You wanted to cry. Five days you’d been out in the field on one of the worst cases you’d been involved in and you were finally on your way home. You just had to survive the last round table debrief with the team and then you could go home, cut and file your nails right down again and then hide for a few days.
For the best part of the flight home you’d been resisting the urge to do it; to pick and pull at your skin. You’d been doing so well recently and the majority of the wounds from your last bout had healed nicely except for one which just wasn’t closing. But the stress of the case had got to you and on the jet home you’d found yourself giving in and slipping your hand up your sleeve, starting to pick at your outer arm, until the tips of your fingers and nails started to feel damp and you knew you’d broken the skin. You’d been staring of out the window counting the squeezes, the nail scrapes it took until you felt the sting and the relief that came with it. Swiftly followed by the guilt that you’d given in to the urges and that you hadn’t been able to manage the stress in the other ways you’d been taught how to.
It was a never ending circle though. You’d pick and feel relief, and then you’d feel the guilt and stare at your body, your left arm covered in faded scars from when you’d damaged the skin too deep, or developed infections in the past. And then you’d feel ugly and hate yourself even more. You’d talk with yourself and convince yourself that it was the last time, that no one would want you with your arm looking like that, especially knowing that you did it to yourself. And then you’d stop, for a while. Until it all got too much again.
Today was one of those days. Where it had got too much.
“Okay, that’s it for today. Guys you did a great job. Get some rest this weekend.” Agent Hotchner dismissed you all and you stood, reaching for your full cup of coffee that you’d neglected to drink and straightening up, turning to step away from your chair. As you did your colleague Dr Spencer Reid moved from his chair, knocking into you and causing you to spill your coffee all down your white shirt and cardigan.
“Shit…” You pulled the fabric away from chest, thinking that at least it wasn’t scalding hot anymore, that was something.
“I’m so sorry Y/N. So so sorry. Are you okay?” Spencer was looking around hurriedly for something to mop up the mess with, settling on some scrap paper he’d been absent mindedly doodling on.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. It wasn’t that hot. Rossi, can I use your office to change? I can’t be bothered to walk all the way to ladies.”
Dave nodded and you picked up your go bag and slipped into his office next door, shutting the door behind you and peeling off your sodden clothes. You pulled out your spare shirt, cursing the fact that it was short sleeved.
It was then that you caught sight of the number you’d done on your arm with your finger tips and nails, blood crusting around the edges of the small circular wounds you’d made, the damaged skin suddenly becoming sore as the fresh air hit it. You sighed and pulled on the dry shirt, jolting when the door knocked as you were closing it up. They didn’t wait for a response, opening the door as you spun around so that your back was to whoever it was as you finished fastening the buttons.
“Y/N?” Spencer’s soft voice came from behind you.
“Hmmmm?” You reached carefully for your cardigan, cringing at the thought of putting something damp back on, and knowing that the wool was likely to stick to your weeping skin.
“You shouldn’t put that back on you know, and you should let me drive you to the drop in medical center. That mark on the back of your arm is infected and I think you need some antibiotics or topical steroid cream at least. You were doing so well, what happened?”
You spun around to look at him in shock.
“H-how… W-what?”
“Excoriation disorder, right? A girl who was in one of my college classes used to pick her skin terribly when she was stressed or anxious, or even just heavily concentrating. It was like she didn’t even know what she was doing at times. You’ve been working here for a while now, and I’ve seen you so many times slipping your hand up your sleeve when we’re out on a case or on the way home. It’s always your left arm too. You haven’t done it for the last two cases though. What happened?”
Spencer came and stood next to you, placing his hand lightly on your left wrist and raising your arm, studying it. If anyone else had done this you’d have yanked your arm away and told them to mind their own business. But there was something in the way Spencer was talking to you and looking at you. It wasn’t with pity or disgust, it was with understanding and concern.
“I… I missed my last two therapy sessions. And the last case. It just…. Stop looking at it please, it’s so ugly and horrid.”
“Cognitive behavioural therapy? You should call and reschedule the appointments ASAP, Y/N. And you need steroid cream, I’m quite certain of it. The drop in medical center is open until 10pm. Let me take you and once you’ve got some ointment, we can go for a coffee or drink and we can talk if you like. Talking tends to help and I want to help.”
He was right in that you needed steroid cream, the mark on your arm probably was infected and the wounds you’d caused today would probably go the same way, you’d dug so deep. You didn’t have your car today either. Morgan had picked you and Penelope up from the mall where you’d been shopping together when the call had come in about the team having an urgent case.
Reid rummaged in his own go bag, pulling out a shirt and handing it to you. You looked at him confused.
“I’m guessing you don’t want the others to see this which is why you always wear a jacket of some sort. But the fibres on your cardigan will stick to your arm and make it worse. I’m sorry I ruined your other shirt, so wear this. It’s still relatively clean, I rinsed it out last night in the motel and left it to air dry. And it’s got long sleeves. More importantly, it’s cotton. If you put your cardigan over it, and tuck it in, I doubt the others will notice.”
You took it from him gratefully and turned back around, quickly changing. It was way too big but once you’d tucked it inside the waist band of your pants and adjusted it slightly, it felt okay. And he was right. Cotton over the exposed wounds was better than wool. When you shrugged your arms into the jacket, you could barely notice that it was a man’s shirt.
“Ready?” he asked you.
“Okay.”
…
Two hours later and you were sat in a coffee shop opposite Spencer. You had prescription strength cream in your bag and Spencer had stood next to you whilst you called your therapist and rescheduled. She’d managed to squeeze you in for the following morning. Reid had stayed with you the whole time, except for when you went in to see the nurse who prescribed the cream for you. It was one you’d used a thousand times before.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Spencer asked you, sipping on a hot chocolate.
“Not really.”
“Okay. You know that I’m here if you do want to talk about it though right?”
You smiled softly feeling so terribly emotional right now, tears building behind your eyes and one trickling free. Seeing it, Spencer quickly slipped out of his seat and moved into the booth beside you.
“Hey hey hey… Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.” He touched your cheek, catching the tear.
“Oh god. I’m sorry it’s just… You’re being so nice to me and I just feel so crappy right now. I know I shouldn’t do it but I can’t stop it, and then I look at my arm and think that anyone who does see it will think that I’m a weirdo who abuses themself and no guy would ever want to be with someone who does this themself. And it fucking stings right now too.”
“Y/N. I don’t think you’re weird. The team wouldn’t think you’re weird. Your other friends wouldn’t think you’re weird. And as for guys. Well, I probably don’t count and all but if I liked someone then I wouldn’t let this stop me from being with them. I’d try to help them and let them know that I’m here for them. I’d drive them to the doctors if they needed a ride and… if I saw that they wanted to pick, I’d do this, to distract them.”
Spencer slid his hand over yours where it was resting on the table, interlocking your fingers with his. You stared at them linked together, his hand warm and soft.
“This condition doesn’t define you, so don’t let it. But you should talk to us, maybe not even me if you don’t want to, but someone you trust. And you need to keep up with your therapy.”
“I trust you. That’s why I let you take me to the center. And I know you’re right. I get on top of it and then something happens. And then I just feel so down about it sometimes, which makes it worse.”
“I know, I know. You’ll get on top of this though. You’ll find something that works. And the right person won’t see it as an issue, they’ll help you with it.”
“Like you are?”
Spencer smiled at you, squeezing your hand.
“Like I am.”