A/N: Hey, everybody! This work contains internalized ableism, non-specific references to meltdowns, and a brief reference to canon-typical violence. Hope you enjoy!

Reid paused at the door to Gideon's office.

He didn't want to bother Gideon with something unimportant. This could be important. He didn't want to waste his time. This is anything but a waste of time.

Okay, he was nervous.

How Gideon reacted to what he was about to say would determine the course of his entire future. Maybe you don't have to tell him, you've been doing fine so far, you're under no obligation...

No. He needed to know.

Reid took a deep breath and knocked on the door. "Excuse me?" he called.

"Come in," said Gideon, and Reid did. "Please, sit down."

Gideon was seated at his desk. As Reid sat down, Gideon leaned forward. "What brings you here?" he asked.

"Um... what the unsub said about me, in the Trish Davenport case? Well, really what he said about you, but it had to do with me—" Reid broke off.

"Yes?" said Gideon, who Reid was fairly certain knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Well... it's true. I am autistic," Reid said, looking anywhere but at Gideon. "Does that bother you?"

"Reid, you work in the behavioral analysis unit," said Gideon. "I know. Everyone on this team knows. And no, it doesn't bother me, or anyone else as far as I'm aware."

Reid blinked. "Really? E-everyone knows?" he stammered. "And—it doesn't bother anyone? But—"

"Should it?" asked Gideon.

"Well—you said it yourself, I think inside the box..."

"And you make connections none of the rest of us would make in a million years because you see patterns we don't. Yes, the scope of your thinking is sometimes too narrow—but if I were to fire everyone on this team who had a flaw in their thinking that affected their work, I'd be out seven people. We all have our weaknesses—and we all have our strengths, as well."

"Thank you," said Reid. "I'll just—get back to work then."

Reid stood and started to move towards the door. When he had nearly reached it, Gideon's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Have you ever had a meltdown at work?"

"Excuse me?" said Reid, turning around with his hand still on the doorknob.

"You know what I said," said Gideon, waving Reid over. "C'mon, sit back down. If you know you're autistic, you know what a meltdown is. Have you ever had one at work?"

"I can do this job," Reid bristled.

"That I'm not questioning," Gideon said gently. "I just need to know."

"No," said Reid. "Or even at school, not since I was a kid."

"But you do have them?"

Reid took a deep breath. "Yes."

"Makes sense," said Gideon. "You bottle it all up until it's safe and appropriate to let it out. That's good. But this job is high-stress even for people who don't have a mental disorder, and you need to be prepared for the possibility that your usual coping mechanisms will break down."

Slowly, Reid nodded. "What do I do?"

"I'm guessing you do it already," said Gideon. "Wherever you go, you know where all the places are where you can be alone, right? Single-user bathrooms, that sort of thing?"

"Yes," said Reid.

"If you're ever at work and you feel a meltdown coming on," said Gideon, "get yourself somewhere safe. If I don't happen to be in the middle of something, let me know, but if I am don't worry about it. Don't worry about missing things, the team'll fill you in. And definitely don't try to go out in the field if you think you might be close to a meltdown. If it happens in the office, you'll be fine, but if it happens in the field, we could have problems."

"I know," said Reid. "About the letting you know part of what you just said..."

"Yes?"

"When I'm about to have a meltdown," said Reid, fidgeting uncomfortably, "my ability to speak tends to be... minimal to nonexistent." He paused. "I mean, I don't really know, because I haven't had a meltdown with anyone else around for years, but that was my past experience."

"Okay," said Gideon. "Can you use a hand signal?"

"That should work," said Reid. "Like this?" He brought his fingertips together into a point, held his hand at chest level, then popped his fingers open.

"Fairly subtle, yet unmistakable," said Gideon. "That works."

"Thank you," said Reid. "I have work to do now, so I should leave..."

"Close the door on your way out," said Gideon, "and feel free to come back anytime you want to talk about the other reason you came here."

Slowly, Reid turned around once again and sat back down.

"Do you think there's something wrong with me?" he asked. "In your professional opinion."

"If I did, you wouldn't be working here," said Gideon. "What do you think is wrong with you?"

"I just—" Reid broke off. "I don't feel things the way normal people do. And—I do feel things, but how I feel things isn't right. And we work with so many people who don't feel things the normal way and do horrible things because of it, and I just can't help but wonder if it takes one to know one." Reid was once again staring determinedly at the wall.

Gideon half-smiled. "What are you saying about this entire team?" he said.

"No!" Reid exclaimed. "Not the rest of you! Just—"

"Just you," said Gideon, pulling out a large book, flipping to a dog-eared page and placing it on the desk. "DSM-IV, PTSD, criterion C, four through six for me, will you?"

"Um, 'markedly diminished interest or participation in significant activities', 'feeling of detachment or estrangement from others', and 'restricted range of affect, e.g. unable to have loving feelings'," said Reid.

"You're not the only one who feels things differently," said Gideon.

Reid nodded.

"But that's just it," he said. "You guys, you've seen so much. It makes sense you'd feel differently than most people do, you've had to learn to, to get by. I'm brand new at this, and I—I should feel more. I shot someone a few days ago, and—I'm fine. And—all the stuff we see—it doesn't bother me. I know it should, but it doesn't."

"Well, that just means you're in the right line of work," said Gideon. "Some people have a harder time with this stuff than others; you're one of the ones who finds it easier to cope with. And about the man you shot, I'll tell you the same thing I told you then-not knowing what you're feeling is different from not feeling anything at all." He paused. "Reid, do you know how many people with mental disorders-of any kind-there are in the United States?"

Reid blinked at this apparent non sequitur. Still, he trusted that Gideon knew what he was talking about. "Approximately forty-three point eight million in a given year," he said. "That's around one in five."

"And do you know what the rate of violent crime is among that population?"

"Well, it varies by disorder, and whether the person also has a substance abuse disorder, and whether they're being effectively treated..."

"But what's the bottom line?"

"The vast majority of people with mental disorders aren't violent, and are in fact more likely to be the victims of violent crime than the perpetrators."

"That's right," said Gideon. "We deal with the minority. People call us in when there's a violent offender they can't understand, and often that means mental illness of some sort. So we forget. We're so busy trying to catch the people like them that we forget about the people like you."

"Like me?" asked Reid.

"Ordinary people whose minds don't work the same as everyone else's, just trying to get on with their lives. And we have to focus on the minority-it's our job. So we have to forget. But every now and then, it might not hurt us to remember." He paused. "There's nothing inherently wrong with thinking or feeling differently. There are lots of ways to be in the world that don't hurt anyone, and I'm very confident yours is one of them. In fact, I'm willing to bet yours is going to help a lot of people."

"Thank you," said Reid. He smiled. "Okay. Now I'm actually leaving."

"Best of luck with your paperwork," said Gideon.

"Shouldn't be too hard," said Reid as he opened the door.

"Of course not," said Gideon as Reid stood in the doorway. "You need anything else, you can come by. And don't forget what I said."

"I won't," said Reid, walking out the door and closing it behind him.

Reid took a deep breath.

Then he went back to his desk to finish his paperwork.

A/N: Hello again! Hope you liked my fic! Leave me a review if you did?