A/N: Hello there :D. There will be no pairings. There will be a case [Pfft…!]. This is post JJ-departure, but Seaver and Doyle do not exist. Please do enjoy.

Warnings: A lot of violence. And excessive use of musical terminology at times :D

The pleasure we obtain from music comes from counting, but counting unconsciously. Music is nothing but unconscious arithmetic. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz

Dissonant

I

Muscles straining, he lethargically sloughed off the last few trying hours from the most recent case, pushed open his front door, and walked into his apartment, instantly groaning when he turned on the light. Contrary to his teammates beliefs, his apartment wasn't shelved with books (what need was there for them, after all, when he could close his eyes, pull out any book from his mind, and open its pages to read every word?). Instead, the apartment was strewn all over with papers, notebooks, text books, and clothes. The last thing he wanted after their most recent case was to sit in a messy apartment. Looking at everything, the headache currently troubling him doubled in its intensity.

This was not how I wanted to spend my Thursday night. With that thought, he checked his watch and groaned again, resigned to his obligation. It was only six in the evening, and if he went to sleep now, he wouldn't wake up until tomorrow morning. His migraines tended to send him into a deep state of unconsciousness. So, he set about cleaning his apartment. He went to the kitchen first, turned on his coffeemaker, and while it brewed, he cleaned the counter, the sink, the table, and was rewarded ten minutes later with a nice mug of coffee. He put some ice in it and drank it down as quickly as he could, barely able to enjoy its taste. After settling the mug into the sink (and reassuring himself that he would clean it!), he went to his stereo and turned it on.

Two hours and a much cleaner apartment later, after gaining some much needed energy from his caffeine fix, he sat on his favored flourish-designed couch and rested his head back, closing his eyes. The music was weaving through the pleasure center of his brain, and images danced in the darkness, but it helped to bring down his headache to a dull thump instead of the usual staccato of equestrianesque gallops.

He truly loved classical music more than any other type of music.

When they'd returned from the case involving Sammy Sparks, he brought an electric keyboard, making it his goal to play it every night for at least a half hour if he wasn't away on a case, and play certainly did. He decided that after so many years of wanting to get involved with an instrument, he was only hindering himself intellectually by not tapping into his desire. People who played instruments were disciplined, and quite in tune (pardoning the pun) with the environment in ways that other people couldn't understand.

Granted, Spencer's world was never a dull experience. It didn't take him very long to realize when he was younger that he was a synesthet, more so with numbers, number groupings, and the like. It was something that greatly aided his memory. But he could also see sound, which he kept to himself out of some type of fear. Unfortunately, he never had the time—or rather the pleasure—to venture in the creative process of his synesthesia.

After the Spark's case, on thinking of JJ's departure, Spencer realized that he wanted to contribute something else to the world. After he completed his degree in philosophy, he wanted to study music in greater depth.

However, it was two months after he'd gotten the keyboard, and he was met with a wall of resistance. Despite music being mathematics, despite the fact that he could memorize the music with incredible tonal clarity, and despite the fact that he'd gotten the basics figured out, there was one thing that prevented Spencer Reid from advancing. And as obsessive as he was, he quickly became addicted to playing the piano, so this obstacle was rather frustrating.

This problem followed him like a wraith from his childhood:

When Spencer was a child, his father had enrolled him into a little league team. Physics could make the game much easier, ideally. There was an arc, there was an applied force. There was gravity. But he'd be damned if he could ever hit that ball. The one time that he swung too hard, the bat went flying from the tips of his little fingers and hit an innocent bystander. It was a disaster, and rather discouraging because he missed the ball anyway. His father tried again with soccer a year and a half later. Once again, simple physics could make the game so easy. But he was so uncoordinated and clumsy. Numerous times, he was very closely acquainted with Mother Earth, and it wasn't because someone tripped him. He tripped himself.

In college, one of his nicknames was Weedy Reid.

Years later, Aaron Hotchner taught him to aim, shoot, and follow through numerous times.

The inevitable truth of the matter was that no matter how much sense Spencer Reid could make out of these things, no matter how much he could break them down and then use mathematics to figure out how to attain his goal, his motor skills were close to nil. Therefore, being dexterous with the piano was a problem for him. Mathematics be damned, he just couldn't play well.

Resolutely, he sat straight, turned off his stereo, and walked to his keyboard at the corner of the room, sitting down in front of it. The music he'd just heard was ever fresh in his mind, and he wanted to play it.

Alas, he couldn't.

"Curses," Reid mumbled under his breath before standing. He walked over to his desk, turned on his computer, and then opened the internet to start his search, mission-based.

Piano Lessons near Adams Morgan, DC.

-Dissonant-

"Hey Reid, lemme borrow one of your pens," Morgan said, coming up behind Reid sitting at his desk.

Reid sat up from his paperwork and threw Morgan a humorously dubious, thin-eyed glare. "Morgan, the term borrow indicates that something will be returned."

Morgan grinned and rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh.

"You have yet to return the 3 pens I've 'let you borrow' this month alone," the brunet continued with a thin smile.

Morgan threw up his hands in surrender. "Okay, kid, okay. Let me rephrase it: Can I have a pen?"

Reid gave his comrade a thoughtful look, tapping his pen against his lip mischievously. "I don't know, Morgan. 3 pens in one month, and 97 since I started working here? That's quite a bit. You sort of owe me lunch."

"Oh god, Reid," Prentiss interjected. "Please stop torturing him. Morgan, if you need a pen, I have one. But seriously? Start shopping at Staples or something."

"Why do I feel like I'm in high school all over again?" Morgan asked with a laugh. He took the pen from Prentiss that was extended to him, and then turned to Reid. "I'm gonna remember that kid," he said jokingly, hitting Reid atop his head with the pen.

Reid grinned and then turned back to his desk. "You're gonna be asking me again on Monday," he murmured lightly, before returning to his work.

"Unlikely, kid," Morgan said, sitting at his desk.

Reid plotted his operation for Monday morning, which would inevitably force his comrade to ultimately come to him for a pen. Oh, it would be sweet…

-I-

Another hour or so later, Reid furtively reached into his bag and pulled out a list from the front pocket. He stood up and headed to Garcia's office. Knocking on the door, he heard from the inside what sounded like a playful, "Enter if you dare."

Reid stepped into the office.

The blonde woman turned and gave Reid and large smile. "Hey there, muffin! Here to say hello to me?"

Reid smiled at her before producing his list. "I was, ah, wondering if you could do me a favour, actually." At Penelope's pout, he stuttered, "Uh, hi."

"Anything for you sweet cheeks. Name it," Garcia said, giving him her full attention. She wrinkled her nose at him when he shuffled to her desk like child wanting to sneak into homeroom late. "My, I just want to eat you up sometimes," she said, punctuating the words with a poke to his torso.

Unable to think of a proper reaction, Reid just awkwardly gave her the list. "Okay, so, could you just check to see if any of these guys have a record on them?" he asked.

"I don't remember briefing you guys on a case," Garcia murmured, tilting her head thoughtfully.

"Ah, no, it's not for a case," Reid retorted quickly.

"Oho, sneaky, sneaky!" Garcia said excitedly, waving her feathery pencil at him. "Aren't you being adventuresome!" She opened up the given program and typed in the first of the names.

"Not really," Reid said, looking over her shoulder.

"Pull up a chair!" Garcia said, smacking Reid in the arm. "I don't like when people hover!" Reid smiled and then sat next to her. "So, Charles Hibren, age 63, lives in Foggy Bottom. Record's clean," she started, and then went down the list.

After going through the nine people on the list, Garcia pointed her pencil at him accusingly, tickling his nose with the tip. "Who are these people, Reid?"

"Oh, ah…" Reid started. He didn't quite want to tell anyone that he'd started playing piano and he wanted lessons. For some reason, he just knew that he would never hear the end of it from Morgan. He could already imagine what nicknames the other agent would come up with:

Autotune. Eb n' Ive. Hammerhead. Baby Grande. The man was rather inventive about these types of things (when in actually, Reid's imagination was inventive). He shivered.

The agent fumbled out a lie: "They're just some, ah, guys that I, er, met at a conference…"

"Reid. I am one of five. I learned how to lie. Besides, when you lie—" she poked his forehead with her finger, "you have the words 'I stole the cookie from the cookie jar' written all over your cute face."

Reid rubbed his forehead and let out a chuckle, tilting his head. "From the cookie jar?" he asked.

"Yeah, you know…" Garcia started.

"Um…" His eyebrows knotted up.

"Oh my god, Reid. Sometimes I just want to whisk you away and give you a different childhood."

Reid smiled at her and grabbed the list from her desk. "Thanks," he said. "For this," he punctuated, flashing the list for a moment, before folding it and putting it in his pocket. "I'll see you later, Garcia."

"Bye, muffin," Garcia said before the door closed. She then pouted. "What oh what is the world coming to when little Reid tries to lie to moi?" She tutted and then turned back to the work she'd been doing before.

-I-

Reid looked down at the list in his hand while sipping on some coffee. Two of these piano teachers had previous records, though minor. He put a long slash through their names before looking over at his clock. He'd considered where these piano teachers lived, and he'd decided that of the seven remaining people, he would only contact three of them. The other four lived a bit too close to or too far from him, and he wanted a moderate distance between himself and the piano teacher.

He looked around the office for a quick moment, saw that neither Morgan nor Prentiss were around, and picked up his phone, dialing the first number that came to his head from the list.

"Abe Everton."

"Ah, hi. My name is Spencer and I was wondering about your piano lessons."

"What would you like to know?"

"I'm just curious as to whether you'd be willing to teach on off hours or not. Your schedule says your availability is only Monday through Thursdays from 10-4."

"And that's the way it stays."

"Oh. Er…okay. Even if I'm willing to—"

"Monday through Thursday, 10-4!"

"Ah, okay. H-have a good—" Reid pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. "Well then…" he murmured briskly, taking his pen and putting a slash through the name. The next person that he called had a similar, gruff attitude, and by the time he looked at the last name on the list, he gave a sigh of resignation. The odds were against him, but he picked up the phone either way to call the last person.

He didn't do well with rejection. This could very well ruin his day.

"Wiesel residence. Leonard speaking."

The man had a very thick, pronounced German accent. "Ah, hello. My name is, ah, Spencer and I was, er, a bit curious about your piano lessons."

"Mmhmm? Regarding?"

"Well your availability is Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, but are you willing to, ah, to teach on another day…if it's at all possible? Or 'after hours' so to speak?" Reid asked.

"Mm, I do, from time to time," the man responded.

Reid sat up in his seat. "Oh. Are Saturdays possible?" he asked.

"How old are you?" Leonard asked.

"Ah, 29?" Spencer answered, unsure of why his age was relevant.

"Ah, a working man, mm? Yes, I am willing to provide lessons on another day, but I do ask for a supplement."

"Great! That's…" Reid lowered his voice when he saw Prentiss walk into the bullpen towards her desk. "That's great. Er, so, are Saturdays fine?" he asked again.

"Mm, yes. What level are you?"

"I'm a…Hmm. A beginner, I suppose."

The man murmured something in German. "Does one o'clock sound good?"

"Oh, that's actually perfect. Would it be too ambitious if I asked if you're available tomorrow?" Reid asked excitedly.

"Not at all, my boy. You can certainly come by tomorrow."

"Ah, thank you, Mr. Wiesel."

"Good, good. See you tomorrow, then."

Reid hung up the phone and leaned back into his chair, grinning.

"What's gotten you so excited, Reid," Prentiss asked with a smile, sitting at her desk.

Reid shook his head and cleared his throat. "Nothing," he said, trying to hide his excited smile.

Prentiss gave him an unconvinced grin and smiled. "Uh huh. You can't hide it from me for too long. You look like you just won first prize at the science-fair."

Reid shrugged his shoulder and turned back to his work, trying to hide his grin.

-Dissonant-

Shutting his car door, Reid walked toward the house of Leonard Wiesel excitedly. The white house was settled at the end of a large cul-de-sac, so it wasn't secluded, but it wasn't in the middle of everything, either. He knocked on the door, and it opened a few seconds later. "Oh…uh, hi," he said to the young girl—perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age—who'd opened the door.

"Hi, I'm Natasha," the girl said before letting Reid in. "Grandpa's in the bathroom. You can sit in the living room if you want."

Reid thanked the young girl and she led him into the living room before heading to the kitchen. Natasha, hm? That was a Russian name. He was sure Mr. Wiesel was German. Strange. He walked over to the piano and stared at it appreciatively. It was a Grande Steinway, black and smooth. Turning away from it, he stared at the wall, covered in numerous awards and pictures.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Spencer."

Reid turned to the entrance and saw Mr. Wiesel walking toward him with an extended hand. The man looked to be in his sixties, and was rather thin. For one reason or another, he'd imagined the man to be burly and angry-looking. He blamed it on the overdose of action films that Morgan forced him to watch of late. Damn those films and their cliché characterizations.

"Hi, yeah. Ah, you can call me Spencer," Reid said, shaking his hand.

"So, you told me that you're a beginner at the piano?"

"Mm, yes," Reid answered.

"Well, what made you want to take lessons? Especially at your age?" Mr. Wiesel gave him a strong, demanding stare. "You're a little old to be just learning."

"Ah, actually humans have an amazing brain capacity. Studies show that we can take in an infinite amount of knowledge, so one is never too old to learn anything," Reid retorted quickly. He then furled his eyebrows. "Although it's more difficult to learn a foreign language the older one is," he murmured mostly to himself.

"Hm. Duly noted," Mr. Wiesel said with a grin. He pointed toward the piano. "Please sit." After Reid did so obediently, he pulled up a chair beside the piano. "How long have you been playing?" he asked.

"Ah, four months now," Reid answered.

"Mm. Well. I'm a very…efficient teacher. I have many awards under my belt, both mine and my students. All of my students have ended up playing in major symphonies or traveling abroad," Mr. Wiesel said. He then said almost degradingly, "However, I've found that my adult students quit very quickly because my standards do not suit their style. I haven't time to dally with you, so if you haven't the discipline to take criticism and to be diligent, then I ask that you leave now."

Reid gave them man an odd stare. The older man was trying to intimidate him, make him angry, rile him up. He couldn't possibly imagine why.

"Also, with someone with as little experience as you claim to have, I'm not willing to waste my own time. What can you contribute with these lessons?" he asked.

Reid hadn't been prepared to be taken on such a challenge, so Mr. Wiesel, left him speechless for a moment, which was rather rare. But subconsciously, Reid knew that Mr. Wiesel wanted to be challenged.

"I admit that I'm no professional," Reid started after a moment of silence. "It's why I've sought you out—to teach me. But music is mathematics. My aim is to become more dexterous in handling it. So I didn't come here on a whim."

Sometimes, the way Reid said things came out the wrong way. In this instance, Reid could tell that what he said was not taken in the way he'd intended.

"Mathematics!" Mr. Wiesel said in exasperation, eyebrows curling inward.

Sometimes, Reid didn't realize that the way he explained things did not come out as an apology, but rather as an accusation. He had neither an off button nor a 'tone it down' one.

"Yes. In fact, rhythm, timing, musical scales are all involved with mathematics. From Bach to Beethoven, all of their works are incredibly complex mathematical ventures. There are so many principles that Bach, for example, applied to his music—tetraktys, mirror principle—"

"Stop. Natasha."

"Yes, Opa!" the girl called from the kitchen.

"Come here." In seconds, the girl was in the living room. "Please demonstrate to Mr. Reid that the piano isn't simply…mathematics."

The young girl tilted her head. "Opa," she drawled impatiently, huffily.

Mr. Wiesel wordlessly and emphatically pointed to the piano, and the girl groaned, sending a glare to Reid.

Reid stood up and the girl sat in front of the piano.

"E Natural."

The girl, obviously knowing what her grandfather wanted, proceeded to play the single note for Reid, but with varying octaves, and in such an efficient manner. She leaned near the piano and swayed in front of it. Reid was caught up in the beauty of the simplicity, hearing the same note over and over again, but with such vivid color.

"Stop." Mr. Wiesel interrupted. "Do you see, Mr. Spencer? Emotion. If one desires, he may say that music is nothing more than strings of notes at varying length. But Natasha played one note, and that variation of intervals—of octaves—breathed into it and gave it life. Please, my boy, do not reduce music to mere mathematics." The man let out a heavy, solemn sigh, shaking his head. "If that is all you see in it, then I have nothing to teach you, Mr. Spencer."

Reid tilted his head. "I think you may have misinterpreted my meaning, Mr. Wiesel. I have a PH.D. in Mathematics. I see it everywhere, in everything. The same goes for sound. To me, music isn't reduced by mathematics—it's enhanced by it, because I understand it with a clarity that others may not." He couldn't gauge the man's emotions after his statement.

Mr. Wiesel stared at him intently and then sat back in his seat. His eyes made a slow sweep of the man standing before him, from the untamed curls atop his head to the black converse covering his barely hidden, mismatched socks. He then let out a chuckle, smiling at Reid. He couldn't tell whether the man that sat before him was an artist or a wayward scholar "Huh. You're confounding."

Reid didn't expect the statement, and could merely stare at the older man.

"Opa, can I go now?" the girl interrupted suddenly from the piano.

"Go, go, my dear," he murmured, and the girl stood up quickly and headed back to the kitchen.

"I'm going to the park with Jasmine, grandpa. I'll see you later," she yelled from the kitchen door.

"You're intellectual, I can tell. However, you must make sure that you do not let your intellect turn into your god."

Reid smiled at the man and thinned his eyes at him in mirth, quite impressed with the older man. "Einstein."

"Mein gott!" the older man said in absolute delight, clapping his hands once. "Very sharp, my boy! Very sharp!" He patted Reid's shoulder. "I like that. So, Mr. Spencer," the man started as he pointed to the piano emphatically. Spencer stood up and sat at the bench again. "Tell me—what is your musical background, what drew you to the piano in particular, and why have you taken so long to start?"

-Dissonant-

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Huuungh…Someo—oh god, he's dead. Someone killed—mmm…!"

"I'm sorry, miss. Did you say that someone is dead?"

"Ye—yes. My—he's—"

"Who, ma'am?"

"My husband," she gasped, staring at the dead body of her husband. The sight was etched forever in her mind's eye. "My husband. My—oh my god, honey! Please sa—save him…!" The words drowned into a weakened sob.

"Please, miss, if you can, don't touch his body. We'll send a dispatch and an ambulance. Ma'am, are you injured?"

"Oh god, please." She wheezed in a deep breath and then a moan burbled from her throat. Unable to speak without hitching her breath every few syllables, she continued "Oh my god, please, please, tell me this isn't—no, Joshua, why would someone…!"

"Ma'am, are you injured?"

"Guuungh…his hands! Where are his hands?"

A/N: There we go. So…I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review telling me if I should continue or not D:! *winces*

Anywhom, Wiesel is pronounced VEEzl if any of you were curious… And how many musical puns did I throw in here?

Trivia: Two of the names mentioned in this chapter are of live musicians [I did it subconsciously and realized it just before posting :P] Figure them out :D?

And curses! Why can't I put an exclamation mark after my question mark? FanfictionDOTnet: 1. Emphasis: 0.