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Life Changing Decisions
It was raining again. He turned away from the window behind his old battered couch and went to his keyboard. His fingers tripped lightly over the keys as the raindrops tapped on the glass panes. The tune, the very first one he learned to play from a young boy trapped in his own world, but capable of such beauty in his music.
Ever since John had told him that Emily was alive, he'd lost the pleasure in playing the piano. Once it had soothed his headaches and brought happiness to his soul. Now it was just a reminder of the time before his friends betrayed him. In his head, time was divided in two, the time before the betrayal and the time after the betrayal. It was as if some great scythe had fallen, irreparably severing everything and there was nothing he could do to fix it.
He had a decision to make. Hotch had given them the option to remain with the team or move on. A year ago, he wouldn't have considered it seriously, but the last two months had given him serious pause about the work he chose to do.
His fingers moved back to the keyboard and rested there. They wanted to play more music, but he couldn't get them to move. Anger such as he'd never known in his life filled his gut with acid burn and set his heart to racing. He lifted his hands and slammed them down on the keys, which cried out like someone shoved a knife into the belly of a pig.
Why should he stay with a team that no longer valued honesty amongst its members? Logic dictated that if his coworkers didn't trust him, then he should go somewhere else. It made sense that if his friends didn't think he could handle the truth, then they really didn't know him.
He left his place at his keyboard and returned to the widow behind his couch. The white slat blinds cut the windows in pieces, like his heart, he thought. It happened every time he gave his trust to someone; they threw it back in his face. He laughed bitterly and the sound was hollow in the small apartment. Why hadn't he learned by now that trust was only a road to pain and betrayal?
The rain increased in intensity until it pounded the window so hard he could barely see the outside world. Everything outside the window rippled and changed into something alien and unrecognizable, like his life. He inhaled deeply, trying to fill his lungs and slow the mad beating of his heart, but it didn't work. His hands clenched to fists again wanting to strike out, and suddenly it was there, the urge for the needle.
His whole body began to shake and his mouth to water as though he were about to sit down at the most delicious banquet meal. The rain slowed, the noise of hundreds of thousands of drops striking the ground and windows easing off to a murmur, but he could still hear it pounding in his head. Pain, white hot and blinding, burst into his brain. He grabbed at his head, pulling on his hair hard enough to add a sharp counterpoint to the agony inside his skull. He clamped his jaws shut through sheer force of will and the knowledge that if he screamed, a neighbor might interfere or call the police. It had happened before, he knew.
The rain stopped, he staggered away from the window to his couch and dropped down onto the rough material. His long fingers dug into the couch so hard the material nearly tore in his grasp. The tips of his fingers ached, but the pain couldn't compete with the blinding white-hot agony in his head. He gasped in lungful of air, but nausea choked him. He staggered back to his feet, stumbled through the living room to his bathroom and slammed the door shut.
The rain was over when Reid left his room for the second time that day. His stomach clenched at the thought of food, but he was so weak from the nausea and vomiting he had to do something. He shambled to the kitchen pulling his robe around his thin body hoping that he had something soothing to eat that wouldn't send him running back to the bathroom.
He found in the cabinet, a can of chicken noodle soup that he thought he might be able to tolerate. The pain in his head had softened to a level he could function with, so he set about making a simple dinner. Thank God, Hotch hadn't called them in this weekend. He didn't think he could handle the team on top of everything else.
He took the bowl of soup and some dry wheat toast to his small kitchen table and sat. Somewhere in the back of his head, the craving for the needle and the numbing power of the drug had pulled back like the waves of the tide going in and out on the ocean shore. It was still there, and part of him desperately wanted to give in, the last four years be damned. A person could only take so much.
He looked out the kitchen window as he ate slowly. The sky was drab grey with black smudges at the edges of the retreating storm clouds, white and blue showed through like the torn lining of a worn out jacket. He frowned at the thought of sunlight and shivered. The soup wasn't taking the chill off his heart or the anger from his soul.
Perhaps it was time for him to accept another assignment even if it was temporary. He could work in another area of the FBI and still be a part of the law enforcement life he'd chosen so long ago. What should he chose though? He spooned up more of the soup and let the food slid down to rest on his raw stomach. It was so delicious and it felt wonderful inside. For the first time that day, he felt like everything might be okay.
He knew it was the fact that he'd made the decision to go somewhere else for a while. The problem now was figuring out where to work that was best for his talents. Perhaps he could teach. No, he didn't like standing up in front of cadets and teaching classes even if it was on some of his favorite subjects.
He picked up his toast and bit thoughtfully into the bread. Maybe he could go to anti-terrorism. God knew the world could do without one more terrorist. No, going through data all day long and trying to predict the next attack on the U.S. wasn't something he really thought of as a good use of his time.
The last drop of the lovely warm soup hit his stomach and he sighed. His headache was nearly gone now and he started to wonder if the doctor wasn't right. Maybe it was psychosomatic and brought on my intense stress. He finished his toast and the last of the tea he'd made to go with his lunch. Yes, he was definitely feeling better and up to the challenge of deciding what to do with his life now that everything had changed so dramatically.
He took his cup and plate to the sink and washed them out. The sun was beginning to peek through the last of the clouds from the storm. He studied the wet ground and the puddles of water that lay in the brightening sky. Summer was nearly upon DC and for the first time in two months, he felt like maybe everything would be all right.
He took another cup of tea with him to the living room and his keyboard. As he sat, down and began to play again, he thought about going somewhere other than the FBI. He could work on some kind of research and development project. He got offers for that kind of thing all the time. In fact, a recruiter had contacted him just last week.
His fingers picked out a happier tune now that the long golden rays of late afternoon were spilling into his window between the slats of the blinds and leaving shadows on the carpet. No, he didn't want to go into the private sector world. He looked down at his hands playing the keyboard and thought about a little boy with autism and how he lost his father.
Then it came to him as clearly, as if the answer were sent down to him from some higher power. He'd ask for the chance to work with Katie Cole at CACU. The chance to help kids was too much to pass up even if it had the potential to be even more stressful then the BAU. At least there, he'd have new agents to work with and perhaps he'd more easily trust people that would give their lives for children.
When he finished the little sprightly tune he'd been playing he thought about calling Katie Cole right then, but he decided to let her have her weekend. He knew that with her job time away was as precious as gold. He thought that reading a few of the books he'd borrowed from the library earlier in the week was a better thing to do. Now that his headache was gone, he could be caught up on the stack next to his couch.
When he put down the third book an hour later, he still felt like his life was going in the right direction but he couldn't stop thinking about JJ and what to do about her. Henry was a huge part of his life. He had to see his godson, yet he wanted to blurt out that he knew the truth and he never wanted to see JJ again for everything she'd done.
He got up to pace the room again. He was a genius; he had to come up with some way to make peace with JJ for the sake of Henry. He'd gone over there every week for the last eight weeks and cried on her should like a grief stricken friend. He didn't know how much longer he could pretend that he didn't know.
He went back to his keyboard and started to play again. His mind went to Emily and he wondered for the hundredth time in two months if she were okay. Would she find Ian Doyle and take him out before he could hurt anyone? Would she come back if she did, or would she stay away? Did he want to see her if she did? Did he want to try to be her friend or forgive JJ and Hotch if she came back?
He stopped playing again and sat there staring at the black and white keys. Even if he did leave the BAU, he couldn't walk away from his friends even if they hurt him. Emily was alive and she was safe with new identities that none of them had, so even if Ian Doyle came looking for her, she couldn't be betrayed.
He scratched at his arm. The wanting of the needle was pulsing back in his head, but the pain of his headache stayed in the background. He grabbed his jacket from lying over the arm of the couch and his bag. He needed to go to a meeting, because it had been way too long. He needed the support of people that would never betray him. He needed his friends.