Author's Note: Thanks to all who have read, alerted, faved and reviewed. The final installment for this story will be posted soon. I am planning to begin another Criminal Mind's piece involving the whole team. If you're interested, add me to your author's alert. I may also be looking for a beta reader for that one. Thank you once again for reading! -Jacqueline
"Freedom is just Chaos, with better lighting."- Alan Dean Foster
They had reached a stalemate.
Neither the patient nor the doctor wished to budge. Reid wanted Adam back, and therefore Amanda needed to leave. He never came out and said it. He only said he wanted Adam "back". He wanted Amanda to "do what was right".
But Amanda insisted she didn't know what had become of Adam. In thirteen months, thirteen visits from Dr. Reid, she had not budged on this answer. You're going to be waiting for a long time. She'd warned him, but the persistent profiler kept returning.
And so the counselor's room would fill with shadows and smoke, questions and answers, nervous fingers and polished nails, dishwater hair and a manicured wig once a month. They would chase each other's thoughts in circles, and recorded each moment of it to be reviewed by psychologists, psychoanalysts, and Dr. Reid.
Today was not going well. Neither one had spoken very much. Reid's mind was other places; he'd just finished a pretty bad case. He knew he was running off adrenaline and his idea for this interview could be dangerous. He should really think it over. But this was his only free time he could foresee getting off to come down to Houston.
Amanda had grown tired of Reid's evasion of her questions—just because she was the one in sterile hospital clothing didn't mean she wasn't allowed to know who her only visitor really was. Behind the interrogation face, behind the tired eyes and eidetic memory there was someone who was looking for an answer she didn't think she had for him.
There was no smoke, no shadows today.
Reid had grown tired of not seeing Amanda's face in full view. He turned on the lights, opened the curtains, and hid the cigarette packet the counselor always left in the room all before the inpatient came in for her monthly meeting.
The changing of the scenery set the mood for disaster. He knew that. He was gauging reactions. The doctor was experimenting, and his test could either awaken Adam or drive him away forever.
The heavy silence strung between them. Impartial greetings had been exchanged and the camera began rolling. Amanda glared at its lens with her arms crossed and clutched her elbows with her French nails.
Reid poised the first question:
"Where's Adam?"
Amanda wasn't about to be cooperative.
"Right behind you, Dr. Reid," she drawled. "He's waving from outside. Don't you see?"
"That's not funny, Amanda."
"Neither is taking away my cigarettes."
"You don't need them."
"Yes, I do."
"No, Adam, you don't."
"What did you just say?"
"I said no, you don't."
"Yes, I do. I want my cigarettes. I won't answer any of your silly questions, Dr. Reid, until I have my cigarette. I told you, it's the only thing I ask for in here. They only give it to me when you're here."
"The agreement was that if you talked with me civilly, you'd get special privileges like the cigarettes. Your counselor doesn't think you've been behaving well enough to deserve them this session. If you cooperate today, you'll get them back for our next visit, Adam. I think that's a reasonable agreement."
"You said it again."
"Said what?"
"You said Adam like you were talking to him and not me."
"I'm talking to you."
"So use my name."
"I am using your name, Adam."
"My name's Amanda."
"No, Adam, it's not. You're not Amanda anymore. You don't need her, Adam. Adam… listen to me! She isn't protecting you, she's hurting you!"
"No! No! I'm not hurting him! I was the only one who didn't hurt him!"
"She'll keep lying to you Adam. Don't listen to her. She's trying to push you down, to push you out. It won't work unless you let her bully you like everyone else."
"Stop talking to him! He's gone! Gone! There's only me, only me! My name's Amanda, Amanda!"
"Amanda doesn't exist, Adam. She's not real."
A scream erupted out of the man with a woman in his body. He jumped to his feet, his hands slamming against his temples and pulling at the plastic hair on his head. His mouth stayed open even after the inhuman noise left his throat. He began mumbling things rapidly. Reid stayed seated in his armchair, his nervous fingers clutching the armrests so tightly they were loosing blood flow. His Adam's apple quivered as he licked his lips and tried not to have his voice crack as he continued to torture the person he wanted to save.
"Adam, she's not there."
"STOP STOP STOP!"
The face contorted, painted lips that had looked so delicate stretching and showing they belonged to the mouth of a man. The patient's mouth stayed wide, but no scream could come out any more. He doubled over, and hugged his stomach, shaking visibly. Then suddenly, his posture stiffened.
"Adam?"
"No." The voice was a firm, female southern drawl. Slowly Amanda pulled herself up right and straightened her hair carefully. She fingered her smudged lipstick and stared at Reid with piercing pale eyes. "What right do you have," she whispered the words, her whole body tense with rage, "to decide which of us deserves to live in this body? Why does he deserve to live more than me?"
She walked to the window, her French manicured nails clutching at first to her elbows then reaching out and resting on the glass. Her reflection met her fingers and stared back at her. "I know how to take the pain. The medication, the interrogations, the accusations, the trials, and the grieving families—I can hold my composure Dr. Reid. I can handle the situation; I can apologize without being sorry. Adam would have died in here. So I set him free. He left me to protect him, like always. I love him, Dr. Reid, and I won't make him come back to this."
Reid swallowed hard, and slowly stood up. He didn't adjust the camera to the new angle of where Amanda now stood. He watched her as she pretended to gaze out the window. She was really staring into her own blank eyes. His nervous fingers reached out and touched the inpatient's shoulder. She recoiled, breaking eye contact with the reflection that's face crumbled for just half a second—for a moment the reflection in the glass looked like a broken young man behind a painted face. But Amanda turned away quickly and glared at the young doctor.
"Amanda," he said the word slowly. "You never let him say goodbye. He never had the chance to tell Julie if he loved her, or if he was sorry, or anything. If he really doesn't want to stay, he at least deserves to say goodbye."
"Julie is dead. He has no one to say goodbye to, Dr. Reid."
"Then at least let me talk to him. Just once."
"I bring him back and then what? Will you drive me out? Kill me? How do I know you're not going to trick me?"
"Because I just want Adam to be happy. It's his decision if he wants to leave. I won't make that choice for him."
Amanda stared incredulously at the dishwater hair and the dark eyes and the tired face of Dr. Spencer Reid. "Not today, Dr. Reid," she drawled at last. "I don't care if hours aren't over. Our visit is done."
Reid nodded and moved to stop the camera. Amanda moved away from the window but remained standing in the oddly well-lit room. Reid turned to pick up his coat.
"Do you promise to let me talk to him when I come back?" he asked as he pulled the coat over his sweater.
Amanda's wide eyes flickered to the carpet and her standard-issued hospital slippers. "If I can find him."
The young doctor gulped and gave a thin smile that she didn't see. He bent his head down and pushed a strand of curly hair behind his ears. He touched her shoulder gently, and pulled something from his pocket with nervous fingers. "Okay," was all he said.
Amanda's eyes focused on the packet of cigarettes he offered her. She gave a ghostly smile and accepted the gift with the grace of a true southern belle.
"Perhaps I'll allow you to stay until I finish my cigarette," she drawled.
"Okay," replied the doctor, and watched the patient light her cigarette—the smoke rising up to kiss the florescent lights.
