Chapter Text
“ It will become fine dust over all the land of Egypt, and will become boils breaking out with sores on man and beast through all the land of Egypt. ” Exodus, 9:9
As one of the nation’s most skilled profilers, Spencer Reid traveled quite a bit. Police departments nationwide demanded his unique skillsets to crack some of their toughest, most gruesome criminal cases, and his sleep schedule reflected that. He could barely remember the last time he had gotten a solid eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Between the jet lag and the constant nightmares he tried his best to suppress, he rarely got a good night's rest – nowadays, he operated on a skewed ratio of sleep, coffee, and sugar. His circadian rhythm had given up after years of near-constant travel, so he opted instead to catch any sleep whenever he could.
As such, he was thrilled to learn their next case was right here in DC. Over the years, he realized that working and living in the same area was a blessing. He always looked forward to the opportunity to sleep in his own bed between days of investigation whenever their cases were in the DC area. He might even be able to catch a few winks in the quiet of Garcia’s office – the woman always had a blanket waiting for him. If he was lucky, he might even be able to complete the paperwork from home with nothing but a cup of homebrewed coffee and some calming recordings of Carl Sagan’s lectures to keep him company.
The comforts of having home-field advantage certainly amplified his ability to work, but he always knew in the back of his mind that it meant people were getting hurt in his neighborhood. His moral compass had grown accustomed to balancing the distaste and delight at the prospect of a local case. He often wondered if he was becoming like Hotch – jaded, unsmiling, quiet. But such thoughts could not occupy his brain for long when his dysphoria was as intense as it was.
He had gotten the text about the case early in the morning. The sun had barely risen over the horizon when the text alert jarred him from his restless slumber. Dust motes floated through a small beam of early sunlight when he wearily groped for his phone on the cluttered nightstand, the surface covered with a fine layer of dust from a lack of use. He squinted blearily at the screen – as far as he could tell, Hotch’s tone was about as urgent as it always was, so he didn't feel the need to scurry around the apartment and scoop bare essentials into his go bag.
He slung his skinny legs over the side of the bed, smiling softly at the pleasurable texture of the fuzzy rug between his toes. He wrinkled his nose at his foul breath as he yawned, stretching his willowy frame every which way and cracking his joints. He winced at the soreness of his chest, residual discomfort from years of binding with improper technique during his adolescence making his muscles twitch and jerk uncomfortably. Blearily, he buried all thoughts of bodily discomfort and envisioned the coffee maker and his quirky collection of mugs, saliva coating his tongue at the thought of some nice, warm coffee-
His blood froze to ice when he felt slick beads of liquid slide down his inner thigh when he stood up, any train of thought that had started to board in his mind vaporizing in an instant when that familiar stab of nausea and cramping gripped his abdomen.
No, please, no.
He swallowed deeply, his breath hitching as he quickly and gawkily waddled to the bathroom, trying to keep his legs closed tight. He flung the door open, dust shuddering off its frame, and frantically looked for his reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of the door.
Blood dripped down his inner thigh, glistening in the stark, fluorescent light.
Fuck.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” he mumbled to himself, darting to the toilet and yanking off a long strand of toilet paper. He stared in disgust at the bloody wad of paper clutched in his spindly fingers moments later, waves of complicated emotion stewing deep in his sore chest.
It had been a while since he had gotten a period. A long, long while.
With a sigh of exhausted defeat, he tossed the tissue into the bowl. Angrily, he scrubbed his face with his hands, taking deep breaths as he tugged on the roots of his hair, his bony elbows digging into his knees. That deep, familiar pang of dysphoria clawed at his mind, sending hot, snaking tendrils of disgust throughout his body, moving through his bloodstream like caustic quicksand. He felt like he was sinking, drowning in that impenetrable sea of negative thoughts that his quick mind was so adept at conjuring.
I knew I shouldn't have skipped doses, he thought reprimandingly. His endocrinologist had warned him to take his testosterone shots regularly since his very first appointment. Reid had raced to the nearest gender therapy clinic as soon as he was of legal age, chasing any opportunity to finally make his mind match his body. Since then, he had become a master at giving himself the hormone shot in his upper thigh and had adhered to his injection schedule religiously for almost a decade.
Logically, he knew it was a medicine he had to take for the rest of his life, but the thought of his regular testosterone shots had started to conjure up gruesome memories that made him feel sick. Needles beckoned grisly imagery he tried to lock deep into the darkest corners of his mind. But each time he drew the thick liquid into the syringe, he remembered that horrific night in that freezing shed with Tobias Hankel, those shameful weeks of shooting up in the bathroom that followed, his secret stint at a rehab facility he had used all his vacation days for, and the grueling narcotics anonymous meetings he still attended.
Every time he poised that testosterone needle over his thigh, he would remember the giddy rush of opiates his addictive brain ravenously craved to this day, and disgust and panic would stew deep in his gut. And so, he had skipped a dose or two. No big deal. On some dosing days, he could quell the bad memories, but on others, he just wasn’t strong enough to push that needle through his skin. Besides, he had faced menstrual periods before and survived, right?
He did not know if he could survive a run-in with Dilaudid again.
He shook his head fiercely and took a shuddering breath, focusing on the cold tile beneath his feet to ground himself. His hands trembled as he cleaned himself up, and he took steadying breaths as he averted his eyes from the carnage below. He reached up and clawed open the medicine cabinet, frantically digging around for anything that could stem his flow.
After scattering half the cabinet's contents across the floor, he withdrew a singular, crinkled pantiliner wrapped in bright pink paper. It lay sadly in his hand like a fading memory in a dusty scrapbook. It was a testament to his ability to completely forget he was physically capable of menstruating if he didn't administer his hormone prescription correctly. It was also a testament to his inability to even remotely plan ahead when it came to his personal needs. Sure, he could map out a geographical profile before the jet had taken off, and he could definitely make sure the kitchenette in the BAU had enough of everyone’s favorite coffee or tea in stock, but God forbid he had the forethought to make sure he had some fucking pads in his own goddamn house-
He hadn’t realized how quick and shallow his breathing had gotten until he could barely hear the sharp ring of his cell over the blood pounding in his ears. In a panic, he hiked up his boxers and shuddered as the cold, wet spot of blood in the fabric pressed against his tender skin. He stumbled into the bedroom, tripping onto the bed and clawing at his phone to puff out a hasty greeting to whoever was on the other end.
“Morning, pretty boy,” a smooth voice purred, “where you at?”
Reid sputtered, eyes opening wide and heart hammering in his chest. He was completely unprepared to hear Derek Morgan’s low voice over his phone this early in the morning, especially when he was bleeding all over his boxers. Even though he knew the man was nowhere nearby, he blushed in shame, clutching a blanket to his skinny frame.
He hated how some of that blush was because of that stupid, godawful pet name Morgan had started using-
“Reid? Hello?”
“Uh, hi,” Reid stammered, grimacing at the bloodstain on his sheets before struggling to his dresser and digging through his underwear drawer, “I’m at home, why?”
“Well, get that big brain of yours to the BAU,” Morgan replied, his tone losing its cheeky spark with every word, “It’s about to get pretty crazy over here.”
Reid paused, shuffling his phone into the crook of his shoulder as he hastily changed into some more pad-appropriate underwear, squashing the swell of disgust in his chest at the feminine fit, “What d’ya mean?”
The agent on the other line went quiet for a moment, as if deliberating.
“Can’t say on the phone,” Morgan murmured in an urgent undertone, “But it’s…it’s bad, man.”
Reid froze. Few things made the talkative agent unable to elaborate on a case, and none of them were ever very good. “Oh.”
He could almost picture Morgan rubbing a worried hand over the stubble that lined that shapely jaw of his, gritting his perfect white teeth. “Have you left yet?”
Reid swallowed, looking around his messy bedroom and picking at his sweaty undershirt. “Almost, why?”
“Hang tight. I’m gonna come grab you.”
Fear filled Reid’s chest like boiling water. Of all people, Morgan couldn’t see him like this. He flew to the bathroom and snatched the ratty pantiliner off the sink. “No! That’s OK, I’m fine. I’ll catch the bus-”
“I really don’t want you going into any public places right now, Reid.” Morgan interrupted in a strained whisper, his tone gentle but offering no room for argument.
“Why not?” Reid demanded indignantly, adjusting the pantiliner and trying to ignore the murmurs of dysphoria in his ear.
He heard Morgan grumble. “I’ll tell you later, I just need you to trust me, OK?”
Reid sighed and pinched his nose, frustration gnawing at the corners of his voice. “I won’t be able to change your mind, will I?”
He could almost taste Morgan’s annoyingly perfect, cheeky smile, could nearly picture those charming dimples. “No, you won’t, pretty boy. I’ll be there in twenty.”
Morgan hung up before Reid could even respond.
Reid’s cheeks felt warm. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and touched his face, annoyed to find it was flushed a bright red. He tried to hide it, deeply worried about how that stupid nickname the agent had been using recently could get him blushing like a teenager on a first date. The name had cropped up around the time Reid had cut his hair, and it had stuck in the doctor’s mind much more than he cared to admit. Realistically, he knew Morgan probably meant nothing by it — it was just one of the many nicknames the man gave to people he liked. Everyone at the BAU had one.
But his powerful brain always sputtered to a halt whenever it left the agent’s lips, his overly caffeinated heart beating somehow faster at the thought of the name’s subtle potential. God knows how often he dared to dream that there was something more behind it, that the BAU’s resident charmer and pretty face could somehow have any sort of interest in his gawky, socially awkward self. Yet somehow, despite all logical thought telling him to be pessimistic, he couldn’t fight the grin blooming on his face.
He was smiling giddily at himself for about a minute before the gravity of his situation hit him. As if burned, he shot out of the bathroom and flew around the apartment, a hot fire of nausea, anxiety, and cramps clawing at his guts as he scurried to get ready.
His already untidy apartment fell into further disarray as he frantically dug around for his favorite slacks and an oversized sweater, the ones he always wore when the mirror told him his hips were too broad and his chest was too noticeable. He grimaced as he shimmied into yesterday’s still-damp binder, wishing he had a clean, dry one on hand.
The whisper in the back of his head grew louder when he saw his reflection. He itched to adjust, to pick and shift until the area was perfectly flat. But having a slightly rounder chest was much better than being fully exposed when Morgan came over. A darker part of him wanted to bitterly laugh at the idea of Morgan being completely shocked at the sight, but that sneering voice of dysphoria was already working hard to convince him that his secret was out at the BAU and everyone was merely tolerating him.
Reid would take his secret to the grave if he had a choice. But much to his anxiety’s chagrin, the BAU’s very job was to uncover secrets, and he had some extraordinarily nosy coworkers. He knew they all had an unwritten policy of not profiling each other, but they were human, subject to curiosity. If any of them knew or thought ill of him for it, they hid it well. Even still, Reid worried the team had figured him out and were simply using him for his skills while secretly loathing him as a person.
But if Morgan, all charm, cheek, and chauvinism, invaded his home and found out about him right when Reid had finally earned his respect, he’d have no hope of doing anything about the massive, all-consuming crush he had been grappling with for the past few months—
With his toothbrush hanging from his mouth, he froze and frantically wondered if he had time to do his daily shower before that snarky agent could barge in. He really needed to get rid of that rank body odor, and he needed some semblance of a routine to stay sane. But nothing about today was proving predictable.
As if on cue, a clot of blood plopped onto the pantiliner fighting for its life in his underwear.
He thunked his head against the medicine cabinet and pushed a strained sigh through tightly gritted teeth. Hot tears started to prick in his eyes. Today was really getting off to a great start.