The saloon is nearly empty when Spencer pushes through the swinging doors at a little before noon, sits at a small table in a window framed corner, and waves at David Rossi, who's standing behind the bar polishing a spotty glass with a filthy rag. He nods shortly in acknowledgment and leans in the direction of the kitchen to holler, "The doc's here early, Harris. You wanna throw together his usual?"

There's a muffled affirmative from the back room and Rossi nods at Spencer again, then wanders down to the end of bar to pour another drink for Aaron Hotchner, who looks like he hasn't moved from his bar stool since Spencer was here nearly twelve hours ago. Hotchner cradles the drink in his hands and stares stonily into it's depths. After a long moment, he shoots it back and shoves the empty glass toward Rossi with a curt 'Another.' Rossi frowns, but refills the glass, his head bowed close to the other man's as he murmurs something that Spencer can't quite make out.

The low hum of hushed voices and the soft tinkling of the piano player absently fingering keys in the back of the room wash over Spencer, soothing and comfortable, as he thumbs through his book. The stale, dusty air would have been stifling even a few months ago, but the lingering smell of alcohol and unwashed bodies is, well, not pleasant, but certainly familiar. The words he's reading start to blur together and every few seconds his body jerks sharply as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. By the time Harris finally wanders over to his table, Spencer's given up all pretense of reading and is sitting with his head propped up on his fist, his eyelids heavy and his mouth slack.

Harris clears his throat as he puts a plate of stringy, gray meat and crumbling potatoes on the table. Spencer has no idea how the young man got a job as a cook when his go to recipe seems to be 'put it in a pot and boil it for a while', but he genuinely likes him and the kid is one of the few people in town who seems to look at him with admiration instead of bafflement or derision.

Even in a town that often seems to be composed entirely of black sheep, Spencer knows he's considered something of a 'character'. He has been ever since he arrived on the stage coach from back east with a trunk of books, no interest in drinking, and little skill with a firearm. Probably the only thing he's actually managed to do right is clean up at the poker table. But even that's a small comfort-albeit a small comfort that keeps food on his table and a roof over his head-considering how wrong his initial game had nearly gone. All the things that he'd hoped to find out here-adventure, danger, maybe a little romance-are certainly available, but they still seem no more attainable than they did when he was sitting in a stuffy classroom in Virginia.

He offers Harris a groggy smile as he prods the meat with his fork. Is it supposed to wiggle like that? "Thank you, Nathan. It looks as appealing as ever."

Harris smiles, not much more than a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth, and shifts from foot to foot. "Anything else I can get for you, doc?"

Spencer chews doggedly on a tough mouthful of what he thinks might be beef. Harris is giving him an expectant look, so he swallows, the meat a hard, painful lump as it goes down his throat. "I could do with a cup of Arbuckle's." He says. Even Harris smirks at the way the slang tumbles awkwardly out of his cultured mouth. Spencer frowns a little and spears a potato that falls apart before he can get it off the plate. "In the biggest mug you have. Or maybe you could just bring the entire pot."

Another smile flickers across Harris' face and he hurries back to the kitchen. Spencer finally manages to lift a forkful of potatoes to his mouth and immediately finds himself wishing, not for the first time, that the boarding house he's been staying at would serve lunch in addition to breakfast and dinner. Of course, considering the steely smile and veiled threat about how he might want to start looking for a new place to sleep that Miss Emily had given him the last time he'd said anything about how she could improve her services, Spencer doubts he'll ever actually make the suggestion.

Spencer's drinking the grainy dregs of his coffee and pushing the mutilated remains of his lunch around his plate when a heavy footstep and the metallic jingle of spurs makes him look up. A wide, involuntary smile immediately spreads across his face, and the flip flops his stomach is doing have nothing to do with the poor meal he just ate. "Hello, Sheriff. I thought you were supposed to be in meetings with Mayor Strauss all day?"

Sheriff Morgan grimaces and drops easily onto one of the chairs at Spencer's table, one arm hooked over the back of the chair and his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He sighs and motions to Rossi, who grabs a bottle and glass and heads their way, before answering. "I'd be surprised if Mayor Strauss could stomach an entire day with Mayor Strauss. I don't know why I'm meeting with him anyway. Everyone knows his wife's the one who really runs the town. Thank you, Rossi," Morgan says as he takes the half full glass from the older man. "You can leave the bottle."

Rossi smirks and says, "Long day, Derek?"

"Long enough." Morgan drains the glass and pours himself a couple more fingers of whiskey. He takes a slow sip and rolls his neck to loosen his tense muscles. "You sure you don't want the job back?"

Rossi's laugh fills the room and he shakes his head, already walking back toward the bar. "Nah, I'll leave that to you, kid. Figure my prospects are better as a bar dog. I still get shot at regularly, but at least the pay's halfway decent."

Spencer chuckles and Morgan turns back toward him, a bemused half smile on his face. "And how about you, Dr. Reid? Would you like to take over for me?"

Spencer snorts. "Do you want me to end up dead?" He drums his fingers on the cover of his book and arches an expectant eyebrow at Morgan, who raises his hands in mock surrender. "Now if you wanted to ask Miss Emily to be the new sheriff, that would be a whole other matter. She'd probably have everyone obeying the law within a week."

"She's certainly a formidable woman," Morgan says with a grin. He snags a bit of meat off of Spencer's plate, pops it in his mouth, and grimaces. "That bait's plumb awful."

"It's also really not yours." Spencer manages to arrange his features into a mock stern expression instead of the fond one he can feel wanting to break through. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries not to focus on Morgan's mouth as he licks a bit of gravy off of his thumb. "So, if you're not going to be tied up with Strauss for the rest of the day after all, does that mean you'll be available at the usual time to finish our game?"

"Barring a catastrophe, I should be free then. I have to warn you, though. I read that book you lent me, and I think there's a very real chance that I might actually get within a few moves of taking your king this time," Morgan says with a wink. Spencer's shoulders shake with a silent laugh and he tucks his book under his arm.

"I look forward to the challenge. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to," he says with a slight tilt of his head toward Morgan. Morgan taps the brim of his hat and languidly stands.

"Of course. I'll just go sit with Hotch and see if he can't help me finish this off," he says, gesturing toward the bar with the whiskey bottle. When he gets a better look at Hotchner, gray faced and slumped forward with his head nearly resting on his clenched hands, he frowns and taps the neck of the bottle. "Christ, how long has he been jingled?"

Spencer gnaws thoughtfully on his lower lip, then shrugs. "I couldn't say. He was here before I came in. Honestly, I'm not convinced he hasn't been here since last night.

Morgan's frown deepens and he gives Hotchner a troubled once over. "Maybe I'll just help him home instead."

"Until later, Sheriff," Spencer says quietly to Morgan's back as he crosses the room to speak with Hotchner. He watches the two men interact for a few seconds, then shakes himself and leaves. He wanders down the raised wooden walkway, no real destination in mind. It wasn't exactly a lie when he told Morgan that he has business to take care of, because he does, but there's nothing exactly pressing about the pages of formulas waiting for him in his room.

Spencer isn't exactly certain what he had thought would happen when he decided to move out west, but there had been a small part of him that had secretly hoped and prayed that being out in the wilderness, surrounded by manly men doing the sorts of things that manly men do would help to squelch the unnatural thoughts and feelings that had plagued him more and more vehemently as of late. It didn't take a genius to understand that the warm, fluttery feeling he'd first felt in the pit of his stomach when one of his classmates had grinned crookedly at him wasn't quite 'right'. While his chums were busy trying to steal a kiss from any of the pretty young things that attended the girl's school down the street, Spencer had been courting danger by mooning over his much older, very male psychology tutor.

Mr. Gideon had never said anything during their sessions, but not much ever seemed to escape his attention, so when he'd clasped Spencer's shoulder and carefully told him that he was getting to an age where he should go out and meet a nice girl, Spencer hadn't been surprised. Mortified and a little crushed, yes, but not surprised. And he'd taken the older man's advice to heart. He'd escorted Miss Lila Archer from party to party for an entire season, listened attentively to her stories, laughed awkwardly at her jokes, and even chastely kissed her once when they'd found themselves briefly alone together in a mutual friend's garden.

She was lovely and refined and his mother was delighted to the point where she was dropping hints about how charming a spring wedding would be, but it just...hadn't felt right. No, it hadn't felt like anything at all. There was no spark, no rush, no need. Just a pretty, friendly face that he'd felt affection, but no romantic longing for.

Lila had been the one to finally end things. She'd gently cupped his cheek on the steps outside of her house, smiled sadly, and said, "This just isn't going to work, is it."

"No," Spencer agreed. "It isn't." He'd kissed her hand, then her cheek, and left. Like Gideon, Lila had never actually said anything, but Spencer thinks she must have suspected, even with as young and naive as she was, that there was something off about him.

Spencer snaps out of his thoughts just in time to avoid colliding with Ms. Jennifer "JJ" LaMontagne. She's talking with a youngish man that he doesn't recognize, her soft, intelligent voice shooting out rapid questions that he struggles to keep up with, her pencil hovering over the pad of paper in her hand. The man looks a little relieved when Spencer's unexpected stumble into their conversation causes her to pause and turn her bright eyes on him. "Ah, Spencer! Have you met the new reverend yet?"

He glances at the light haired stranger she's been talking to, who shifts and clears his throat uncomfortably. The man's cheeks are flushed and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, even though it's a fair enough day. He looks like he would be hard pressed to inspire himself, much less an entire congregation, but Spencer plasters on a smile and says, "No, I don't think I have."

Delighted, JJ hooks her arm through Spencer's and pulls him closer so that they form a tight little circle. "Reverend, this is Dr. Spencer Reid. He's not the town's medical doctor, but considering Dr. Dowd's bedside manner, you might want to see Dr. Reid if you develop any ailments anyway. Spencer, this is the new minister, just arrived from Georgia, Tobias Hankel."

Hankel clasps Spencer's hand in a weak, damp grip and offers a wan smile. "A pleasure, I'm sure, Doctor."

Derek curses silently to himself and loops a steadying arm under Hotch's arms to keep him from falling flat on his face as they stumble the half mile from the saloon to his small house. He knows that Hotch hasn't been the same man ever since the Unfortunate Incident-as the ladies around town call it-but slowly destroying himself with alcohol isn't going to change or help anything. He wants to be supportive, but watching a man he had always respected more than anyone else turning into a shadow of the man he had once been makes his stomach churn and his heart clutch. At first, he had seemed to be holding up fairly well and the drinking only happened around the anniversary, but as the years passed and leads dwindled and justice still evaded his grasping hands, Hotch's eyes had grown more and more haunted and the times in between his drinking binges shrank until they were almost nonexistant.

Hotch hiccups and trips over his own feet again, nearly dragging Derek down with him. Derek staggers and somehow manages to keep the both of them from ending up in the dirt, but when he tries to take a step forward, Hotch doesn't move with him. He pauses, frowns, turns toward the other man. "Hotch? It's only a little further. Think you can do me a favor and wait to throw up?"

The look on his friend's face keeps Derek from saying anything more. His face is blanched of color, his eyes wide, and his mouth open in a small, startled 'o'. Derek follows Hotch's gaze back into the alley they're stopped in front of and freezes. Less than a dozen feet from where they're standing, half concealed by rubbish, is the bloody, mutilated body of a little boy.

Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.

Old West Slang:
Arbuckle's - Slang for coffee, taken from a popular brand of the time.
Bait - food
Bar dog - bartender
Jingled - drunk
Odd fish - A person who is eccentric or odd in his manners. Also called odd stick and queer fish.
Plumb - Entirely, completely.

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