AN: Many thanks to those who reviewed, this chapter is for you.
For the happiest life, rigorously plan your days, leave your nights open to chance. ~Mignon McLaughlin
I wake up to Reid's Blackberry beeping to announce a new message- it's five o'clock.
I must have dozed off.
Reid hops off the bed and crawls over to his suitcase to pull out the device, sitting on the floor by the bathroom while he listens to the message. I try not to think about how dirty the carpet must be.
He crawls back to his bag and unzips one of the inside pockets, feeling around before pulling out an envelope.
"Noah?"
I lean over to read the slips of paper in his hands- two tickets to Phantom of the Opera and a note wishing the doctor "A Very Happy Half-Birthday". The letters are big and loopy, written on a flower shaped Post it in sparkly ink- I don't have to be an expert in handwriting analysis to know who it's from.
The show starts at eight, and we end up eating at a Chinese restaurant near the theatre. There's a pair of drag queens in the booth next to us, and an acrobat in sequined leotard is paying for takeout at the register. A tattooed teenager with incredibly stretched earlobes buses tables while whistling the theme song from Star Wars.
No one looks twice at Reid's sunglasses or cane, and I know he'd be happy to know he's blending in. For once his disability doesn't make him a freak. I guess it's hard to be a spectacle in this town. Reid gobbles up his lo mein and vegetables with gusto, quickly forgoing chopsticks for a fork. The doctor tells me everything I ever wanted to know about the musical and some things I didn't.
"There are currently five English translations of Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. The first one, by Alexander Teixeira claims to be "complete" but is actually abridged. I prefer the original French version anyway."
Reid can be exhausting, but it's nice to see him happy again- his normal animation resumed after the stressful meeting at Bennington. We'll be going back in the morning so he can see his mom, so this is a welcome distraction.
I haven't seen a musical since the production of "The Wizard of Oz" I went to in college- I was dating one of the apple trees, so I kind of had to go; can't say I'm a fan of the genre.
The Vegas production makes me reconsider.
The sets and costumes are really well done and the songs are catchy- it helps that Reid is wholly engrossed in the performance. It's hard to be down on anything when the doctor is enjoying it so wholeheartedly. The show is over before I realize how late it is, Reid is still smiling as we exit the theatre, but he's quiet now, and there's none of the chatter like earlier- I guess he's tired from the flight and the busy day.
We head back to the hotel and the doctor crawls into bed still fully dressed. I'm flipping through a stack of pamphlets on local attractions, when Reid, voice muffled through a pillow, tells me to go already, he's tired but there's no reason I shouldn't see the sights.
He's lying on his side with his knees pulled up to his chest- I've seen this position before and am instantly concerned.
"You okay, man?"
"Just tired- the flight, and then seeing my mom… I just want to be by myself for a while."
"Fair enough."
I know it hasn't been an easy day for him; he's an introvert and needs time by himself to recharge. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, that means I have to get lost for a while.
Half an hour later I'm playing Texas Hold 'em with a man in a cowboy hat, trying to remember the finer points of strategy and statistics- wisdom bestowed by Reid on one of many long flights. I hit the roulette table, even though I should know better- Reid has drilled the probabilities into me, and from what I can understand, the game clearly favors the house.
The free drinks keep coming and I settle into a seat at one of the slot machines- pulling a lever is one of the few capabilities I have left, so it's a good match.
I run out of coins around midnight and end up in a fifties style diner. I'm sipping a milkshake from a glass shaped like Betty Boop when I realize that I have four missed calls from Reid.
I toss some cash on the table and make an obnoxious squeaking sound exiting the vinyl booth. A waitress on roller skates waves to me as I push open the door to leave, the bells on the handle jingling as it shuts behind me.
A girl in combat boots approaches me; she's scrawny, with teased hair and clownish makeup, and looks too young to be out this late.
She asks me if I want to have some fun, but I just keep walking.
My eyes adjust to the dimness of the street, the alcoholic buzz is fading and I'm starting to feel a little depressed, or maybe I'm just coming back into reality.
I'm knocking on the door of the hotel room for the third time before I realize that I've got a key. Reid's not on the bed anymore and I hear water running in the bathroom.
"I'm back, Reid. Sorry I missed your calls."
Reid shuffles out a few minutes later and collapses onto the unmade bed.
"That's okay, it wasn't important," he says, voice muffled as he burrows under the comforter like a mole.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The alarm goes off obscenely early, and I awake to see Reid, showered and fully dressed, sitting cross legged in a chair by the window where light filters in through the venetians. His hair is slicked back with some sort of gel, and he's wearing a suit jacket despite the heat; he looks like he's going to church.
We're way too early for our visit to Bennington, but Reid's practically vibrating with anticipation and I know that if I fall asleep he'll be gone by the time I wake up. This has happened before- if he gets restless he'll just start walking aimlessly, wandering but covering a lot of ground at the same time.
He doesn't want breakfast, but we stop anyway at a nearby IHOP- some of his pills need to be taken with food, and I'm hoping that the quasi-hangover I'm experiencing might go away with pancakes.
He chews the toast dry, without the customary blob of jam, and I know something is very wrong if his sweet tooth is out of commission.
"Do you want to talk?" I ask, cautiously like I'm sliding out a Jenga block.
"What color are my socks?"
"Uh, I meant about your mom," I say, not sure if he's pretending to be oblivious or if he's just not picking up on my cues that this is a deeper exchange.
"I need to know what color they are, it's important."
"The left one is purple and the right is checkered- black and white," I answer after a quick glance underneath the table.
I try to be thankful that we're having a dialogue, even if it's about clothing.
"Okay, good. That's good," he says, taking a drink of coffee.
"Why can't they match?" I ask, curious. I'm used to his quirks, but this one defies logic as far as I can tell.
"I know that outcomes are affected by probability and related factors…"
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"You think it's lucky?"
Reid nods this time, but there's a line of tension in his forehead that doesn't seem sock-related.
"I wore paired socks to work…on, you know… the day of the explosion."
"You probably wore pants too," I remind him but he's not paying attention.
He shrugs, tearing open a packet of salt to put in his coffee- I don't stop him, afraid that if I move he'll stop talking. He's never mentioned the accident before.
"I'd forgotten to pack socks in my go bag. I ended up borrowing some from Morgan that morning," he says, smirking a little at the memory.
"I was walking toward the building… I reached the front door and the unsub was holding a detonator… the wires were wrapped around the little boy… the look on his face," he shuddered at the memory.
"I thought you didn't remember the accident."
Reid has a far-away look on his face and it's clear my words haven't registered with him.
"Maybe if I'd stuck to the script, that boy would still be alive."
His voice is shaky, but his gaze is fierce and penetrating, and I have to look away. I try to think of something reassuring to say, but no words seem adequate for what this man has been through. I think back to a seminar I once attended on grief counseling, but no sentiments of wisdom spring to mind.
"It was a terrible thing that happened to you, Reid. But it would have happened whether your socks matched or not, no matter what you'd said or done…"
My words fizzle out, but it doesn't matter, he's not listening anyway. I'm busy feeling like a shitty confidante when I realize that he's talking again.
"And then my mom was bending over my body… she pointed at my socks. She told the team that I was a bad son and never listened to her, that I'd gotten rid of her as soon as I could."
He shakes his head, pushing away his coffee without finishing it.
"It was a dream, Reid. You were unconscious after the blast- the team stayed with you until the paramedics came, and then Morgan rode with you in the ambulance-"
"It was the only advice from her I always followed, but then I didn't and the little boy died…" he continues, cutting me off with a flippant wave of the hand.
His face looks strained eyes closed tightly, his mouth stretched in a thin line like he's trying desperately not to cry.
"Maybe this is karma… I put her in an institution, and now…" his voice cracks and he shuts his eyes at the memory.
"The unsub caused that explosion, Reid. It wasn't a punishment for anything you did or didn't do."
He pauses and seems to consider my words for a moment, like it's finally registered that this is a two way conversation.
I get the bill while Reid uses the restroom. He's gone a very long time. I'm preparing to check on him when he reappears, ushering me toward the exit like I've been making him wait.
"We should go, my mom's waiting."
TBC
Hastily edited, please forgive any mistakes.
*Your reviews make my day, and may influence my writing speed.