So that was that. Reid knew that Morgan was a killer. Part of him, the part of him that loved Morgan and had given itself up to him the night before, did not care about the missing links: the who what, when, where, and why. It was too sickened by the unexpected turn of events for all of that. But the other part of him, the part that was still heavily ingrained in the FBI and morality, did not want to know: it needed to know. It writhed and screamed inside him, it burned and hissed. And so the two parts fought a vicious battle within.

And Morgan knew about him but that was the part that Reid didn't know. Morgan's connections through the business side of the Company were extensive, inexhaustive, even, and for the price of a few favors had found out everything. Who Reid was, what he had done and, most importantly, the fact that he was a part of the FBI. So his late night rendezvous with the newspaper hadn't just been for fun. There was a possibility that Reid suspected nothing but Morgan couldn't take that chance. No, he wouldn't. He knew Reid. That beautiful, beautiful mind would soon spin out sinister connections if it hadn't already. Although the sudden change of events infuriated him he couldn't help but find the new side to Reid's character quite sexy.

#

They sat across from each other, dozens of sharp, glinting objects between them. Push come to shove, which one would be used for the kill? The blunt butter knife, crusted over with margarine and bread crumbs? Or what about the fork tilting precautious on the edge of Morgan's coffee cup? Never before could Reid have imagined that he'd be weighing the fatality of cutlery over lunch. Morgan, however, had done it many times.

They had each spent the morning researching each other: Morgan, in his study beneath the stairs, Reid in the guest room on the second level. As they perused the world of vice and virtue, they both remembered the night before and the almost furious desperation that had grabbed hold of them as soon as they woke. This did not deter either man, though it did cause their hands grow suddenly still at times. When they had emerged hours later in time for lunch a certain tension had fallen over them: a desire mixed with sadness and wary curiosity. What was the other thinking? What did the other know?

The fork fell away from the cup with a loud clatter and they both jumped. Morgan's hand instinctively went to his waist and Reid reached for the butter knife. Then, embarrassed by the futility of their actions, they both settled back into their watchful routine.

"What were you going to do, stab me with the butter knife? Come on, Reid." Morgan flashed him his brilliantly white smile.

"Honestly, I thought you were coming after me with your belt."

"All because of a little fork," Morgan shook his head, grinning, his cheek bulging around a mouthful of sandwich. "Although, to be honest, I'm not surprised you were expecting a belt. You, my friend, were unexpectedly kinky last night. You know, speaking of which-"

Reid cleared his throat and lowered his eyes to the newspaper spread out before him. He wasn't really reading it, he just needed a barrier to between him and Morgan: something to hide his thoughts. "I don't want to talk about it." Morgan stared at him for a moment in surprise then slowly lowered his gaze.

"Anything you do wanna talk about?"

"Nope." Thwip went the whip in Reid's voice.

"Hmmm….alright."

Morgan stood up and waltzed around the table to Reid's side. His hands shot out and he hauled the younger man up. Without hesitation he pressed his lips against his. Carefully, gently, he moved his lips against Reid's own with a barely suppressed passion, his tongue tasting the wetness of Reid's mouth with a primal sense of passion. Reid responded just as hungrily but all too soon he pulled away. "I'm going to go and visit someone," he said, avoiding Morgan's eyes. He tossed his bag over his shoulder (he had packed it with all of his essential items just that morning, a very small number considering most of it had been left in his hotel.) Quickly, so as not to give himself away or allow for hesitation, Reid turned and made for the door but Morgan was faster. He grabbed Reid's arm with a vice-like grip. The young agent spun around and tried to yank himself free but Morgan was strong, stronger than he had anticipated. Neither man spoke. They simply stared at each other – no – they watched each other. It was then, finally, that Reid saw the killer within. Morgan's eyes were cold, angry and his face was set with determination. He didn't want to kill Reid. He wanted to pin him against a wall and keep him there as a pretty, whimpering portrait until he gave in. Both men knew it.

Without a single word Morgan had made his meaning clear. Don't do anything stupid, kid.

He let him go and Reid stumbled out the door and into the front yard where a taxi was idling. "2412 Bourbon street," he said to the surprised driver, "Step on it."

#

Thirty minutes later found Reid at the steps of an old apartment building. To the left of the brick entrance stood a reddish plaque that read When New Orleans was the Capital of the Spanish Province of Louisiana (1762-1803) This street bore the name Calle D. Borbon. But Reid had no time for the swirling, Arabesque history of the city's architecture. He found the door marked number five and knocked. After a moment's hesitation he pushed the door open. Ethan had said that nobody in this part of New Orleans locked their doors. "Tourist are more interested in Alligator meat than the vegetarian bologna in my fridge," he had said. Now Reid wandered through the halls, flicking on lights as he went and calling Ethan's name over the sound of piano jazz that rode the steam wafting from the bathroom.

"Ethan!"

"If I were to die today, what would you tell me?"

"Where are you, man?
Ethan stepped out from beneath the kitchen alcove where he had stood watching Reid. This was surprising as Reid had expected him to be in the shower where the water was running. For some reason the sound annoyed him and he ran in the bathroom to turn the shower off. When he returned Ethan was still standing in the same spot, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Ethan, listen. I can't go back to the hotel and I need a place to stay until I can leave this afternoon."

"Where're you going?"

"Back home. I booked my flight this morning." Reid let his bag drop and fell onto Ethan's old leather couch with a sigh. "Has anyone been asking for me at the bar?"

"What would you say to me, Spencer? Assuming that you never saw me again after this?"

"What?" Reid eyed his friend with suspicion. Something was off about him. Reid hadn't noticed it at first but something was wrong with the whole setting: the dim lights, the running shower, the pitch of Ethan's word. The hair on the back of his neck began to rise.

"Would you say that you loved me?"

"I…what? What are you talking about?"

"We were always so competitive with each other. You wanted to join the bureau and I came rushing along after you. I wanted to leave my broken home and you came rushing after me. I would say that it was a tie, fifty fifty straight through the middle. But, you see, I fell in love first."

"Ethan…" Reid said carefully, his eyes moving between his friend's and the surrounding space. There were too many shadows for comfort. "I'm sorry but I don't really have time right now. Listen…"

"You're stupid, you know. You're the dumbest genius I've ever met. Now, I'm not insulting you. I'm making a perceptive observation – something that you just can't do. You, my friend, are blind. You refuse to see things that are right in front of you. For example, if I were to kiss you right now you'd say that you never saw it hovering in the air before you, although it's been there all along. So I guess we've both failed. I'm so sorry, my friend."

A set of strong arms grasped Reid from behind and lifted him from the couch. There were two men on either side of him: men with narrow faces and cigarette breath.

"We meet again, cowboy." one said and Reid recognized the voice of the man from the hotel. It was Cyrus, Percival's right hand man. The other one put a rough hand over Reid's mouth.

"Look at me! I'm so sorry! Spencer, really!" Ethan called over the sound of their tussling. A third man had come up behind Ethan and bent him at the waist. The muzzle of a gun was pressed against his head. "They were too strong! They were going to-"

But what they were going to do to Ethan, Reid never found out for at that moment a red-hot pain pierced his neck and he gasped. He didn't know that he had been pricked until he felt the length of the white-hot needle leave his neck. Stay awake, stay awake, he told himself but the room was spinning beneath his feet and his vision had become blurred, the colors of the room fluid. He was going to vomit or explode but before he his body could do either he had fallen against Cyrus, limp and dead to the world.