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Panic attacks weren't uncommon for members of the BAU. Their brains had substantial trouble processing the trauma gathered from years in the field. Bodies compensated for the suppression of emotion by making mental symptoms physical. It was quite a normal, albeit annoying, reaction to the intensity of their job. What was quite taboo, though, was experiencing a panic attack in the workplace. It's not like they never happened, no, but emotionally constipated co-workers either hid them extremely well, or just happened to have them in the comfort of their own homes.
It took Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner two years and three months to discover Spencer's occasional bathroom breaks were his attempts to hide his panic attacks. He had to give it to the kid, Hotch was completely unaware of the hyperventilation occurring in the stalls branching off the bullpen after they got back from a case or spent too much energy doing paperwork. Either that or he was too occupied to notice the boy rushing off in a stupor. Guilt stirred in his throat; he felt responsible for the well-being of his team, especially someone so young. He knew Spencer could hold his own, but he could hold his own and also be given support.
"Spencer? That you?"
The heavy breathing was stifled as best as possible, a rant of whispered reassurance cut off, but Reid had been caught and knew so.
Hotch had needed a quick restroom break just moments before and decided to stalk out of his office to practice what little self-care he dared to give himself, as basic and necessary as it was. He knew something was wrong when the sensor-controlled lights of the bathroom were manually shut off. The very obvious panic of the person holed up in the dark relieved any fear of a delusional unsub, but gave way to deep concern.
Hotch immediately knew it was Spencer due to the low attendance in the building. It was 9PM, afterall, and Reid was missing from his desk but his belongings remained.
The man in question cleared his throat, "Mhm- Yep, it's me." Talking took more breath than he had to offer.
Hotch stepped further into the room, using his arms to avoid the stall doors and hesitated with an "Are you okay?"
Spencers answer came all too quick, "Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine, it's all good."
Hotch furrowed his eyebrows to a point where his forehead hurt with strain.
"I'm not so sure that's true..." Aaron replied, doubt purposefully heavy in his voice.
It was true. Kind of. He was fine, really, just trying to catch up with his lungs. The signs of an impending panic attack were always quite obvious. His heart raced for no apparent reason, usually pounding at about 150 BPM. His chest heaved to catch up to his involuntarily fast heart-rate and his mind, his most prized possession of sorts, became foggy. Then, his extremities tingled. By the time the latter symptom occurred, he was already in the bathroom, just waiting it out.
His toes were numb, his hand paralyzed in a pinching motion where his pencil was once propped. His eyes felt puffy and twitched profusely. He was a mess, physically, but he was fine.
"How long have you been in here, Spencer?"
"'Bout ten minutes?" Spencer slurred. The tingling hugged his face as well, making him sound fresh off of Lidocaine. Hotch's heart constricted at Reid's voice.
"How about you come to my office. It won't be as cramped and you can sit on something softer than a toilet seat. Ill pull the blinds."
"No, no, it's okay. It's almost over anyway."
Hotch sighed. He knew Spencer would refuse, his mental and physical health making the top of a list of things he would never reveal to his team. It was his, as well as his co-workers', way of self-preservation and it would take years to disintegrate. Hotch knew this, and tried to take the first step to tearing down his walls anyway.
"Spencer, it's not an imposition. We've all had panic attacks before. We've all helped each other through them in dingy motel rooms. We don't need to talk, I just need to know you're letting your body rest after it ends."
There's no reply for several seconds. Hotch walked out of the room, his eyes lurching at the overhead lights.
Although relief was prominent in Spencer's chest as Hotch's footsteps softened, there was also and overwhelming amount of guilt at his feet. Someone had tried to care for him for the first time in years and he had used all of his effort to push it away. Logically, he had no reason to despise his actions; it was his choice to cope with what his mind dealt him, whether it be in a bathroom or his boss's office. But his mind wasn't running on logic, currently.
Spencer, with his foggy headspace, wasn't able to keep track of how long he was in the bathroom before, he too, regrouped enough to leave. He was incredibly embarrassed to be shuffling around a not-entirely empty federal building, but he deeply craved a comfort he hadn't felt in a long time, so he continued to shuffle. He slowly climbed the stairs to the office and fumbled with the doorknob, the use of his hands still compromised.
And...
The setup was nice. More than nice, despite its simplicity. It was thoughtful. A space heater sat adjacent to a gray couch with a folded blanket on its cushion. Steaming tea had been placed on a side table, probably Earl Grey if Spencer remembered correctly from the time he had seen the packets (he remembered). The only lighting consisted of a dim floor lamp set at the front of the room, to his left, and Hotch's LED desk lamp.
The latter illuminated some paperwork. And the person doing the paperwork.
"Hey." Hotch looked up, unsurprised to see Spencer had arrived.
"Hi."
"Take a seat," Hotch gestured toward the couch. "Do you want me to leave?" he continued, eyes returning to an open file.
"Hm? No, no. You don't have to- do that."
Spencer sheepishly unfolded the blanket and draped it around his shoulders before collapsing onto the couch.
Then he started crying.
He wasn't sure why. Maybe he was touched by Aaron's kindness. Maybe he was just really, really tired, perpetually tired, but attempts at subtly wiping his face were futile. Panic attacks didn't always bring tears but this one did. He didn't have the energy to feel mortified.
Hotch noticed immediately, but moved slowly.
"Hey," he said softly. His demeanor was now the antithesis of the one he held for sheriff's and detectives. It was open and relaxed and sad. He sat facing Spencer, less than an arm's length away from a shaking left shoulder.
"I'm sorry, I know it's dumb. I'm just- mm," Spencer was quick to defend his reaction, voice clipped, body sagging. Talking now took more energy than breath, so he abandoned an explanation quickly. His hands raised to wipe new sets of tears falling from clenched eyes.
Hotch's face screamed of concern, of pity without condescension. Of empathy.
"Spencer, no. It's not dumb. Or unprofessional," Hotch added, knowing Spencer was scrutinizing himself for his supposed carelessness. The older man truly didn't mind his subordinate's display of emotion. It was his goal to let the kid have an outlet for his emotions, after all. He admired the fact that Spencer had not had the time to completely close himself off from the affection of the world.
Hotch voiced as such, knowing Spencer needed to hear the reassurance, "And I apologize for profiling you a bit, here, but I know you're feeling weak. I know you're being reminded of your age and that being cared for makes you feel demeaned, but I truly envy your emotional vulnerability,"
Spencer enjoyed the way the man talked with his hands, no matter how subtle. The movement was something to focus on now that he had forced himself to squint. The concentration helped him absorb Hotch's words.
"This type of expression... It's tough, but necessary. It's a way of healing, even if the healing is an annoyance.
"Like you said, your body, your mind, is tired. This is just the way it's telling you without opting for sleep. Sleep is unreliable, at best."
Spencer's lips quirked at this, face turned to glance at Hotch occasionally. The two sat in silence for less than half a minute. Spencer broke the silence with a quiet,
"My face is wet."
Hotch rose his eyebrows, a substitute for a smile, and replied, "Yes, It is," knowing Spencer was reaching the point of 'okay-ish'.
He pushed himself up from the gray couch to grab the gray tissue box on his surprisingly rich, wooden desk. The desk must have been a gift.
Tissues were offered. A face was dried. In the midst of these actions Spencer huffed a laugh.
"What?" Hotch gave an accusing look, a whisper of a smile present.
"I can't believe you thought I would sit on a toilet seat."
Their smiles grew.
And so, a bittersweet tradition of panic attack recovery began. Spencer found himself in Hotch's office every so often, feeling more loved with each odd hand-massage he was given on the gray couch, wrapped in a gray blanket, sipping his Earl Grey tea.
He didn't feel that gray anymore.