Chapter Ten: Approach-Avoidance Conflict
Thanks to my beta, Greeneyedconstellations!
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Approach-avoidance conflicts occur when there is one goal or event that has both positive and negative effects or characteristics that make the goal appealing and unappealing simultaneously.
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On paper, it seemed almost insultingly simple.
Slave traders binding captured demons and using their power to launch what were, quite often, suicide missions against their home countries. The intel gathered suggested that there were five main locales responsible for the operations: one in Russian, three within the Middle East, and one unknown that they believed was the centre of the cell. Over three-hundred demons at last count were under thrall-bonds within the cell, fifty-three of them American-born.
Plans indicated that the cell intended upon sending the Americans home.
Fifty-three demons was enough magical force to decimate a small state. Worse.
Any progress made on demon rights over the last twenty years, gone in an instant if this succeeded.
The plan was to send Reid and his partner in as low-level transport workers into Moscow, the Russian locale. From there, they would follow the instructions given to them by the cell leaders and transport what they were told to, where they were told to take it. They would learn trade routes. Hubs. Commerce points. Reid was to use his coercion powers in order to gather intel on the location of the central organization. His partner was responsible for inserting tracking agents and devices into the locations they were permitted entry into. First priority: information.
Second priority: extraction. "You do not endanger the operation," Carrick had said first, firmly. Then, quieter, "But we've been slowly removing captured demons from the system. Fabricating deaths. Escapes. Runaways. You'll be given a set number per month to extract if your situation allows, and operatives will be available to assist with that. No more than the set number, or you'll draw attention to yourselves. While we won't recommend which targets to extract…" His gaze had flickered to a photo of two smiling children on the bookshelf. Parent, Reid had thought then, despite being very aware those children weren't his. Part of the illusion. "Use compassion."
Yes. On paper, it seemed simple.
Not that this was committed to paper. Reid was sorely aware that there was something layered to his recruitment. Something hidden. He was given a visitor's ID. He was not given an orientation, nor a desk, nor an employment contract. Any briefings took place in Carrick's office, between only the two of them. He could hazard a guess as to why his involvement was so clandestine.
A demon with his abilities, his past, recruited for this kind of work? It would raise questions he was sure wouldn't have easy answers.
"How fluent are you in Russian?" Carrick asked him once, looking up from a geothermic map spread out on the desk between them. Reid had been wrong when he'd accused them of being disorganized. For eight months' work—as he'd finally managed to ascertain from the dates and weather patterns on the reports he was allowed access to—there was a remarkable depth to their intelligence. Whoever they had on the inside was very, very good at their job.
At least they were qualified, which Reid was sorely aware he was the opposite of.
"но совсем чуть-чуть," he replied softly, and the sensation of being in over his head grew exponentially. For Emily. For Emily. "Russia is going to be dangerous."
One of only three remaining countries with an 'execute on sight' clause for demon kind.
"Won't be a problem. You'll be out of eyesight, by your mage's side, as a bound familiar. We need to know where they're transporting their… goods."
Their goods. Products.
People.
"Him being bound to a demon is enough to get him arrested in Russia or the Baltic States. If we transport there, my presence will be a hindrance." It was going to be a hindrance anyway. He wasn't ready for this. Not at all.
For Emily.
"You're capable of glamouring. We have white coats able to help with disguising your species when needed, in a more complete manner. Beyond that, you'll need to use discretion with whom you expose yourself to. The one benefit of those countries' distaste for demons is that very few of the population you'll be mingling with will have any… defences… against what you can do."
Use discretion, Reid knew translated into coerce them.
"Dr. Reid." Carrick leaned forward, arms flat on the desk, and for the first time a flicker of what looked almost like human emotion darted across his face. He was human. Most of the CIA was, or the few Reid had met. "I understand your reluctance. You're being sent under deep cover into a dangerous situation, very nearly blind, with a man you don't know, under the guidance of another man you don't trust. Listen to me. You are not a throwaway. You are not replaceable. Your work with the runes—yes, we know about that too—will aid you immeasurably. This cell is taking your kind, children of your kind, and turning them into weaponized slaves. Turning them against their countries. Their families. I don't need to remind you of how that feels, do I?"
No. No he didn't.
"Six months." Carrick's eyes were intent. Reid met his gaze evenly. "I'm asking for six months of your time. I can't guarantee your safety, no one can. But I can guarantee that I will be doing my utmost to bring you and Agent Enguerrand home. And Agent Prentiss with you. At the end of that six months, your contract is up. No matter how far you are or how deep you're in, we're pulling you. You'll be brought home."
Enguerrand.
"Agent Enguerrand is my partner?" It was with some interest that Reid, for the first time, directed the conversation towards the man who would take Emily's place in his mind. Interest and no small amount of… guilt. "Enguerrand. That's an old mage nobility name. French."
French surname. French mages were renowned for their specializations. In covert operations, they were particularly renowned.
Birdwatchers.
His partner was a raven.
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Raven. Common name for several large birds in the genus Corvus. Alternate use means: 'to ravage or pillage using violence.' Used in World War I as a derogatory term for the spies used to gather intelligence for the Allied Forces, linguistic shift and the growing power of the Magisteriums in Versailles, Orleans, and Quebec meant that the term was now more commonly used to describe the clandestine mages that the provinces produced from the five great nobility lines.
The oldest of which were the Enguerrands.
Reid understood now while the CIA were even willing to entertain the notion of sending him—untrained, unqualified, unfit and most certainly objectionable—into an operation like this. He was vastly underqualified. His partner, however, was the very definition of overqualified.
Birdwatcher: a term referring to spies usually within the United Kingdom. All ravens were birdwatchers, but only the best birdwatchers were ravens. And the best came only with a bloodline.
A French bloodline.
What was a French mage doing working for the CIA?
That night, Reid borrowed every book he could find on the magicien du français and huddled in his car with the window wound tightly up and back against the door, devouring them. He didn't take them home in case one of the team 'dropped' by on their ever-increasing attempts to try to circumvent his cutting off contact with them and enquired about his interest.
By the time he was done, the sky was a washy purple-blue barely visible through the thickly condensed windows, and his nose was numb and damp to the touch. He sniffed, snapped the book shut, and considered his options. What few he had.
He missed Emily. She'd have looked at this like a challenge. French mage, huh, he imagined her commenting, rolling her eyes. Psh. I bet I could run rings around him.
If Emily was here, he'd be going into this with her at his side.
If Emily was here, he wouldn't be going into this at all.
Can I trust him? Reid wondered, thumping his head back against the window and feeling the cold trickle down his neck.
You shouldn't trust anyone, was the answer, and that also sounded suspiciously like Emily. They'll only let you down.
It wasn't exactly helpful. He was still frozen with indecision.
And more alone than ever.
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"Spencer, open the damn door or I'll blast the damn thing down."
Intriguing. Reid rolled over on the couch, tucked his wings closer, and wondered who would win in a battle between his security runes and Rossi.
His money was on Rossi. His runes had the raw power, but Rossi had been outwitting demon workings since before Reid was born. He wasn't arrogant enough to assume his would be any different. Probably less so, since the magic in his walls was still entwined with the remnants of Emily's and would be sorely reluctant to injure their friend.
"Counting down from ten."
Reid huffed and sank lower into the couch. What part of no did the man not understand?
This was necessary. Unpleasant, but necessary. If they continued trying to involve him in their lives, what he and Carrick were planning would hurt them all the more. Withdrawing was the more favourable solution. Less… trauma.
Henry, his traitorous mind reminded him, and he shoved the thought away roughly. Henry would be fine. He was so young. If the worst happened and Reid didn't return… well, he'd be a pleasant memory. Not even that. Most people have no recall of anything that happened before their fifth year.
He'd be a story JJ would tell about a man she used to know. That was fine.
A story was so much cleaner than the reality.
"Four—three—fuck this."
Silence. Tilting his head up, Reid narrowed his eyes at the door. It stood quietly, intact, and closed. Huh. He'd never have thought Rossi would quit so easily.
Three and a half weeks since their chess game, and Reid had spoken to none of them except to quietly ask JJ to leave when he'd found her sitting cross-legged on the stairs of his apartment building. No Henry with her. She'd expected to be rebuffed, and had protected her son from that rejection.
Head back on his arm, using it as a pillow, he closed his eyes again. It was early, barely seven o'clock, but he was exhausted from wading through countless pages of coordinates and coded communications that Carrick had expected him to take a week to piece together.
He'd done it in eighteen hours, and he was due back the next morning for his physical. The medical magi would be ascertaining whether or not he was physically and mentally fit for the demands of being familiarly bound.
He'd be meeting his partner.
It was, he knew, the beginning of something. Whatever they were rushing towards, it was soon.
Arrangements had to be made. Taking a leaf out of Carrick's book, there was a spell-shielded box under Reid's bed filled with items that would tell the tale Reid wished them to tell. He had been a profiler. He knew how to weave an illusion that would fool even Hotch. Especially Hotch.
It would hurt him, hurt them all, and Reid was somewhat sorry for that. Somewhat.
An ear-splitting crack from the kitchen and Reid shot upright, wings out, bad knee almost toppling him off the couch. Gun. Where's my gun?
The spellwork flared with a spitting roar and the stink of ozone before simmering down and humming uncertainty. Prepared for the sudden influx of red runes sparking around his apartment, Reid had slitted his eyes to avoid having the image of the lights ingrained on his retinas.
Rossi had not.
"Shit fuck fuck arse," he was cursing, knocking over a mug and an unsteady tower of bowls as he slid down through the window and off the kitchen counter, hands over his eyes. Reid flinched as at least two of them shattered on impact with the ground. "God-shitting-damnit, Reid, is that necessary?"
"If they hadn't recognised you, you'd be dead," Reid replied, stepping off the couch and pressing his hands against his thighs to hide how they trembled. "You're trespassing. What do you want?"
"Well A: I'm super glad you're not dead because we were beginning to wonder," Rossi snapped, voice painfully irate. Dropping his hand from his face, he squinted around, blinking rapidly. "B: it's been two months and I'm concerned by the fact that you still have Emily's stuff piled around your apartment like a really creepy hoarder. C: you know there's this thing called a telephone that those of us not trapped in the fucking eighteenth century use to call people so they don't assume that you've tripped and broken your stupid neck in your stupid shower like an arsehole."
Reid was beginning to suspect that Rossi was a little upset.
"I don't want to talk to anyone," he murmured, and limped painfully to the door. "Please, leave."
"Noted," Rossi said, smug, and dropped into Emily's armchair with a thumf. "And ignored. Come on. Sit down. Lets chat."
Reid stayed standing.
"I am concerned—" Rossi began.
Reid cut in, "You're trespassing." He limped the last few steps to the door, gritting his teeth at the discomfort and yanked it open. Stiffening his back so Rossi couldn't tell how heavily he was leaning on the handle for support, he gestured out. "Leave."
The door was ripped out of his hand and slammed shut hard enough to rattle the windows. Silence followed. Rossi's face was blankly furious, like all of the anger he'd been easily hiding had finally come to the fore. When Reid looked down, Eris was pooling around his feet in a viscous black puddle, curling up over his feet and legs.
The panic was instant and the anger vanished. He stared at her. Words gone. His arms itched.
"Okay, that's it," Rossi roared, surging to his feet and throwing his arms in the arm. "I am done being gentle. 'Oh just give him space,' says JJ. 'He'll come to us when he's ready,' says Aaron. Idiots! You don't need space, you need a kick in the teeth!"
Reid whined but it was quiet. Muted. A squeak of a noise through a tightening throat. Eris shifted. He couldn't move.
He couldn't move.
Rossi wasn't looking. "—and I just know you're planning something so supremely stupid it makes my brain ache just to think about it and I'll be damned if I let you do it because I'm not failing her like that, do you get that? I don't think you do! I don't think you realize how much we fucking care about you, do—"
He tugged at his feet but Eris constricted, wrapping thin tendrils of herself up his thighs. Coiling. Black. Compressing.
His chest heaved. He looked at Rossi. Opened his mouth. Spots danced in front of his eyes.
Panic attack, his mind reminded him, like he'd forgotten. It had been months. Months since the last. Breathe.
I can't breathe.
"—they're at my house, waiting, I told them you'd be there, and damnit, if I have to move you back into my guest bedroom I absolutely—Reid?"
"Don't," Reid choked, and the world pressed down on him. "Please. Don't. Stop."
Rossi vanished. He looked down into that pool of black and saw red. Just like Hankel. Just the same.
"Eris, get off, back, fuck…"
The pressure disappeared and Reid sank to his knees, shivering becoming trembling becoming tremors that shook his body.
"Hey. Hey, kid. It's me. It's Dave. I'm not going to bind you. You're not bound. You're still free. Deep breaths."
Sense was quick to return, and with it shame. Reid looked up, focusing on a point just to the right of Rossi's eyes, and barely hiding the humiliation that burned under his skin. "Sorry."
Rossi shrugged, settling back onto his heels in the squatting position he'd taken. One of his hands was around Reid's wrist, two fingers pressed to his pulse point. As he shifted, the tip of his index finger brushed over where Reid knew a slim smooth scar remained from one of the bindings. Barely visible to the eye. "My fault. I… forgot. God knows how, but I did."
Reid felt his mouth twitch in an almost-smile. "Unusual. I get the impression that it's all people think about when they see me."
This was the worst possible time to be reminded of his weaknesses. Less than a week until he was to be bound again, even voluntarily, and a hint of that panic at the time would see him out on his arse faster than he could say, 'I'm fine.' "Did you want to keep shouting at me?" he offered weakly, and winced as Rossi snorted noisily.
"Sadly, I think you ruined the mood," he said. He stood, offering his hand to Reid and helping him up, keeping one hand out as Reid limped back to the armchair and perched on the side. A hesitant touch against his hand became a warm pressure as Eris oozed out from where she'd fled under the shadows of the couch cushions and curled a tentative part of herself around his palm. "Guess scaring the ever-loving shit outta you counts as a kick in the teeth. Don't tell Hotch, or he'll write me up for sure. You gonna come with me to see them? They… miss you."
He missed them, too. More than he'd admit.
Reid took a deep breath and pushed away the thought of Morgan's pranks and JJ's smile; Hotch's firm belief that he was innately good (you're not), Garcia's hugs. Henry. Jack.
Pushing the thoughts away, he replaced them with thoughts of the box under his bed instead.
Something crinkled in Rossi's pocket as he shoved his hand in there and pulled it out. A folded piece of paper. White. Crisp. Reid watched his hand as he hesitated, then held it out.
"JJ told me to give it to you," Rossi said, voice soft. "I wasn't going to. It felt… manipulative. God, but that woman would make a terrifying profiler, she really would."
Reid took it. Unfolded it. Scanned it. Swallowed.
Scanned it again.
Dear Uncle Spence, it said, the p backwards and the S twice as big as the rest. Blue crayon. I miSS you. and Love you. Can we go to the park?
"I think he added a dinosaur," Rossi said helpfully, poking a carefully scribbled swirl of smudged green. "To really seal the deal."
"It's a swing set," Reid corrected him. Voice soft. "It's him on the swings."
He'd signed it. By Henry L.
It was stupid. It would hurt them more.
But he missed them.
And his biggest regret was that if this went wrong, if he didn't manage to find her… to Emily he'd never gotten to say goodbye.
This way he could.
"Okay," he said, and reached for his cane. "I'll come."
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The relief on their faces when he walked in behind Rossi almost broke him. Almost. So close to giving in, to telling them everything, to admitting what he was doing. So close.
But then he looked at Hotch and saw the lies on the lines in his face, and the temptation vanished. Instead, he threw himself bodily into making this a good night, a memorable night, and he planned.
Dinner. Rossi and Garcia cooked again, their voices floating out from the kitchen as they bantered. There was an empty seat next to Reid.
Hotch slid into it. "Reid," he began, gaze steady. "If you need to talk about what happened, I want you to know you can."
"It's fine, Aaron." Reid smiled, and it was almost a real smile. Close enough to one that the worry lessened. "I was drunk. Honestly, I don't know what came over me." Liar, he thought again as Hotch nodded, but it wasn't with any spite. It had occurred to Reid, at some point, that Hotch was going to blame himself for what happened next, and there was nothing he could do to stop that.
(Nothing he could do to stop it, but ease it maybe. Reid collected magic kits, science kits, he had dozens. And a keyboard. Jack had shown an interest in all three hobbies on the few times the boy had visited with his dad. Reid taped them all into a box labelled 'Hotch' and didn't leave a note for him because anything he said would ring false)
Over dessert, he teased Henry with a spoonful of ice cream, making the boy attempt to repeat tongue twisters after him and only letting him have a mouthful of the sweet if he managed to get through five words without giggling. After three goes, it was decided unanimously that the number be reduced to three words, or the ice cream was going to melt. JJ beamed the whole time with the kind of happiness that came at the end of a nightmare.
(Photos. Photos of Reid growing up and with the BAU. Some of Emily's books. Anything he thought JJ would like. Anything he thought could be used to spin a tale of a man she'd once known, instead of the monster he'd become. To Henry went books and books of glossy maps, tattered maps, maps he'd collected and treasured and loved. Some still had 'S. Reid' written on them in the handwriting of a child. He regretted he couldn't give his godson more. He labelled the box 'JJ' and didn't write a note, because he knew it would break her heart)
They put the boys to bed and Reid permitted Morgan to talk him into playing a video game with him, one that Reid lost abysmally at every time. Even to Hotch.
(More books to Morgan. Mostly Emily's. Vonnegut, Tolkien, Adams. A few of his own. It wasn't enough. And a note. "Look after them. I'm sorry. Please trust me that this is the right thing to do." Morgan wouldn't blame himself, but he would be angry. Reid hoped he accepted Emily's books at least)
Garcia hugged him countless times over the night and he hugged her back every time.
(He left her the laptop because he knew she'd find it anyway and rip it apart trying to find some reason why. He also left her the box containing all the letters he'd ever written: to his mom, to Emily. They were private. Painfully private. But she was the only one, he knew, who would understand why he wrote them. His note to her was simple; "Thank you for smiling when I couldn't. You're the strongest of us all. I love you")
Rossi smiled at everyone and laughed a lot and only Reid noted how his eyes tracked him everywhere he went. Profiling, still.
(He left Rossi everything else. The man had it all already, but he also had sense, and he'd decide what to do with it. He didn't write a note because nothing he wrote was enough to say everything he needed)
It was a good night.
It was another last night. The next day, Reid met Carrick in his office as usual and the man told him it was time for Spencer Reid to die.
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The day oozed by painfully slowly. He'd woken with a vague memory of dreaming about Emily in a cold and windy place, face turned away from the stinging wind, and he hadn't been able to shake the numb sense of helplessness that had settled onto his shoulders as soon as Carrick had said the words, "We've made contact. You're to leave on Monday."
Three days. Monday morning, he would be rebound. Last minute, but as Carrick had said, decidedly preferable than someone noting that he was a familiar again. By Monday night, they'd be on a flight to Helsinki in Finland, where they'd travel by train into Russia and direct to Moscow.
It became very real in that moment.
After that, everything took on an air of unreality that was impossible to ignore. Emily haunted him constantly. You'll see her soon, he thought randomly, at the oddest stimuli, and the thought was thrilling and terrifying all at once. He clung to the book, carried it everywhere. Almost unconsciously, his hand sought it out in his pocket, his bag, wherever he kept it. Six months. That's not so long. Maybe less. She's alive, you know.
She haunted him like she hadn't since her funeral.
He turned a corner to the cafeteria at noon and saw her in the jaunty brunette ponytail of the woman in front of him. So striking was the resemblance that when she turned to allow him access to the cooler, he smiled warmly at her, automatic. It was a relaxed, careless smile, and her eyes crinkled upwards in response. She flushed, a whisper of red across lightly freckled cheeks and a cheerful snub nose. A nice face. A friendly face.
Not the right face.
His smile vanished in an instant, the loss fresh and burning, and she looked thrown and glanced back at him as she walked away. He stood there like a fool, blocking the door to the cooler, hand gripping his cane painfully tight.
At the firing range, she was a memory of a hand on his hip, correcting his stance. She was the scent of gunpowder, the familiar kick-back of the weapon in his hands, a cocky laugh when she outshot him.
She'd have been shocked. He emptied eight clips, and none of them missed.
Grief was a powerful motivator.
Hope was an even stronger one.
And finally, most painfully, she was a continuous presence in the back of his mind when three o'clock rolled around and he calmly got up and made his way to medical services where he would prepare to be rebound to someone who wasn't her. Who, within the next seventy-two hours, would take her place in his mind.
It felt like a betrayal, because it absolutely was. Necessary. But still a betrayal.
He walked into the brightly lit medical bay, and a man looked up at him.
It was him.
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"You are Dr. Reid?" A steady dark gaze was levelled at him, dark enough that his pupils were impossible to discern within the irises. "I'm to be bound to a cripple?"
Ah.
An illustrious start to their partnership indeed.
"Agent Enguerrand?" Reid asked, after nodding briskly. He straightened his back, and tapped his cane against his shoe as he brought it flush against his leg. Still visible. He refused to show shame for it. "I don't believe my physical capabilities are diminished. And well countered by my magicka and mental facilities…" He flushed at what was almost a boast, but this would be a short-lived mission if the other agent walked away from him right now. The book weighed in his coat pocket. This couldn't end now.
Enguerrand's lip curled. His was a coldly handsome face. A tumble of black curls barely swept out of his eyes offset the harshness of his jawline and sharp mouth. The eyes that studied him from under heavy brows were haughty, taciturn.
"We'll see," was all he said, turning away. He snapped at the mage to hurry, the man scowling at him and not responding. His voice was strange. The accent was audibly Quebecois, but inflected curiously. At the end of hard vowels, there was the smallest of stumbles, a pause, almost as though the words tangled as they fell from his lips. It was barely noticeable.
But it was there. Interesting.
"Could you slip up here, please?" said a female magus with a shy smile, sidling over to him. She glanced warily at Enguerrand, clearly glad to have gotten Reid instead of the notably irate agent. "I don't appear to have your file…"
"He hasn't got one," Enguerrand said, glancing over disinterestedly. "He's to be bound to me. Clear him for duty and move on."
"Oh." The magus looked again at her clipboard, and then up to Reid. Poor you, her expression said clearly. "A familiar, Romain? I thought you had one. Your bird…"
Enguerrand made a noise of distaste and turned away, shrugging off his heavy coat. Reid watched him as he folded it roughly and tossed it over the back of a chair, the sleeves made of a thick, stiff material patterned strangely with overlapping lines and dashes. "Apparently he's an…" He paused and smiled, a flicker of a smile, and mocking. "Upgrade."
Reid wilted inwardly. It wasn't like he'd expected to make friends…
But this man was going to be a part of his magic. His mind. Familial bonds were supposed to be…
This wasn't going to be like Emily at all.
You're getting her back, he reminded himself firmly, and walked to take a seat. What's six months with a proud man to get her back? No time at all, really.
"Okay, Agent, please alert us if at any point you feel your defensive spells being triggered so we can respond adequately…" began Enguerrand's magus.
"Do your job properly and I won't need to," replied the mage. Condescending. That smile again.
Just six months, Reid repeated. It's not so long…
It was an eternity.
.
.
There was one last detail.
"Understand that generally the mage-familiar relationship comes with certain benefits, including some level of telepathy. That will not be an option once your mental shield is in place. It is immovable. Impenetrable. You will be alone within your mind. I need your verbal and written admissions that you both understand this, Dr. Reid, Agent Enguerrand."
The pen felt slippery, cool, fragile in his grip. He twisted the cap, hearing it click twice, eyes locked on the thinly dotted line. Above that, it was a simple half-second to read the terms that he was signing onto.
I fully understand that this procedure is permanent.
I fully understand that the Central Intelligence Agency, the United States Government, and the attending medical magi take no responsibility for any negative effects sustained during and/or by the implantation of this procedure.
I fully understand that this is a medical procedure and, as such, carries risks to my bodily self, including but not limited to: permanent incapacitation, stroke, aneurysm, reduction to cognitive abilities, damage to magical facilities, loss of self…
"Tabarnak," Enguerrand murmured, his eyebrow twitching minutely upwards as he scanned his own contract. "Is this for real? You expect us to take this much risk for a possibility of capture?"
"We always plan for possibilities, Agent," Carrick's replied, his voice a low growl. "You are, of course, entitled to refuse the service. But no officer steps foot outside of our borders without some form of shieldwork. And the locales you may be sent to require the utmost of our magicka. Capture is a very real reality and will be highly unpleasant for the both of you. This will minimise that risk."
"There's a clause," Reid cut in, eyes locking on the line that jumped out of him. "What 'offensive properties' does a simple mental shield contain?"
Carrick looked affronted, his mouth twisting minutely into what would have been a sneer on a less composed man. "'Simple' is not the word I would be inclined to use," he said stiffly. The paperwork in his hands rustled as he tapped the sides on the table, straightening them into a neatly worked edge and laying them flat in front of him. "The offensive work differs according to needs. Both workings will ensure that you will not be… able to be used against us. You, of all people, would understand that necessity, Dr. Reid."
A chill worked its way down Reid's spine, setting the fine hairs on his neck on edge. Enguerrand's gaze raked him, not subtle, openly suspicious. It settled on his wings, narrowing when Reid tightened them, hoping the scarring wasn't visible.
If Enguerrand didn't know who he was yet, Reid knew he would soon. His history. His… indiscretions. His nature.
He wondered how that would affect their working relationship.
Enguerrand's expression was still just as carefully cold, just as closed, but somehow he turned it into disgust with the barest flicker of the muscles around his mouth and eyes. "Oh, I see," he said, and smiled. It was a knife smile, bladed and dangerous. Reid's magic hissed in reaction, his fingers twitching against his cane. "I understand. Suicide pills in the 21st century… how passé. A contemporary organization builds their self-destruct switch directly into their agents' skulls, of course. Much more elegant, ouais?"
"The measures are not fatal," Carrick snapped, and in that moment Reid acquired a distinct impression that perhaps his new partner was the kind of man who found all the darker parts in people and dragged them to the forefront. Within one short meeting, Carrick had gone from smooth to ruffled, his knuckles white on the pen in his grip. Then he saw it. A flash of movement, gone in an instant, as Carrick glanced at Reid and away. "Not in most situations. As you know, there is no defence from thrall bonding. If something were to happen to Agent Enguerrand, you would be left without even the tentative protection of the familial bond, Dr. Reid. In the event that someone attempts to bind you against your will, the offensive measures will be immediate and, unfortunately, fatal."
Silence.
"And in my case?" Enguerrand asked finally. There was no emotion in his tone. Reid stared at his cane, at the minute trembling of his hand, the uneven flush of colour to his skin. He released the cane, letting it lean against his knee. Turned his palm. Examined the burn, the whirl of bitter scarring, the faintest memory of what that skin had once symbolized. Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity. "Do I join my darkling friend in his sudden removal from this plane, or will you have mercy and merely reduce me to a drooling imbécile?"
Carrick stood, his chair thumping back against the wall with the sudden move. The papers under his hand scattered slightly under his hand. "Your magic will be crippled," he said bluntly. "This is the risk you take. Decide now on your paths."
"No," Enguerrand said immediately, right as Reid murmured, "Okay."
He felt Enguerrand stare at him, stunned. For the first time since meeting the man, he was rattled. "You will die," Enguerrand exclaimed, back stiff and shoulders straight. "Are you an idiot? It will kill you."
Reid signed the paper, the pen gliding easily over the surface. "There are worse things," he said mildly, laying the pen at a careful parallel to the paperwork, and standing. "Thank you for your time. I will report on Monday."
"Make any arrangements you must in the meantime," Carrick called after him as he strode to the exit, determinedly refusing to look behind him. "You will, for all intents and purposes, be deceased, Dr. Reid."
Reid waved his hand non-committedly over his shoulder at the two men without turning around, flicked his wings out, and let the door shut solidly behind him.
Enguerrand or no Enguerrand, he wasn't turning back.
He was finding her and bringing her home, no matter the cost.
.
.
The weekend flew by. His phone was noisy. He answered each message, but didn't commit. He prepared.
Every preparation hurt. Small cuts for each small action. Building and building as Friday flew into Saturday, and Saturday raced unstoppably into Sunday. He couldn't stop to take a breath.
He went for a flight Saturday night over the lights and the bustle of DC. It was meant to be quick. The flight turned into a slow spiral over JJ's home, Hotch's, Morgan's, Rossi's. Most had lit windows casting a warm glow onto their darkened yards. Within, they lived their lives unknowing that Reid was about to throw them into disarray. Morgan's was silent. He was probably out, living, finding a girl, a warm bed, a moment of comfort. Reid envied him.
He flew over the library. UDC. His favourite coffee-shop. The park where Emily had shoved him into a snowdrift last winter, before the nightmares and the beginning of the end. Katie's office. He mentally apologised to her. She would also be receiving a grim phone call when the week began again. She'd take it as a failure. He regretted missing so many appointments.
The flight became a walk. Downtown, with crowds around him, not noticing him, wrapped up in their own lives. Lights and traffic and the scent of food and people and his world.
He saw it all and memorized it. Said goodbye to it.
Then he went home. Early morning. Sunday morning. Twenty-four more hours.
The apartment echoed under his slow footsteps. His belongings, packed. In this, at least, he was easing the way for those he was leaving behind. If he and Emily returned alive, they could buy new belongings. The things he truly cared for he was leaving to his team, his family. They'd keep them safe for him, even unknowingly. The same with Emily's possessions. He'd sorted it all neatly. Over there, the labelled boxes for his team, in a careful row with the names outward. On the other side, documents and paperwork. Over there, books. His team could decide what happened to the unlabelled boxes. He was taking nothing.
Almost nothing. There were four things on the bare kitchen table that he wasn't leaving behind. Only four things.
Not long now. Sunday dawned. He made a meal from one can, took the final trash down, and took the box of food up the hall to their neighbour. "I'm going away for a while," he said with a smile. "I thought you'd appreciate this." She did.
Clothes he packed into his car and took down to the charity shop.
His car he had hummed over, but finally he added the keys to the 'Rossi' box, and finished tidying. Deactivated the security runes, taking a deep breath as the apartment hummed once and then fell silent. Empty. No trace of the magic he and Emily had woven together.
An ending.
Twilight. He napped for a bit, and when he woke it was the darkest part before morning. Time to finish the illusion.
The rune he knew. He'd made sure that there were trails of him researching it: books borrowed under his own name, not his college faculties'. Google searches. If they looked through his paperwork, they would find detailed descriptions on how exactly a demon ended their existence.
Stepping over. That's what they called it. Complete removal from the physical plane.
No coming back. Just the same as his father had, after his mother had died. Just the same as his entire species had, slowly, one by one as the years had trailed by and left them in a world that looked down on them and their kind. Maybe it's better they had murmured, according to every source Reid had discovered. Maybe it's something new.
He didn't hesitate as the knife bit into his left arm. Enough blood let to mix with the paint, to cement their belief that this gateway was for him and him alone. It would take no one but him. When the blood and paint was mixed, he worked quickly. The spell had to be cast while the paint was wet, was fresh. There was no slowing down now. By the time he was finished, the sun was an orange promise on the horizon out the window he'd opened to air the fumes.
The rune was large. It marred his carpet in sloppy white paint, tinged with red. No deposit back, unfortunately, not that he'd be here to care. He set it up carefully. He burned the candles down. He waited until the rune gleamed with the slick touch of his dark magic, and then he murmured the invocation and the room burned with the touch of wherever the newly created gateway would take him. It stank. Of heat and boiling fat, a hint of salt. The barest suggestion of something sweet on the back of his tongue.
But he stood outside the circle. When the bright white of the gateway faded, he remained. He wasn't tempted for a moment to step within. What could that world offer him that this would couldn't?
It couldn't offer him Emily.
The gateway closed. It was done. Soot marked the walls, the roof, the floor, in a strange spiralling pattern from where it had flared outward. The scent of the world that had only just brushed this one was penetrating. Reid hoped it wouldn't mar his belongings, at least not the ones he'd left for his team.
It was done. To anyone who walked in now, the rune told them one thing and one thing alone. A story that was collaborated by the books and papers he'd collected, the box he'd left openly on his bed like an admission. Opiates. Narcotics. The prescription medication he'd retrieved from his cabinet and finally unsealed, discarding half and adding the rest to the box. The box that spun the illusion of a man breaking. A man broken. An addict.
It told the story of a man who couldn't be hurt anymore.
He took one last breath in the life of Spencer Reid, one tinged with sulphur and paint and regret. Then he gathered the only parts of him he was taking, those four little items, and he left.
The door clicked shut behind him, ending the story.
Spencer Reid was dead.