most normal I've felt in weeks."

There was something about admitting that fact out loud that made it hit harder. All his life people had labeled him as a high-functioning autistic, claimed he Asperger's, or used autism to explain his habits and abilities. He'd never been tested, but in truth it didn't matter that much to him. He wasn't concerned with the autism spectrum, because schizophrenia had always been a much more pressing concern. What did that say about him though, that he was more comfortable playing piano with a child who couldn't respond to verbal cues than having conversations with people his own age?

"It was beautiful," Bianca said. "And I bet you really helped that boy. You're so good at connecting with people." She spoke to him so lovingly it almost hurt.

"Have you seen me in social situations? I'm not conversational. I'm just awkward and - and weird!" His voice squeaked up an octave, as it often did when he was flustered.

"Maybe you're not good at making small talk at parties," she agreed, sliding onto the arm of the chair and rubbing his shoulder. "But you're so good at communicating with people who have a hard time talking otherwise. You've told me the stories yourself. Sammy, the woman with the dolls, that boy Owen. You understand people who've wanted nothing more than to feel like someone gets them."

He'd felt that way for as long as he could remember. After a lifetime of being bullied, beaten up, and ignored, Reid finally found a place where he could put his talents to work. Gideon had been one of the first to notice him, but even at the BAU there were times when Spencer felt out of place. "I know what it's like, to feel different. Being so smart, everyone has all of these expectations and ideas about who you are and what you'll be. But it's not that easy. Do you know how isolating it is, to have an IQ of 187? And to remember every single thing you see or hear?"

"Tell me about it, then."

He glanced away. "You wouldn't understand. I get excited about things most people can't even comprehend. I make jokes that nobody laughs at. And then I get laughed at. I could've cured diseases or something but instead I chose to spend my days memorizing serial killers and their habits, and I can never shake those things out of my brain. I can't turn my thoughts off. It's like a curse."