Spencer Reid One Shots

Skin Deep

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?”