He'd stayed at the bar with Ethan for hours before making his excuses and slipping out into the humid night air, but instead of heading back to his hotel, Spencer follows his ears to a noisy, crowded club. His clothes don't fit in with the tight, revealing outfits that the majority of the the dancing mob is wearing, but they don't attract too much attention. In fact, it's almost laughable that he's able to blend into the shadows at the rear of the room so easily. So easy to stand huddled in the near dark, so easy to be overlooked by the writhing, intoxicated bodies on the dance floor. All of them too caught up in the grind and mash of sweaty, bared bodies to notice as he slips into the suddenly bright, nearly empty bathroom.

There are two pairs of feet visible under the door of the first stall, and the sounds of their moans and the weak metal straining mingle with the pulsing bass as he slides the lock into place and rummages through his bag.

The needle goes in smoothly, just a light pinch at the inside of his elbow, so much smoother than the burn that he can feel spreading through his veins. He doesn't take much, not so much as to overdue it, but it's enough. His limbs feel loose and free as he swings his way over to the bar, and he smiles at the overworked bartender when he takes his order. All the stresses, the demands, the sickqueasynotright feelings start to recede as the chemicals take effect.

There's a woman talking to a man further down the bar, and Spencer watches them openly while he waits for his drink. The woman's a little tense-not completely comfortable and anxious about something-but the small signals she's displaying have nothing on her partner's. His left ring finger is bare, but, even in the poor lighting, Spencer can make out the faint tan line. He's nervous. His laugh too loud, his gestures too wide. He's new to this.

He jumps and looks guilty when the phone in his pocket goes off. The look on the man's face when he sees the cell's display screen confirms every unkind thought Spencer's been thinking, so when he smiles at the woman and scurries away to answer it, he doesn't feel the slightest remorse about taking his drink and moving to sit on the bar stool next to her to whisper confidentially in her ear, "You do know he's married, right?"

The woman whirls around, her pretty pretty face etched with surprise, but she recovers almost instantly. She licks her lips and smiles cooly. "That's fine by me. I'm not looking for anything permanent, just someone to pass the time with in serious and inconsequential chatter," she says. Her lips quirk at some private joke, and Spencer turns to face her more fully, his interest piqued. "I wager to say that you'd do as well as him."

"Oh?" Spencer asks, his glass halfway to his mouth. "As well as him at what?"

She laughs and tosses her shiny brown hair over her shoulder. "Well, if you have to ask," she trails off with a significant look. Spencer frowns and studies her a little closer. The coy, teasing look on her face is easy to read, even for him, but the brighter her smile gets, the more her eyes seem to dim. She shifts uneasily under his intent gaze and her flirty mask starts to crack a little. She arches one perfectly groomed eyebrow and says, "Don't play dumb, honey. We both know you wouldn't still be here talking to me if you weren't interested."

"Oh, I am," he says, pausing when she makes a small, triumphant noise. "But less because of your admittedly stunning looks and more because you quoted Jeanette Winterson. 'We are friends and I do like to pass the day with you in serious and inconsequential chatter. I wouldn't mind washing up beside you, dusting beside you, reading the back half of the paper while you read the front. We are friends and I would miss you , do miss you and think of you ever often.' An odd choice of words for someone who wants something impermanent, wouldn't you say?"

She breathes out loudly through her nose and gives him a contemplative once over. "Psychologist?"

"Profiler," he corrects, toasting her with his glass. "Spencer Reid. I'm part of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. Although that's just until my real career as a magician takes off." Spencer grins and waves his hands flamboyantly through the air a couple times before flicking his wrist and handing her a business card.

"Sarah," she says flatly, her expression becoming rapidly withdrawn as she looks at the card in her hand. She handles it carefully, like it might bite her. Then she blinks and looks at him again, rocking forward to look deeply into his eyes. "What can you tell by looking at me? Can you see what I do?"

Spencer cocks his head to the side and purses his lips as he thinks. "There's something predatory about you that makes me think you're involved with the law, but you're not a cop. Your clothes aren't nice enough for you to be part of a law firm and you have a sad, jaded look in your eyes. So if you're a lawyer, I'd guess you're a public defender? Doing your best to keep the streets free of the filth. Well," he asks when she just stares at him. "How did I do?"

"Close enough," Sarah says faintly. She opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but just then Spencer fumbles his drink, his hand missing it by a mile, and her eyebrows shoot up as she scrutinizes him. "Wait. Are you high?"

The small part of his brain that's still capable of thinking rationally is screaming at him to take his card back, run, get the fuck out, but instead he just shrugs. "We all self medicate. You were trying to do it with sex before I came over here. My methods are just a little more literal than yours."

Sarah's lips part softly and her brow furrows as she studies him. "Why?"

Spencer shrugs again and smiles bitterly. "Why? Why, why, why. That is the question, isn't it? Why do you? It makes things easier. Makes the problems disappear. Just. Like. Magic." His hands arch through the air again as he rapidly produces and hides a torn, soggy coaster.

"What could you possibly need to make disappear?"

The question catches him off-guard and the smile slides off his face. Sarah's watching him, her dark brown eyes catching every gesture and flicker of expression. It would be so easy to lie, but the words are slip-and-sliding out of his mouth before he even realizes it. The words feel heavy and awkward on his tongue, so stilted and impersonal for something that affected him so deeply, but once he starts, he can't stop.

"There was a suspect. He had multiple personalities and was killing people who he had decided deserved it. I was careless and he used that to his advantage. He took me as a hostage. He tortured me, trying to get me to confess to being a sinner so that he could justify killing me. He did kill me at one point, but one of his personalities saved me. He wanted to help, but he was too afraid, too broken to let me go. So he did the only thing that he thought he could to help make things better-injected me with dilaudid."

"What did you do," Sarah asks. Her eyes are wide, captivated. Captivating.

Spencer arranges his index finger and thumb into an L and mimes shooting a gun, complete with sound effect. "Killed him. I had to do it. I know I had to, but knowing that doesn't make the nightmares any easier to deal with. The drugs on the other hand? They do.

"Here's the thing about trauma," he says reflectively, "Even if the physical signs all fade away, that doesn't mean the after effects are just magically gone. There's no trick to cure them. Nothing you can do to make it just go away. So you have to deal with it however you can, and sometimes that includes less than conventional methods."

"I understand. I understand completely," she says quietly, placing her hand on top of his, her slender fingers almost cold despite the heat in the bar. Spencer peers at her. The drug induced euphoria is getting stronger every moment, blurring his vision and his thoughts. There's a glaring neon light behind her, but to him it creates a soft, fuzzy halo around her, outlining her in liquid gold. She's ethereal, otherworldly, angelic.

But those eyes. Those sad, hurt brown eyes.

Spencer nods and brushes his fingers over the curve of her cheek, tinting them with that radiant glow. He drops his hand slowly, a little disappointed that his fingers don't come away gilded. "Not many people do, but I think you might," he says, his voice as hushed as hers. "I never do this. Not ever. But would you maybe like to get out of here? With me?"

Sarah's fingers curl tighter around his as she leans in. The first brush of her lips against his is soft, almost hesitant. The second is surer, and she tilts her head, sighs into the kiss, and lets him draw her a little closer. She tastes of fruit and alcohol and cheap lipstick. Her lips are as cool as her fingers, although they warm under his as the seconds tick past, and the curve of her spine under Spencer's palm feels delicate and fragile. An image suddenly springs up in his mind of a china figurine, shattered and imperfectly repaired. Whole and beautiful from a distance, but even a token examination will reveal the innumerable cracks and defects.

When she finally pulls back, he almost follows her. She smiles and squeezes his hand again, then shakes her head. "No," she says firmly. There's an odd look on her face that Spencer can't quite place, but she smiles when she says again, "No, I think it would be best if I didn't leave with you. Take care of yourself, Spencer Reid. Really."

Spencer frowns as he watches Sarah melt away into the crowd. He licks his lips, tastes her there. After a few minutes, he turns back toward the bar, thoughtfully fingers the bottle of dilaudid in his pocket, and waves at the bartender for his bill.

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