2014
Agent Reid, former Agent Reid, finds it hard to leave his apartment these days. He still meets and consults with the team on Mondays, thanks to the rather expensive and rather necessary interpreter they get for him. On Tuesday's he goes to therapy, which he finds about as helpful as the arts and crafts they make his mom do even though she is suffering from schizophrenia, not reversion to her childhood.
Wednesdays are his favorite day. Breakfast with Will, Henry, and Angie and sometimes JJ, depending on how the team is doing. Hotch usually let's her leave if they aren't busy. There is nothing more important to Reid than his god-children.
Well, almost. In truth, his Thursday's hold something even more important: normalcy. On Thursday's the team usually works late so that if there is a chance to escape at 4:30 on Friday they can without a mound of paperwork standing in their way. Thursdays Morgan picks up Reid in the afternoon and the whole team spends the evening together working, laughing, eating Chinese food. Reid doesn't usually know what's going on in the conversation unless someone can spare their hands to explain, but his whole life he has let conversations flow around him without understanding them. It's the nearness of his friends he enjoys, it's what he has always enjoyed. It's normal, and he relishes that.
Fridays are usually boring. He writes his mom, reads books, and rarely ventures out of his apartment. He used to spend so much time out of his apartment that he was once reported as a missing person by his landlord. Now he leaves exactly one time a day, whether it be for therapy, or with Morgan to the office, or to meet Will, Angie, and Henry at the cafe.
Former special agent Reid grabs his red and white striped cane and heads out the door. Rubber cased key is for the front door. He locks it tight and double checks: paranoia runs rampant in his mind. Reid takes the 8 steps down easily then tentatively reaches out his cane. Two blocks and he will be at the bus stop.
Crossing the street takes an eternity. He has no idea if a vehicle is coming until he can feel it. If he caused a crash right behind him he might not know. It makes him paranoid and he almost wants to double back to check if there is car carnage behind him. But he doesn't; that would be illogical.
He easily takes the next block and the next crosswalk. Streets are pretty quiet at 5 am. The bus will come at 5:15 and drop him off at 6:30. He will meet Garcia for their walk to their beloved office at Quantico.
Reid makes it to the bus stop early and pulls out his Braille computer with its refreshable display. He has a book saved which would have taken ten minutes to read several years ago. Now it takes a day. Braille is easy for him, but there is no such thing as speed reading. Reid types in "is this the number 4 to Quantico?" just as the bus pulls up.
Reid uses his cane to find the bus and then heads toward where he hopes the door is. He finds it and climbs the steps. He has no idea how many people are on the bus, how many people are staring at the way his body tilts or the way he holds his Braille reader way too far to the right to give to the bus driver (or the fact that he needs a Braille computer at all).
The driver takes the reader and reads the note. He types in "yep- third row is empty. Good morning Reid." he places it in Reid's waiting outstretched hand.
Reid grabs it and presses a button. The refreshable display pops up dots in the cells and he reads the driver's message. "Good morning, Jimmy," Reid says, his voice quiet and rounded at the sharp consonants. He tries to pronounce them how he is taught at therapy but he knows he gets it wrong. And he doesn't really care, to be honest. As long as his friends can understand him. As long as Henry can understand. And as long as his mother never comes to visit. This is the one and only reason he is grateful for his mother's institutionalization.
Jimmy pats Reid on the back as Reid slowly walks to the third row. He reaches out a hand to confirm the seat is empty. He know Jimmy wouldn't steer him wrong, but paranoia makes him, well, paranoid.
6:30am. Jimmy comes back and taps him on the shoulder. "Thanks," Reid mumbles and gets off the bus. A familiar hand wraps around his arm almost instantly.
"Good morning Reid!" Garcia says, planting a kiss on his cheek. He can't hear it but he knows she said something because her lips were still moving until the moment before they grazed his cheek. She lifts her hands into his and signs "good morning sweet cheeks."
Reid can't help but smile. Since he woke up in complete isolation, at least the first time he can remember waking up, there hasn't been a day that his friends haven't been able to put a smile on his face (that is, after he let them come near him). They often ask him how he's doing. It's a pointless question. He says he is fine every time. They laugh and shake their heads, or so he assumes. People do that when they think he is being "so Reid," out of touch with his emotions as always.
Really, he will always be just fine if his friends are around. He feels the closeness of Garcia as he walks through the front doors of Quantico, his hand wrapped around her upper arm. And Reid can't help but smile again.
He can't see, he can't hear much, but he is just fine.
