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chosendrankbubbles · 2 months ago

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Isolate

Spencer Agnew x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Mental health struggles, anxiety, depression, bipolar disorder, emotional vulnerability, self harm, loss of parent, medication mentioned, therapy and psych appointments mentioned (I have no idea if some of these need warnings but I’m gonna warn about them anywayyyy)

Description: Y/n struggles with bipolar disorder, and it takes a really bad day and feeling like all progress is gone for her to realize just how far Spencer is willing to go to help her through it all.

Author’s Note: It’s currently 3am, and I have proofread this damn fic so much that if it somehow is not perfect, idk what to tell y’all, but this has been in the works for three days, and I’m ready to upload and get it out of my brain so I can focus on my main fic. ENJOY! (Also not sure at all if this ended up copying over well from the site I use to write so bear with me lol)

°°°°

You lean against the wall, taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm your nerves. Tears well into your eyes as the last few minutes flash back into your head. Faces of the cast and crew, emotions mixed, fly across your memory. Angela’s scared face, Chanse's shock, Courtney and Shayne’s fear. Spencer’s worry, and the crew watching from the sidelines, horrified.

You had been doing so good, and now it feels like all of the progress is back to square one. For the first time in months, you felt like a monster, and thinking of how you just acted in the shoot makes your stomach hurt with guilt, and anger towards yourself. A pained and choked cry escapes your lips and you push yourself down the hall and you head towards your office.

“Hey, Y/N!” You hear from behind you, the voice calling for you coming from Angela.

You hear a chorus of your name from different people, and you ignore them, tears blurring your vision as you walk into your pod, grabbing your purse from its spot under your desk. You quickly gather everything, and as you step away from the desk, you feel yourself bump into someone.

Familiar hands grab your waist as you turn around. “Hey hey hey, wait for a second.” Spencer’s voice is low, concern coating each word. “Talk to me, please?” You stare down at your shoes, tears welling back up. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, still feeling haunted by the image of his shocked and concerned face just five minutes prior. “That’s okay, take a minute.”

He pulls you in closer, and you let yourself give in, hugging him back, moving your

head to his shoulder, facing away from him. His cologne wafts into your runny nose, and your tears fall freely, your body shaking with silent sobs. You feel your bag start to slip from your shoulder, but don’t have the energy to fix it.

Spencer pulls it from your shoulder, one of his arms unwrapping from you for a moment, and then wrapping back into place, tightening his hold on you. You take a few shaky breaths to try and calm yourself again, your energy now too low to want to keep crying. You wanted now more than ever to just go home and crawl into bed for the next calendar year.

There’s two ways these outbursts go, and make you feel. The depression route makes you want to crawl into bed and hide from the world and everything. It’s like your body is punishing you for the outburst, leaving you weak, and in a mentally dark place. Sometimes, anxiety races against depression in a sick race of mental health, and when it does, you become a risk, wanting to run away from everything and never look back. More often, though, depression tends to hit first, and harder.

Anxiety bubbles in your stomach as you remember the last outburst, and how Spencer had found you in bed, curled in a ball, fresh wounds on your arms, sticking out more than the scars on your skin, all reminders of the times you lost control over yourself, and just needed to feel something. You didn’t want him to have to experience something like that again.

“I’m sorry,” You finally say, your voice quiet as you turn to bury your face in his neck. “I was doing so good, and I just ruined everything.”

“That one moment doesn’t erase all of your progress.” He tells you. You step back slightly from the hug, and he looks into your eyes. You take in his features, and an odd, sinking feeling hits you with the force of a car crash.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with this,” I tell him. “I’m sorry Spencer.”

You pull away from his grasp, and head towards the doors. You didn’t have a plan, you just knew that you had to leave. Had to get away from Spencer. Maybe it was time to go home, get away from it all. Run away from it, your anxiety winning in its battle with the depression to control you.

You try to load Uber, but there isn’t one available for the next hour. Defeated, you sit outside of the Smosh building, your anxiety and the sinking depressive feeling fight for control, the grasp of reality slowly slipping away as you start to disassociate, both feelings maxing out and leaving you feeling stuck. Moments later, Spencer walks out, and it takes you a moment to notice him, snapping out of the disassociation. He puts his hands up and walks over slowly, your purse over his shoulder and your water bottle in one of his hands.

“I’m going to respect your space,” He says. “I just wanted to give you your stuff. Can you promise me one thing though?” His voice is gentle, and you can’t help but feel like a wounded animal. You reach up and he hands you your things, couching down to be more level with you on the ground. You look at him, but don’t make eye contact, waiting for him to say what he wanted you to promise him. “You aren’t going to hurt yourself or try to run?”

The question is one of the many the psychiatrist had suggested to him in these moments. Besides the appointments you did by yourself bi monthly, you would see your psychiatrist with Spencer, as a group effort to get better and learn more techniques to deal with the disorder. Bipolar isn’t curable, but Spencer had been stubborn and very committed to helping you with it the best he could. Thinking of how it affected him made you feel sick to your stomach, and you didn’t want him to have to worry about it anymore.

It felt like a lie, but you do your best to get it out in a non-suspicious way. “I won’t do anything risky or hurt myself,” I say, speaking to my feet.

“I love you Y/N,” He says, and you see him, in your peripheral, stand up. He walks away from you, fulfilling his promise to respect your space. You heart aches for him to come back, but you stay quiet, and do what you can to not watch him walk away.

You knew you had to get away from him, even if it killed you. He couldn’t be subjected to you and your disorder any longer. As much as you wanted to book the next flight to anywhere and just leave, you decide to go home, not having the energy to try and leave.

°°°°

It had been two days, and a knock on your door interrupted a session between you, your blankets, and your stereo, which had been playing every moment since you had gotten home the other day. You wanted to be alone, but noise helped keep you somewhat grounded in reality and not lose it further. Not having noise in the past made it seem like solitary confinement in your own head and thoughts, and that’s never a good experience. Movement makes your stomach rumble, your stomach contorting and twisting in anger as you walk over to the door and open it.

Two tall, younger looking officers stand in the doorway. You cringe, the light from the apartment hallway intense, and you look down at yourself. You stand in front of two cops, clad in a giant t-shirt that hangs just past the middle of your thighs, an old pair of boxers poking out from under the shirt. You immediately notice an odor you didn’t smell on yourself before, not noticing much about yourself or surroundings in these moments of disassociation. It feels like your senses start to wake up as you begin to feel the hair wrapped in a messy, half loosened bun on your head, a few greasy strands hanging around your face. You cringe as you rush back fully into reality.

“Y/N L/N?” One of the officers, a tall, blonde rookie asks.

You nod. “Yeah, that’s me.” Your voice sounds rough, and you notice your throat is sore, crying and lack of hydration the past few days being the catalyst.

“Hey, how are you feeling today Miss Y/N?” The officer asks, and you suddenly realize what the visit is about. “We got some people pretty worried about you, and asked us to come and check on ya.”

You nod, clearing your throat before you speak. “I’m okay, just been in here, trying to recoup,” You explain to them. “If you’d like to come in and check, I’m alone, there’s no danger, I’m safe.” These visits have happened in the past, family and friends wanting to check on you, but not being in a position to do so without the risk of making whatever feeling, be it depression or anxiety, worse and not be able to stop anything risky from happening.

The other officer, a shorter, bearded man with red hair shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary, you look to be safe, would you like EMS?” You shake your head. “Okay, just do us a favor and check in with your boyfriend and your dad, they both called pretty worried about ya.”

“Yes sir,” You tell him, and the two of them say their goodbyes and walk away from the door. You shut it and lean against it. A yawn stiffles from the depths of your body, and you stretch it out, coming up more out of your dissociation.

You head to the couch where you had been laying moments before, and grab your phone. Taking it out of do not disturb, hundreds of notifications flash across your screen, most being missed calls from your dad and Spencer, texts from the two of them, begging for a single response from you, and more notifications from your Smosh coworkers, attempting to check in with you. You hit a missed call notification from your dad, and put the phone to your ear, turning your stereo off as you passed it to go to the window.

“Y/N, thank god,” He answers. You comfort him, giving a brief explanation of what sent you into your depressive state.

It was a shoot for the games channel. The day had already started off on a bad foot, whatever could go wrong seeming to go wrong. You were tired and overstimulated. The rest of the cast had been yelling different conversations between each other, and you were trying to focus on the game, which was confusing in itself. You don’t remember exactly how it happened, but you remember the “God dammit,” erupting through the air, and the vile words you had spat about the game and the stupid arguments. You remember the faces of everyone as you step away from the table. Your jacket getting caught in your hissy fit, on the chair where you sat, and how you bounced back over, yanking your jacket and shoving your chair. The chair then hit the wall, the force of the impact knocking over a few of the controllers.

You continued to cuss as you walked away, your anger talking down everything around you in your path of self destruction. Everyone knows about your mental struggles, and they were aware that most of the things you end up spitting out in a rage induced moment isn’t to be taken to heart. Being a bystander in someone’s struggle is almost as hard as struggling yourself; it’s awkward, it’s scary, and it’s concerning, especially when there isn’t really much someone can do that wouldn’t cause the outburst to get worse.

You dad listens to the recollection of the outburst, not correcting, or shaming you for any of it. You promise him that you just took a few days to sleep and mentally recharge before doing any damage control. “I understand. Spencer called me and told me what he knew, and what he had seen, and he’s worried sick about you. Y/N, that boy really loves you. Let him.” You hear the pleading in his tone. The same disorder you struggled with was the same disorder that had taken your mom’s life almost ten years ago. Your isolation worries him, because her isolation killed her.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” You confess. “I’ve seen how it’s hurt him before, and I don’t want it to continue to hurt him.”

He gets quiet for a moment. “He’s more hurt right now,” He finally says, coating his voice to hide how intense the statement is. “I know how he feels right now, and it hurts more than anything. Give him a call, don’t cut him out, Y/N.”

You promise to call him, and you end your call with your father. Unsure of what to say, you walk around your apartment for a minute, trying to think of the words and taking in your surroundings, finally out of disassociation enough to notice the mess. While you try to gather your thoughts, you walk around, tidying up the place. There isn’t much to clean, the biggest mess being the kitchen, a half eaten bowl of cereal and wrappers from cheese sticks piling the counter and coffee table. There were some clothes on the floor from the night you left the office mid-shoot.

You had finished gathering all of the wrappers and the clothes, and still had not figured out what to say. Not wanting to make him wait anymore, you hit the call button, putting the phone on speaker and anxiously waiting. It barely rings once before he answers.

You hear him sigh in relief on the other line. “Y/N?”

“Hey,” You say. “Are you working right now?”

“No, I took the day off,” he says. He lets you guide the conversation, the line

growing quiet.

“Can you come over?” You ask. “Please?”

“Of course, do you need me to pick up anything?” He asks, and you hear a shuffle on the other line.

“Umm, yeah, I’ve kinda had a diet of cheese sticks and Go Gurt, and I think the last few days I’ve drank the same Dr Pepper,” confessing how the last few days had treated you is always hard.

“Okay, well, I’ll bring some stuff over. Please go drink some water,” he says, and you hear his keys jingling. “And take your meds.”

“I will, but don’t worry about rushing, I absolutely have to take a shower before you

get here,” You confess. While you talk, you walk towards the hall, getting into the hall closet and grabbing a few new towels.

“Okay, text me when you get done in the shower and I can head over,” He says. You both agree on a plan and you end the call. You start your music, scrolling to pick a playlist with better, more positive vibes. You take a water bottle from the fridge, and take your meds. You open some of the windows to air out the space and turn on the wax melter that sits on the counter in the kitchen. Before you go to the bathroom to get in the shower, you strip your depression clothes off, throwing them straight into the washer and grab a fresh set of clean, cozy clothes.

You rip through your hair with a brush, brush your teeth, and nearly scrub your skin

off in the shower, trying to erase the stink of the last few days. Once ensuring you had smelt like your favorite body wash and that your hair is clean, you hop out of the shower, shooting Spencer a text before getting dressed and wrapping your hair up in a towel.

Not long after the text, Spencer knocks on the door. You open it, and he steps in, juggling stuff. Quickly, he sets stuff down on the kitchen counter just inside of the apartment door, and snatches you up into a hug.

“I’m sorry,” He says into your hair. You shake your head at the apology, hugging

back, stepping so close to him you nearly fall into him. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

You move to look at his face. He puts his forehead against yours, his blue eyes locking in with yours, tears welling into the corners of his icy orbs. “Spencer,” you begin, seeing his tears bringing on your own. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I’m sorry I cut myself off from you. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it anymore, I didn’t know what to do but I just didn’t want you to have to be hurt from it anymore.”

“I was so worried,” He says, his lip quivering with a sob as he breaks down. Seeing him in this state broke your heart, you wanted to make it all go away. You hated when he hurted, especially when you were the cause of it. In that moment, you finally understood.

Just how seeing Spencer feeling this way, and you wanting to take it away, he feels the exact same way about you and how you feel. That’s why he does everything he can to help you, so you don’t feel the lows so aggressively. It’s the reason he drives you to every psychiatrist appointment, keeps extras of all of your meds at his apartment. Why he always checks and makes sure, or reminds you to take your meds. It’s why he reminds you of your progress and celebrates the smallest wins, and tells you that he’s proud of you. Even in times where it seemed nothing helped, he stayed by your side, or took the time off to be there as soon as you called for him.

You hug him to you, and he holds you close, burying his face into your neck and pulling you into him as much as possible. “Come here for a second.” You pull him towards the hallway, pulling him to the bedroom. You move to lay on the bed, and he moves with you, laying on the bed and facing you. Gently, you take your thumb and wipe the tears from his face. He takes a few deep and shaky breaths, calming himself.

“I love you,” You say after a moment of looking at each other. “A lot. Thank you for sticking with me, and loving me.”

“I couldn’t imagine a world where I couldn’t love you,” he says. “I’ll always stick with

you.” He looks at you, flashing a mischievous grin before pretending to magnetically connect to you, knocking his head lightly into yours. The absurdity of the motion makes you laugh. The sound is music to his ears, and it feels good, feeling like a rush of relief for you, like a light at the end of a very dark and depressing tunnel.

“You’re so corny,” you say, still giggling as you lean into his arms more. In that moment, it was what the two of you needed, more than ever.

#spenceragnew #spencer agnew x reader #smosh #fanfiction #one shot

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