The Care and Feeding of a Genius - Part Two (Part A)
The care and feeding of a genius - Part Two
(Part A)
"One of the strongest characteristics of genius is the power of lighting its own fire."
John W. Foster
Hotch watched as Reid’s eyes scanned the words in front of him frantically, and he knew that sooner or later, those eyes that were usually so expressive - even to the point of vulnerability - would darken with the fire of passion for knowledge, and all else would fall into shadow.
***
For a few moments, Reid’s eyes would reveal nothing except a frantic, burning desperation and victorious frustration as he began to grasp the information he knew was there all along, and to assemble it in the proper order. And it never seemed to be fast enough for Reid. The knowledge of its existence and order, and the fact that he had been so close from the moment he first read the case file agitated him, no matter how quickly he seemed to single-handedly break the case.
He would begin to babble, talk things through in a way that made sense only to him, and even as he emanated satisfaction at the falling together of all the puzzle pieces, the apparent constraints of his speech (too slow compared to his brain) annoyed him, made him restless.
And it was this agitation, this frustration and restlessness that motivated Reid. It was his fire, and it caused him to light up like one, his genius brilliant, bright and dazzling.
And completely uncoordinated, disorganised and clumsy. Utterly oblivious of the outside world and its constraints and norms.
Thinking back to a previous case, Hotch allowed a tiny smile to play across his lips, as he realised that JJ had summed it up perfectly for one of the local detectives. The other woman had raised her eyebrows at Reid as he had been fumbling with a first aid kit, having been burnt by the station’s coffee machine, and had doubtfully turned to JJ, “A genius, you say?”
JJ had simply smiled, and it was the smile that was sympathetic but indifferent to those who were unfortunate enough not to understand Reid, and had replied, “His coordination drops off when he’s thinking.”
His coordination wasn’t the only thing that suffered. His ability to breathe was severely impaired by the frantic, almost hysterical babbling that occurred whenever a flash of inspiration hit.
It was a process with several stages.
First, the original idea would come to Spencer. His eyes would slowly widen and then darken with all the possibilities held within the nugget of information that had just hit him. And it was at this point that he was completely and utterly oblivious to everything around him.
His body would go strangely limp, as if powering his body and his unique thought processes just could not be done at the same time. This would not surprise Hotch, as he had learnt a long time ago that Reid, in a very literal sense, saw things in a completely different way to most people.
During the Davenport case, the unsub had accused Reid of having ‘autistic leanings.’ Hotch would never dream of saying anything, because according to Gideon, this had genuinely agitated Reid. But he couldn’t help but wonder. Because he knew damn well that the way Reid visualised things, even something as simple as a crossword, differed greatly to the way most people visualised things.
And he knew that it was a well-documented fact that many individuals with autism saw the world from a completely different perspective. One that Reid seemed to share.
And when this perspective took over and revealed the answers, anything that Reid was doing or holding at the time would simply be forgotten. His limbs would relax, his face slacken, his eyes the only part of him moving, and his hands - nearly always holding a cup of coffee or pen - would uncurl passively, without even realising that they still gripped something. And it was Hotch’s unofficial but plainly understood duty to see to it that Reid did not scald his hands or break an expensive piece of equipment.
So he kept a close watch on Reid, looking at his eyes, and whenever the almost trancelike state began to slip over him, he would reach out and gently take away anything that Reid held in his hands. The younger man never even noticed that it had happened. Everybody and everything else simply ceased to exist for a few seconds.
He supposed the last time he had done that was the Rothchild case, when Reid happened to be holding a new and expensive-looking phone in his hands when inspiration hit. He had been leaning over Hotch, who had felt the increase of Reid’s breathing. Frowning slightly, not quite sure what was going on at first, he had turned, immediately assessed the situation, and had gently pried the phone out of those limp fingers, their owner as unaware as one at sleep.
The next stage was the complete opposite of the trance of inspiration. It was more of a flurry of frenzied activity. Reid would suddenly wake from his thinking, and would lunge for the papers and case files that usually surround them at that point. Reid was usually an organised person. One might even say slightly obsessive about neatness. But at these times, it was as though a mini hurricane was sweeping through the office, as he frantically pushed at, grabbed, rejected and threw to the floor every piece of paper containing relevant information.
And it didn’t stop there. Every few days, Reid’s desk could be found, without fail, to be a tip of paperwork and files, the result of a revolutionary idea. And the owner of said desk was unseen at first, as he would be sitting on the floor by now, still rifling through the discarded papers that had migrated to the ground surrounding his workstation.
Hotch thought of his surprise the first time he had visited Reid at home.
Morgan had answered the door, and Hotch had immediately begun to back away, not wanting to interrupt anything, but Morgan had given him an odd little smile and motioned him in.
Only to find Reid crawling around frantically on the paper-covered floor, muttering to himself, stopping every now and then to pick up a folder for consideration and then make a loud exclamation before throwing it behind his shoulder, completely oblivious of the papers flying noisily out of their container. Morgan would then patiently pick up the rejects, slotting them back into place on the shelving units. Hotch had stood there stunned for a moment before moving to help Morgan in his tidying duties. Reid paid him no mind, hadn’t even seemed to notice the doorbell ringing, and Hotch had leaned over to ask Morgan, “Does he even know that I’m here?”
The other man had simply given a wry, affectionate grin, and replied in a confidential undertone, “Hotch, he doesn’t even know that I’m here, man.”
***
Hotch now made it a habit to drop by Reid's apartment every Wednesday to clean up the almost inevitable mess. And he knew damn well that Morgan took every Friday.
***
TBC in part two. I’m sorry this is a bit confusing. Posting part one of two of the second part in a series? Yeah, sorry.