The BAU office was unusually quiet that afternoon. It wasn't really silent keyboards were still clicking, papers rustling, someone coughing in the background but to Spencer, everything seemed muffled, as if the air itself had decided to lower its voice. He sat at his desk, back straight, reports lined up with almost obsessive precision.

Paperwork. Days and days of paperwork.

His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, transcribing data, dates, statistical conclusions he knew by heart. Homicides, patterns, recidivism rates. Clear information. Orderly. Secure. It was easier to concentrate on numbers than on anything else.

“Reid,” JJ said beside him, “can you check this table?”

Spencer felt it immediately, perhaps too quickly.

“Yes, of course, um... actually, there's a margin of error of 3.7 percent if we cross-reference these variables,” he replied, leaning toward the document with an enthusiasm that didn't quite fit.

He spoke well. He sounded like himself. Too much like himself.

As he explained, he realized he was playing with the edge of his sweater sleeve, pulling it and letting it go over and over. He forced himself to stop. He took a deep breath. No one seemed to notice. That was good. It had to be good.

He returned to his seat and continued writing. The words on the screen began to blur for a second. He blinked, adjusted his glasses, and cleared his throat softly. Maeve. The name popped into his mind without warning, like a variable he hadn't been able to eliminate from the equation. He remembered her voice, her face, the way she spoke to him before she was killed in front of him.

He closed his eyes for just a moment.

“I'm fine,” he murmured.

His hands trembled slightly before returning to the keyboard. No one looked up. Hotch was focused on his own work, JJ was reviewing a file, Morgan was joking quietly with Garcia. Normality remained intact. Spencer watched it like someone looking at a perfectly stable system of which he was no longer a part.

He brought his hand to his chest for a moment, squeezing the fabric of his sweater, then quickly lowered it, as if the gesture might give him away.

He didn't want to worry them.

So he smiled when someone walked by. A small, appropriate gesture.

And he returned to the paperwork, clinging to the data as if, this time, order could save him from what he was feeling.