Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

21. Those Who Know Her, Know Her Less

"Good morning," Spencer tried quietly.

You didn't even look his way as you whispered, "Morning."

You curled your knees up and dropped your forehead into them, groaning softly. Then you lifted your head to vigorously rub at your eyes. When you finished with that, you blinked a few times and stared ahead yet again, looking no less unfocused or vacant.

"Shit," you murmured to yourself. You didn't say anything more as you stood from the bed with another quiet groan and walked out of your bedroom.

Spencer followed you but stopped at the end of the hallway. He watched as you listlessly wandered around your kitchen on autopilot, turning on your espresso-coffee machine. As the machine began whirring and the water began heating, you walked past him and headed back to your room.

Spencer followed you again, this time, into your bathroom, where you were staring into your shower at the clothes left discarded on the floor, still sopping wet.

"Are your clothes dry-clean only, or can I wash them normally and hang them to dry?" you asked. Your voice was monotonous and slightly hoarse.

"If you put them in a plastic bag, I can just... take them with me."

You shook your head. "No, actually, I'll get someone to take care of it. Don't worry about it." Then, finally, you turned to face him. "Do you want to take a shower? I can move them now if you do."

Well, he did, but he also didn't really want to leave you alone when you just seemed so hollow, like your body was inhabited by nothing but a ghost of yourself. He'd seen you tired before, but this was something else entirely. You looked like you were looking straight through him. "I'm fine," he said instead. A bit more cautiously, he added, "Are you?"

You raised a hand to rub your brow before dragging it down your face. "Yeah. This always happens after..." You gestured back to your bedroom. "I'm just out of it. I'll be fine."

"Okay," he answered, and as you turned to your sink and began running cold water, bracing your elbows against the counter and letting the water run over your hands. He watched a shiver run through your body. He joined you at the second sink, and in the midst of washing his face, tentatively asked, "You said that hadn't happened in a while?"

You stilled. "Yeah."

"Was there... a particular rea—"

You straightened up, your jaw clenching and your eyes falling shut. "Spencer, please don't," you cut him off.

Spencer pressed his lips together. "Okay. Sorry."

And that was that. The two of you got ready in silence. Spencer couldn't stop himself from watching you go about your morning routine in an exhausted daze, how you winced when you had to bend over, like your muscles were sore.

He couldn't say that he was surprised. A certain degree of dissociation was a fairly common after-effect of PTSD episodes or panic attacks. And knowing this about you now put several other aspects of yourself into context: your inclination towards excessive alcohol consumption at times, your reactions to certain cases or locations, your inability to open up...

Spencer just hated that he felt helpless to do anything.

And more than anything in the world, Spencer hated feeling helpless, especially when someone he loved was involved.

Then, when you were both ready to head out the door at 8:10, you poured an alarming amount of both espresso and coffee into a travel mug and packed the sodden clothes from the shower into a plastic laundry bag before heading down. You were dressed a bit more casually than you were most days, wearing a soft navy blue sweater with your black slacks instead of your typical ensemble of a fine blouse and blazer. In the lobby, you walked up to Thomas' desk and placed the bag on it with a tight smile.