WARNING: Shades of non-con, coercion, foul language, and drug use. Spoilers? Maybe for 'Profiler, Profiled', 'Our Darkest Hour', 'The Longest Night', and possibly the two parter with Frank. Also, the risks mentioned herein regarding DXM use are not terribly overstated. I've said it once, I'll say it again: Drugs are bad, don't do 'em. If that doesn't work then please listen to this: do not attempt any kind of psychedelic or hallucinogen without a trip-sitter or another knowledgeable, trustworthy person present. Don't believe me? YouTube is littered with videos of people who picked an asshole for a trip-sitter. If you need a mood pick-me-up this then I suggest looking some of them up. *steps off soap box*
Aaron sat behind his desk feeling impotent and incredibly angry at the dismal prospects for leads. Desperately he was hoping that Reid had made one of his frustratingly typical left turns and had gone home in protest or discomfort at the subject matter of their case. Hotch had not been able to hold the rest of the team members in their collective inclination to venture into the city and look for Reid. Prentiss, Rossi, and Morgan had headed back out to North Beach. Prentiss was intent on searching Reid's room one last time. Rossi was convinced that with his network in the neighborhood he'd be able to get, at least and inkling, for where Reid had been seen last. Morgan had lapsed into his nearly indivertible state of search- and-destroy and had headed to the bookstore that Rossi had mentioned when they'd spoken to Garcia earlier.
Hotch was itching to do something, anything that would mean he could spare Reid any more pain or trauma then he was already dealing with.
It was too tempting to walk down that path of self-loathing and guilt. And those two emotions had become a disturbingly well-understood state for the Unit Chief over the year. Thankfully, he was pulled from his thoughts when JJ approached and sat down at the desk across from him. "Hotch," She said in a mothering tone, "None of us could have seen this. This isn't your fault."
"Unlike Oswald?" Hotch inquired with a deep chill in his voice.
"It's a hazard of the job, Aaron." She said looking at him, taking on the same stone-faced demeanor that her superior was donning. "Are you going to start keeping Emily and I behind a desk from now on?" JJ said as if asking a coach if he was benching her for the season. When Hotch let out a frustrated sigh, she reached across the desk and put her hand over his, "Reid isn't the awkward little kid that used to follow Gideon around anymore. He's saved each and every last one of us at least once and he isn't a child. You didn't do anything wrong sending him into Oswald."
"Morgan or I should have gone in his place –" Hotch could barely get the sentence out before JJ interrupted.
"Why did you ever let me on the emergency broadcast system to talk to William Flynn or in to interview Jacob Dawes with you? Why send Emily to Cuba with Gideon when you knew nothing about her with the exception of her pedigree? Our backgrounds are all you have to go off of. You knew Emily had the desire to please and the linguistics skills, you knew I would react genuinely to Flynn, and you knew the same for Reid. Reid had the best pedigree – he's got a mind like no else on the team – and you knew he would react genuinely and would not pose a threat to his interview subject. Hotch, I know Reid was hurt but I am failing to see how it was your fault. Reid went back under his own volition; it wasn't under your orders," She paused and then looked at him seriously, "was it?"
Hotch stared down at his hands for a moment, looking at the young woman's well-manicured hand that covered his, he shook his head before answering, "No. I didn't know why he went back until I had gotten Morgan's report. Warden Glynn had called me and offered little explanation as to why Reid was there that day."
The air between the two grew still until JJ spoke again, after a few beats, "Empathy and understanding is just as crucial to our being able to do our jobs as Garcia's research skills or Morgan's combat abilities. Spence isn't just a brain, he's a profiler, and a man with a whole array of opinions and experiences some - even though it's hard to admit – that are foreign to us." JJ stopped before walking into the inevitable question and removed her hand from the top of Aaron's and sat back in the chair. "Why did he go back?"
"He said the chaplain had called him," Hotch said, looking around the office. "Christopher Keller was not handling the new of his impending death well. " Aaron couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone.
JJ looked at Aaron quizzically, "Why would he go back after the interview was completed?" She asked rhetorically but Aaron interjected anyhow.
"I should have let him go after the Savage case. He's always been the best resource from the office. I had to fight Strauss tooth and nail to keep her, and the rest of the oversight committee, from retroactively withdrawing the exemptions that allowed Reid into the field in the first place." Hotch looked over the paperwork in front of him and then back up to JJ, "Do you think he might be at Michael's Daly City apartment? That he headed back there when Reid found out that he wouldn't be leaving the city. Do you think maybe he's just waiting there or at the BART station headed back because Michael isn't there?"
JJ picked up where he'd left off, "And maybe his cell phone is back at his room on purpose, abandoned because he's thinking of walking out like Gideon did and just hasn't found the way to tell you? Doesn't want to face you, for whatever reason?" JJ tilted her head to the side at the conclusion of her sentence and extended her hand to meet his again. "I think it's worth the possibility, maybe?"
They both paused to consider the prospect. Hotch would miss him. He'd miss Reid's wit, knowledge, insight, and that sweet look of deference that faded more and more as he had gotten older but still reared its head when he uncertainly but willingly followed the older man's directions. It was a look so infrequent that when it did unexpectedly appear it almost stopped Aaron cold in his tracks. In that instant, Dr. Reid became that timid genius kid that Gideon had brought into the Bureau so many years ago. It was that timid kid that Hotch had received after Reid's stay in the hospital, and it was the timid kid that he imagined in the clutches of the man that they were hunting.
Before he could vocalize his darker concerns, his cell on the desk began to vibrate. "Hotchner," His voice came through with a biting, frustrated edge.
"Sir," Penelope's voice came loud and clear, "The lab has just gotten the results back from the trace evidence that was recovered on the last victim. And I know in this job when we say strange, it really is very strange but this, sir, is just beyond strange. It's more in the realm of insane and extremely rare."
"Garcia," Hotch intoned, trying to speed up the verbose analyst.
"Right! Asbestos!" She declared over the sound of her fingers furiously striking the keys. "I know anywhere else we'd think that would be as useful as say, uh well, nothing, but!" Garcia declared happily striking her final key, "Asbestos was used in both pre-1906 and 1989 earthquakes. The first quake in 1906 is legendary for having nearly leveled the City. What wasn't brought to its knees by the original quake was eventually taken down by the subsequent waves of aftershocks and the fire that spread throughout the City." Garcia paused for a moment, possibly in her own little moment of silence over the terrible moment in history, "Therefore, you can imagine that asbestos in habitable buildings was already on its way out. Of course, when its toxicity was discovered, San Francisco's government immediately began work on removing what was left of it in the city."
"This isn't making me feel any better, Garcia." Hotch said with that inscrutable look on his face. He'd set the phone down on the desk somewhere during Garcia's history lesson, and had turned it to its speaker function so that JJ could listen in as well. Now JJ was looking on the phone as if it was painting the saddest picture she had ever seen – a look of abject worry and maybe even, defeat?
"Notice though," Garcia was back to punishing the keys under her fingers and speaking at her usual rapid-fire pace, "I said habitable buildings. He's holding his victims in an industrial or commercial space, possibly a warehouse or other kind of storage facility. There are a few lots in the Tenderloin, South of Market, and Bayview neighborhood that would fit this description. However, the Bayview before it was known for its rampant crime and disproportionate poverty, was a main shipping and manufacturing hub for our own United States Navy. Vacant spaces in this neighborhood that still relate to the Navy activities are still guarded and patrolled by Naval Security. I've already checked their system and they've had no security breaches, requests for clearance, or civilian activity in the last five years. I've sent the addresses for several viable candidates in the South of Market district for the local PD to check. That neighborhood, like the Bayview, was also devoted strongly to production and industry but a great deal has of SoMa has lain fallow with the unpredictable economy. The buildings that are occupied in SoMa are a mix between social service centers, art galleries, high-end lofts, and leather bars – it's quite the diverse mix. "
JJ interjected when her phone announced the arrival of Garcia's recently sent data, "Thanks Garcia." JJ rose from her seat," Hotch, I'll go share this information with the lead detectives and they can begin checking and securing locations."
Hotch continued, "What about the last neighborhood you mentioned?"
"Ah yes, that juiciest cut of graft and vice, the Tenderloin, where the vices are as varied as what's offered on the street." Garcia chuckled at her own pun, "The area wasn't always as seedy as it has become. The City has more of a containment approach to crime than it does of actually attempting to eradicate it altogether. The Tenderloin is bounded by Geary and Market St. at Van Ness Avenue – that triangular slice of land also encompasses the city's public service and municipal building, or the Civic Center. There is a scant list of non-habitable buildings in that area but I am sending the list to your device, Hotch." Penelope took a deep breath and then let out a forlorn sigh, "If that psycho has our genius, he's likely in one of those locations."
"Garcia, you need to narrow this down. I want you to run through everything. I want background checks on every Naval Officer, security guard, and window washer that even goes near those buildings. If one of them has a criminal record, I want to know about it. If any of them even had a constant runny nose as a child, I want to know. Garcia, we can't continue to stay this far behind him."
"Sir," Garcia said already furiously writing code that would allow her to make the necessary modifications to her devices designed to scour any and every wavelength for usable data. "I am not sure how that will narrow the list for us."
"Find them, Garcia!" He commanded, before softening his tone, "We can't leave him out there this time. We just can't."
#-#-#-#-#-#
Allan felt a thrill of excitement run through him when the hinges on the dark wood doors of the bar creaked and through them emerged Michael, looking handsome as usual but a little more bedraggled then most days. Before Michael reached the bar, Allan had already poured a drink and had it resting in front of him, in front of the empty stool that Michael was approaching. "You look like you could use this," Allan said pushing the drink toward the other man.
Michael dropped into the stool, took a quick gulp of the beer, before moving it out of the way and resting his head in his hands. "Spencer's gone."
"Man, it isn't like you to be so caught up by something so quick. He never coming back?" Allan said dismissively, cleaning a non-existent drink stain on the bar, trying to keep busy as his hands itched to reveal what the world really looked without Michael's rose-colored glasses.
"No, he's fucking missing." Michael said still staring down at the bar, forehead resting in his hands.
"I thought you said he was leaving?" Allan abandoned the rag and moved closer to Michael.
"Yeah, he was," Michael paused, trying quickly to make up a reasonable excuse that didn't mean revealing that he'd been trying to worm his way into the pants of a FBI agent. "Shit, I don't know how they knew, how the cops knew. They showed up at my house today as I was working on the bike. They didn't tell me shit, just shoved me into a car and brought me into the city. You know the drill," Michael said, looking at Allan as he took another deep swallow of his beer.
"Yeah, I know how it is," Allan said with an understanding smile, "What do they think happened to him?"
Michael felt anxious and angry as he tried to answer that next question but just recalling that photo that they'd slid in front of him, the demeanor of Spencer's colleagues, and the absolute bullshit leads they had that were supposed to lead them to Spencer. Michael was a twitchy mess of frustration. "They think someone here or in the area is carving up young boys – college-type boys," Michael took two more long swallows of the ale, "I was their best lead, if you can fuckin' buy that one."
"You're shittin' me?" Allan said hoping that the color hadn't drained from his face as fast as he'd felt his stomach hit the floor with that last comment.
"No, they had crime scene photos and all kinds of shit to throw at me, even some creepy Fed who acted like he was, ya know, that he shared my… my interest or whatever. He was plenty creepy but still totally unbelievable – all the while shoving this nasty picture in my face." Michael shook his head in disgust and then took the last few swallows of his drink.
"What's this guy doing?" Allan said, sighing like it was some big burden to hear.
"I couldn't tell," Michael said honestly, shaking his head. "The kid in the picture looked sick, dried up, kind of. He had bruises and cuts everywhere," Michael's voice wavered as he fought the emotion that he had so seamlessly converted to rage in the presence of Morgan and Hotch.
"Damn," Allan said, sliding the refilled pint glass in the other man's direction. "And they don't have a clue who actually did it?"
"Not one that I could see," Michael looked at the second glass and thought better of drinking it. He had to keep a clear head. He had to find Spencer. If he didn't he was certain that Spencer's coworkers would be of little help to the young man. Just the thought of Agent Morgan, had Michael rushing right back to that always accessible feeling of pure anger.
"Will you help me?" Michael asked and then quickly wrinkled his nose and the unfamiliar bitter taste in his glass. "What," Michael said gesturing to the taps in the middle of the bar, "You just clean those? This stuff tastes battery acid. I think you must have left some bleach in there." Michael shook his head as if to get the taste out of his mouth.
"Didn't mean to offend you with the second drink - taps must be off or the keg in the back needs to be changed out. Wait, help you look for that kid?" Allan said looking at Michael with an air of surprise. "Where would you even start?"
Michael didn't want to consider that answer. Where would he start? Would he drag Allan to Golden Gate Park and scour the miles of brush and search under the shade of every Cypress tree? Or maybe he should head back to the Palace of Fine Art? Or look in every bar in the Marina, or Tenderloin, or South of Market? Maybe Spencer had found a better way to relieve his pain and was blissfully bound in one of the SoMa dungeons racking up all the scar tissue he would need to forget whatever had happen to him.
That wasn't Spencer though, that was not the man he'd met in the bookstore and it most certainly wasn't the man he'd held tightly to as he drifted into an eventually fitful sleep. There was a glimmer of hope that maybe Michael would go home and find Spencer at his house in Daly City, having used his FBI resources and general knowhow to track Michael down. There was a glimmer of hope that he could just forget this whole plan, go home, and find that sweet, tired face waiting for him.
Michael took another gulp of the tainted beer, momentarily forgetting its deficiency, grimaced and swallowed a shallow mouthful.
Allan's eyes narrowed, "Yeah, I'll help you look. The old man will be in soon. He's got a nephew or somethin' that he wants to learn the ropes. Fuckin' kid better not be here to replace me." Allan could feel his face clenching into a craggy expression of anger which he tried instantly to correct by forcing out a laugh and straining his face to a look of placid jocularity.
"The truck's out back. I'll meet you out there once the old man's ready to go back here."
Michael nodded and looked at the beer glass, still three-quarters full of that bitter tasting liquid. He considered taking another swing before venturing out behind the bar but thought better of it. He needed a clear head, he needed to be ready, if he was going to find Spencer before….No, he couldn't go there. Michael couldn't allow himself to consider the alternatives to this situation. He couldn't for one moment allow himself to dwell on what Spencer was experiencing at the moment.
#-#-#-#-#-#
"I love you," Reid murmured, his head nuzzling the relative softness underneath his head.
"Ha!" A familiar voice said in that gruff tone that still had shades of an East Coast accent. Reid could feel the warm hand in his hair. "No one can resist me, not even you, Professor." The hand then playfully ruffled his locks and then continued to stroke his hair and cheek gently.
Reid's bloodshot eyes sprang open. The antihistamine, generic allergy medication, that Allan had given him did the trick and had decreased the swelling in his lips and around his eyes. Reid's rapidly quickening breath no longer came out in pained wheezes. That was the one drawback of using DXM, it was a natural histamine and in large doses over a prolonged time could cause heightened sensitivity to normal allergens. In this case, the overwhelming dust, mold, and decay of the bank had Spencer itching and wheezing after the second introduction of a third-plateau dose. Allan had carefully walked the line between sending Spencer into state of perpetually seized muscles, searing head pain, and eventual coma from the overwhelming swell of serotonin that the DXM caused to flood his brain in crashing waves of hallucinations and fever dreams. As it were, Spencer was once again deep into open-eye hallucinations. The DXM had given living breath to his fantasies and his nightmares and now they walked before him, feeling even more real than Spencer's own perception of his existence.
When Spencer's eyes opened all of the way, there he was sitting next to Reid's prone form as if he'd never left this earth. His hair had never gone, it was that same closely cut brown. Those ice-blue hawkish eyes still glowed with sinister vitality. He was wearing that same variation Reid had seen each time he'd come to visit him, this time it was that navy blue tank top with the contrasting stitching and the gray, faded cargo pants.
"You're not really here," Reid mumbled, a strand of saliva falling from the side of his mouth as he turned to his side to stare at the older man who was now crouched in front of him, still running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair.
"This doesn't feel real to you?" Keller asked, his hand coming the hair at the base of Reid's neck, Chris brought his face a breath from Reid's, "How about now, doctor?"
"You died," Reid felt his eyes moisten as the sweat on his brow ran down his face, supplementing the tears he wanted to shed, "You're dead, Chris."
Keller laughed again, that same throaty wise-guy chuckle. "That extra electricity must have done me some good because I've never felt so alive," He released Spencer's head and came to his feet, bouncing a few times on balls of his feet, like he was preparing to run a marathon. "I've never felt better, doctor."
"No," Reid head thrashed on the padding beneath him, he turned his eyes to the wall and hoped that when his sight rebounded to the opposite wall that Christopher Keller would be gone.
"All that training," Spencer squirmed uncomfortably as Keller's weight settled over him, when Keller's hands settled on the surface next to Reid's face, he felt a chill of mortal terror run through him as Keller's tattoo, the Cubist rendering of Christ on the cross, came into view. The tattoo breathed in front of his eyes. He could see that contorted mess of lines and shapes, rise and waver in gasps of pain. The Savior's eyes were cast to the side, his head turned like Reid's, to the side, but when Keller allowed the bulk of his weight to rest on the smaller man, the head turned, eyes streaming tears of blood down Keller's arm. "Spencer," Keller whispered when he noticed that young man's attention had drifted away from him.
"No, you're not here." Spencer said, looking into the weeping face.
Then Spencer cried out as a familiar sharp pain, that felt like it would rip him in two, seared his bowel. He was back on Keller's ground now, lying prone on the prison-issue cot instead.
Keller withdrew himself from Reid slowly and then stabbing brutally back inside the shivering young man. "You must have felt that?" Keller's tone was sweet now, reassuring even.
"Chris, you don't have to do this," Spencer whispered through the warm, salty droplets of sweat that fell onto his lips.
Keller pulled back from Reid, stilled his movements inside the younger man, and scooped Spencer up into his arms and pulled him against his naked, well-muscled chest.
Spencer's mind was screaming at him, frightened at the ease of the situation. This sweat-slicked, frantic embrace was the closest thing he'd had to comfort since this whole ordeal began. Even with the weeping Savior looking on his anguish, Reid felt at his center, a core of serenity. His academic mind should have kicked in and if it had, it would have told him that he was now crossing into an upper-plateau of the drug. Very soon no matter how tightly he closed his eyes. or thrashed his head about, trying to erase the images that stood before him, they would not leave him.
Reid squirmed in Keller's tight grasp. It was a relief to have the final vestiges of his clothes removed. He would have given anything for cool water; to drink, to bathe in, to pour over his body that felt like it was burning from the inside out. Keller's toned arms wrapped tightly around Reid and pulled him even closer. Reid was sure that at any moment, Keller's chest would open and swallow him whole. Chris bucked his hips up, sending another stab of pain through Reid's innards.
When Keller spoke again his voice sounded strained and out of breath, "Was I right, Dr. Reid? Have you seen that hack in a suit that sent you to me?" Keller licked up the side of Reid's neck, releasing a lascivious low noise of approval with each bead of sweat he collected on his tongue. He brought his lips to Reid's ear, "He taken your file back to his lonely apartment yet?" He nipped at Spencer's ear and smiled when he heard what sounded like a quiet groan of enjoyment escape Reid's mouth.
"I hit on somethin' you like?" He asked, lifting his hips again to move within Reid, "He asked you to show them to him, what's left of me?"
Reid turned his head again hoping that Keller would disappear but he could still feel him inside of him – he could still feel the heat and the pain all over his body. "Chris," Reid whined, letting his head fall to Keller's shoulder in defeat.
"Hmm?" He asked with a groan, "What do you want, Spencer?" Keller's hand came back to stroke the hair at the base of Reid's neck. "Ask me for something I can give you and I'll gladly do it. You didn't ask for much," Keller snickered, "and I did give you what you wanted, didn't I?"
Reid shook his head again. "No, Chris." Reid pulled back and looked into Keller's face. "I wanted you to stop, to let me go, just like I do now – you didn't give me that."
Keller stared at the younger man and went to kiss him but Reid's head tossed to the side again putting his lips out of reach and Keller's ice-blue eyes out of sight.
Keller would allow him this little refusal, for now. "Were you a good boy?" He asked instead, stroking Reid's cheek," Did you do what he told you? If I died with any regrets it was not being a fly on the wall for that conversation. Did he want to touch you, when he saw them?" Keller's free hand had come to rest on Reid's waist and was guiding Reid's in a slow grind atop Keller's arousal.
Reid gave into Keller's guidance of his body. Maybe it was revenge or a bit of easing the tightening cord of amorous tension curling up in his stomach but at Keller's last suggestion Reid opened his mouth and bit down hard on Christopher's shoulder.
Keller laughed heartily and pushed Reid backward, following him back onto the piles of fabric that lay on the floor. "Yes, baby," he cooed into Reid's ear now that he had the leverage over the younger man his pace increased, "Just like that – you remember," He sank his teeth into Reid's neck as a reminded as soon as the younger man had released his hold. "Did you let him touch you while you told him about how you finally gave in?"
Reid wanted to strike out at Keller. He wanted the older man to disappear but understanding that eventually this phantasm would leave him was impossible in his state. "No one enjoyed what you did to me but you," Reid whined as Keller bit down on his shoulder, renewing the bruise that just had erased itself from his body.
"This that what he told you when you confessed to how you begged me to cum?" Keller went onto his elbows and used a free hand to tease the exposed skin of the younger man underneath him. Keller's fingers slid and traced over Reid's skin until he landed on a familiar spot that made Reid shudder underneath him, "You'll beg for me again, Dr. Reid." He ran his hand over Reid's weak arousal and smiled when Spencer tossed his head away from Keller and let out a small moan.
Keller's lips spread into a Cheshire cat grin as he tightened his grip on the younger man. "Spen-cer," He said in a sing-song tone. Then Chris indulged in another low chuckle as he slowly drug his thumb over the head of Spencer's arousal and the young man arched up into his touch. Keller thrust into him harder, bringing his lips to Spencer's, capturing a hoarse scream in the kiss.
Both men were panting when Keller finally relented and drew back from Reid, "Will I get out of here?" Reid asked in a small, sad voice.
Keller looked down at him and then moved down to kiss the stray tear that had escaped Reid's reddened eyes. "I'll take you with me, baby."
And just like that Keller had slipped away from him as his head began to pound. Spencer turned onto his side, wishing he could draw his hands to his chest but he settled fo bringing his knees as close to his chest as he could. Reid curled into a ball, drifting in and out of consciousness, sobbing with each dawn of wakefulness.
#-#-#-#-#-#
Derek Morgan had walked almost the entire length of Columbus Ave. and between the tourists who stared at him blankly and the shop owners who couldn't seemed to be bothered, he was ready to lose his mind with worry. He'd ended up in Spencer's room, ready to toss the room just to relieve some of his fury. Morgan paced the empty space in the room, trying to imagine what would have drawn Reid away from the precinct and what it was that he was headed towards. He spun on his heel, ready to retread his path when something caught his eye.
On Reid's bedside table lay a watch, something with a thick black rubber band and a bold, metallic face. Morgan crossed the room and picked it up and turned it over in his hand. The band was worn and broken, it belonged on the wrist of a man with a labor-intensive job. The abandoned tie near the bed, the watch, and that smug look on Michael Peralta's face was all he needed. Morgan could feel his stomach burn with the implications of it all.
He'd like to think it was some kind of simpatico that had him so angry at the whole situation. Morgan would have liked to excuse his feelings as experiencing the emotions that he had refused. Derek Morgan was plenty happy with that role. He'd be angry, protective, and loyal because it was what Reid needed. Obviously, Keller's attack had only increased Reid's sense of insecurity and self-loathing. Morgan knew what it looked like to see someone sinking into themselves with little hope of ever emerging. He'd seen his own progression from happy, mischievous prankster to the serious, hulking teen-adult whose practical jokes now took on a tinge of sadistic delight.
Of course, his comparisons were purely motivated in Reid's case. It was easier to be angrier for Reid, angrier at a dead man, than to be angry at the very live bastard that now sat behind bar in some prison in the Midwest. As Morgan turned the watch over in his hands again, feeling the cracks in the flexible band, and imagining the man it belong on…in this room, in this bed, arms wrapped tightly around Reid. Of course, his anger had nothing to do with jealousy.
Derek Morgan could only stay in Reid's hotel room for so long before he started feeling as useless as he had out on the streets of North Beach. Derek headed down the fire escape instead of taking the sluggish elevator. He climbed down the rungs of the ladder, skipping ones when he could, to speed up his descent. The noise of the heavily visited district was overwhelming as shadow of evening began to envelope the city.
Morgan's head whipped around in the direction of the stained-glass bar and the alley that ran behind it, the alley that Morgan was about to drop down into.
There was a man standing at the back of a pick-up truck with a camper shell and there was another man getting in the passenger side of the vehicle. A figure he recognized, the buzzed hair, the bulky leather jacket, and that aggressive posture – Michael Peralta.
A/N: Well, unless something else occurs to me (and it may) this is most likely winding down to a close. Again, I am not totally committed to how I will be proceeding so if you have any suggestions, speculations, or ideas for improvement I am totally up for hearing what's on your mind. Thanks to all of the commenters, followers, and anonymous visitors. You guys are too good to mean and a very special thanks to the reoccurring names on that list. The repeated gift of your time and thoughts is a wondrous gift indeed. :D
