Useless Fanboy

Can you imagine Spencer fumbling over himself in a restroom somewhere, maybe at a subway, at least there he’s only one of hundreds of thousands of people a day, another face in the crowd. Less to fear, less to feel ashamed about, less to be disgusted with himself for. Perhaps it’s the bathroom of the bullpen, checking under every single stall before he locks the door and leans down onto the cool, clean marble counter. Perhaps it’s the bathroom of a rundown police station in a state he’s only ever been to on cases. Can you imagine his rush to toss his jacket off and onto the counter by the sink, head leaned down to stare at the white bowl, watching the water drip from the faucet and disappear into a tiny splash at the bottom. His chest is rising and falling slowly, deliberately, labored. After what feels like an eternity he closes his eyes, his body feels heavy, his eyes feel heavy, everything about him aches. He’s unbelievably aware of how hungry he is, of how tired he is. He tastes bile in his mouth but he doesn’t know if it’s the lasting effects of sobering up or perhaps that he’s only now realizing it’s been 36 hours or so since his last meal.  He’d roll up his sleeves quickly and his arm would be tense already, taut with stress and disgust. His veins would stand out on his skin from the tension of it and it would be all too quick and almost desperate as he claws off his belt and uses his hand and his teeth to synch it around his upper arm. His hands shake as they shove things around in his bag, nothing else on his mind. It’s desperate and pathetic, like he’s  looking for some kind of life saving medicine. When long thin fingers wrap around the cold small bottle, the motions slow and stop as he pulls it out and reaches back in to pull out a packaged needle. His mind is a blur as he rips open the package and leaves it deserted on the counter. As he jams it into the bottle to draw the contents into the needle his mind runs at the speed of light. One thing after another. “you’re disgusting” “they’ll know” “they could find you doing this” and despite all that he still can’t stop himself. He has to swallow down the lump in his throat and slow his breathing again, having let it get away from him in his panic to find the bottle. He closes his eyes when the needle lines up with pale skin and his jaw clenches so tightly he thinks he might break one of his own teeth.  For a moment when the needle breaks skin there’s nothing but a sharp inhale and the slight scrunching of his nose but after... Once he shoves the plunger down impatiently he has to lean his head back towards the florescent lights on the ceiling, seeing only orange blurs through his closed lids. It’s ice running through his veins, cold and exhilarating. He can feel it travel as it spreads all over, letting out a throaty groan and a sigh as it does. It’s a blossoming feeling that turns from an icy rigid cold that makes you aware of it’s presence into a warmth that swallows you whole. Those voices in his head telling him he’s disgusting, he could lose his job, he’s weak, he’s pathetic.. it all melts away and all he’s left with is her. Her presence, her warmth, the kiss and the tenderness of her touch that melts away the tension in his body and eases the ache in his head and his feet. she takes away that anxiety ridden sharpness, that edge that makes someone like him overstimulated and she leaves him in a content,,, fog. He’s so lost in the bliss of her that he doesn’t realize he’s moved to lean over the counter instead, head hung, hands pressed to the edge of the marble. He doesn’t realize the needle is still sitting next to his hand and the belt is still tight on his arm, he can hardly hear the sharp knocking on the door and the deep voice calling his name.  So he cleans up, picks up the bottle and the needle and the package and haphazardly shoves it into an empty pocket of his bag before rushing to replace his belt. His sleeves are rolled down to hide the marks on his arms and his jacket is tossed into the crook of one of his elbows as he straightens his hair and unlocks the door.  He doesn’t say anything, in fact physically there’s no indication that he had just donw what he had done, but it didn’t take any of them much to know.. the ghost of relief, of a smile on his face, the way he was light on his feet like he hadn’t been before. Going in he had been sluggish, tired, sore, a grouchy asshole... and coming out it was like an entirely new Reid,,, Their Reid.. Because anymore he was only their Reid, he was only himself when he was high. He didn’t know what to do about it either, he was totally lost and the only way to find himself was through her. 

Spencer Reid didn’t buy groveries often. He was the type of man that had a home mostly for show,, he was never really,, well,, there.. Sure it was decorated.. if you could call it that and he had furniture in it but he didn’t really live there you know. He more over visited in between his cases at work. This all left him to be the type of man that mostly ever ate fast food. Fast food, gas station snacks and little debbie caskes, and sometimes nothing more than the coffee or water taht he got at the bullpen. Why would you need to buy groceries you would never eat. Or buy groceries for a home you were hardly ever in.  But.. when he did buy groceries it sure was a sight to be seen. Now to preface that you need to understand Spencer Reid as a being. Spencer Reid didn’t lie being places where he stood out that’s why he lived in the city and in a crappy apartment who’s tenants didn’t want to talk to their neighbors. He liked being able to blend in and join crowds, no one spectacular but also no one weak. He was just.. normal and that’s how he liked it. He also liked having his peace and quiet when he got the chance, didn’t like hearing couples arguing above him because the floors were thin or the stomping around at 5am. This lead him to having na upstairs apartment. And last of all Spencer Reid, above all else, was stubborn.  All of this compiles tp make one hilarious disaster of a man trying to make it to his second or third floor apartment door. Struggling up the stairs with at least 7 bags of heavy groceries draped over his two twinkish little arms. He’s a thin guy without much muscle to him and here he was trying to get all of the groceries from car to house in one trip. This also leads to one twinkish guy in a sweatervest blocking the entire staircase to the apartment building as he scarmbles to gather his groceries from dropped or ripped bags. 

Reid: Not consecutively, but still, it's fine. You're not even that blurry

Reid: Don't think about that one too hard.