Prologue
He felt the smile melting off his face with each step he took away from the BAU. A cool breeze whispered through his bangs. He knew where he was going, though a part of him still tried to deny it. There was an itch, an absence of liquid tranquility in his veins. He counted each heartbeat as it raced through his carotid, and he felt the slick dampness where he had wiped his palms on his khakis. Even as he hastened his stride, he felt both ashamed and excited.
Spencer took great pleasure in the illicit world that Hankel had introduced him to. Though an FBI agent, he couldn't deny the filthy glamour that surrounded places such as the drug den toward which he was headed. A part of the goody-two-shoes genius he had grown up to be had, especially in his younger days, envied the freedom and fallen-angel beauty of drug addicts and criminals portrayed in the media. Make no mistake, he had first hand experience of the illusion of that freedom, how the drug was really his leash and collar. Yet he still found himself reverting to these cognitive fallacies as he knocked at the door of a supposedly 'abandoned' building.
The doorman knew him well, and granted entrance with no more than a grunt of acknowledgment. And Spencer actually enjoyed that, because for once it was nice to be 'normal', even if that normal was a tweaking addict. The reasons for this particular location were discretion and location. Much like the opium dens of old, here Spencer entered into a dimly lit room with assorted seating, most of which was actually in fairly good condition.
This was not the mattress lined warehouse that law enforcement so often encountered. Proper divans divided by screens offered a measure of privacy while still being able to be attended easily by individuals who both offered the drug and a measure of 'entertainment'. Spencer often compounded his shame by partaking of the prostitutes who offered their services.
Never once did he feel inadequate or awkward, and he allowed himself to appreciate the feeling of delicious depravity and release while the high lasted. Today he seated himself and signaled, money in hand, for his drug of choice. Long, delicate fingers took the cash from his hands, tucking it neatly away while the attendant provided the needle and vial. She looked at him with what he knew to be a practiced smile of seduction and promise. He profiled her even as he appreciated her ephemeral beauty. He blushed under those eyes, and so turned his attention to the drug. Rolling up his sleeves, he gratefully accepted the offered tourniquet and set about the business of preparing himself for the injection.
He leaned back, ready for the chemical rush to knock him off his feet. The attendant smiled knowingly at his steadying inhale. She reached for his belt, and he let it happen, still just as passive under the drug's influence as he was in everyday life. The physical pleasure of the flesh only enhanced the mental pleasure of not thinking. This is why he did this. It wasn't the barely coherent sex, or even the initial rush. If that was the case he would've picked something flashier like cocaine. No, this was about quieting his mind, and just letting himself experience the odd hallucinogenic effects. Everything slowed down,
down,
d o w n.