Essential Listening: I Am Here, by P!nk

0o0

No one questioned the fact that she was along, even though she didn't have a firearm. She had that sort of expression.

Hotch took Spencer aside while they were pulling on their vests, ostensibly to ask if he was good to go, given the sizeable bruise and slight limp he had developed.

"If Garcia can tell us which location he's at, I want you there," he said. "I know what I'm asking, but I need another agent who knows what Pearce will be trying to do – and the risk this unsub actually poses."

Spencer swallowed. A front row seat for the first altercation between Grace and Bole had been bad enough, he had no strong desire to be present for round two. He buried the reluctance.

"It's just the same as any unsub," he reasoned, aloud. "None of us want to go to a scene where we know a heavily armed psychopath is setting up his endgame, but we all do it."

"Thank you," said Hotch, putting a fatherly hand on his shoulder. For some reason, the action strongly reminded Spencer of Gideon; so much so that he was momentarily disoriented.

He wondered what he would have made of all of this.

"Besides," he joked, "you know I do my best work in a state of mortal terror."

Still, he felt a little shakier than usual when he climbed into the back of the SUV.

"Garcia, what do you have for us?" Hotch asked, as they clipped their ear pieces in place.

There was a momentary silence. Spencer worried his lip, checked his gun for the third time, firmly told himself to calm down, and secured one of the straps on his body armour. Kevlar was all well and good against a knife or a gun, but it seemed a little pointless wen there was a man who could knock a whole building to the ground with a wave of his hand.

Though he was sure it was more complicated than that. There was a lot in the books he had read on magic about energy conservation, amplification and so on. Presently, he couldn't resolve the theory with what he had seen, but he suspected that was partly because he'd been so afraid he hadn't been paying the kind of attention he might otherwise have been.

His gaze came to rest on the vulnerable part of Grace's neck, just visible in the gap between the seat in front and its head rest. One rebellious, honey-streaked curl caught the light. Spencer found he couldn't take his eyes off it.

"Garcia?" Hotch asked.

"I'VE GOT HIM!" she shrieked, over the radios, and all three agents winced.

"Penelope, our eardrums!" Prentiss complained, from the other SUV.

"I'm sorry – but I've got the sick son of a bitch! I backtracked the VPNs based on his location and I have his IP address!"

"We already know where he is," Rossi pointed out.

"I know! But I can tell you he is online right now, using his home IP address."

"Garcia, you are a literal goddess," said Grace, but Garcia didn't respond.

Spencer's brow furrowed.

"We're nearly there," said Hotch. "We'll need everyone. Garcia, reroute Tactical."

"Yes, sir!"

"On our way," Morgan said, and the sound of three people being thrown through a U-turn came over the radio loud and clear.

Hotch turned it off and sped up. "Pearce?"

"Treat it like he's potentially got an armoury in there," she said. "With any luck, I won't give him the opportunity to use it, but..."

Spencer felt a prickle of something in the back of his mind; it made him think of gunpowder and summer storms, the taste of cinnamon and sugar, and the smell of bergamot and roses. For no reason he could think of, he reached out and touched the back of Grace's seat.

"Understood."

They pulled up a block away from Bole's address, and slipped out of the SUV together.

"Garcia, is there a back way in?" asked Hotch, switching the radio back on.

"It doesn't look like it, sorry. Please, please, please be careful."

"We're three minutes away,"Rossi advised.

Hotch met first Spencer's, then Grace's eyes. They nodded, then Grace said, loudly, "Did you hear that?"

"That was a scream," Spencer lied, feeling strangely calm, now they were on the ground and doing something – even something that went so completely against his training. He made sure he sounded appropriately worried as they moved through the street, which was empty – for now. "Guys, I think we should go in."

"Hotch – you've gotta wait!" Prentiss exclaimed.

"We're going," he said, and motioned for radio silence, knowing the rest of the team would comply. "Reid, you're with me. Pearce, take the back."

She nodded and vanished around the side of the house. Hotch beckoned him towards the front door, and the two men made sufficient noise to let Bole know they were coming and hopefully get him to head towards the back of the house.

Assuming he hasn't booby trapped the door, Spencer thought.

But perhaps he hadn't had time, because when Hotch kicked it open and they moved inside, all they found was an empty living room. Using a disposable glove from his pocket, Spencer turned the TV on and the volume up. Then he tapped his boss's shoulder and mouthed, "Do not touch anything."

Hotch nodded and they split up. Spencer moved into the kitchen. There was no sign of the unsub, but magical paraphernalia was strewn all over the table, amongst take-out cartons and various bottles of alcohol. He gave it a wide berth, and cleared the room. There was a basement door, but there was also a bicycle leaning against it, so it seemed unlikely it had been open in the last few minutes.

Hotch came out of the bathroom and they were moving together towards the next two doors when Spencer's ears popped. Hotch paused and grimaced, suggesting that his had done the same, then they heard a single gunshot.

Spencer's heart dropped out of his stomach.

Hotch took point, while he dropped back.

"Grace?" he asked, into the radio.

"I'm okay," she replied, sounding a little out of breath. "He's down."

Briefly, Spencer shut his eyes, lightheaded with relief.

"No sign of anyone inside," said Hotch. "I think the scream we heard must have come from the TV."

He shared a look with Spencer and they cleared the last few rooms, just in case, then joined Grace outside.

She had holstered her weapon and was leaning against the fence with an air of someone who would very much like a lie-down now, please. There was a wide circle of blackened grass between her and the unsub, littered with broken glass. He had a bullet between his eyes, one arm in a sling and a long, cruel looking knife in the other hand.

"No pulse," she said, without opening her eyes. "I checked. Don't step in the circle. I don't know what it is, but it made a heck of a flash."

Spencer skirted the edge of it. "He rushed you?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah. He had a knife. I had to shoot."

"Yes," said Hotch, then disappeared to the front of the house to meet the members of law enforcement pulling up.

For a moment, Spencer stood beside her, watching the slightly pained expression on her face. "You okay?" he asked, when she didn't move.

Grace startled at that, and opened her eyes. The guarded look was still there, and she eyed him warily. She shrugged.

"The flash hurt your eyes?" he prompted, and she nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment that it was probably a bit more than a flash.

"It did a bit."

"We should check there's no weapons inside," he suggested, privately adding, before forensics get here and hurt themselves.

She seemed to agree, because she pushed off the fence. "Hmm…"

Spencer followed her inside, taking care not to touch anything. He turned his radio off and motioned for her to do the same. "The – uh – list from the goblin market said something about crystal trinket boxes," he reminded her.

"That's probably what he used for containment. Did you spot an altar or somewhere –"

"In there," he interrupted, guessing the direction of her thoughts and pointing out the door to what he presumed would be a spare bedroom in any other house.

Grace gave a low whistle. "Jackpot. Looks like an Alchemy Gothic catalogue exploded in here."

"There's more stuff on the kitchen table," he said. "You may have to make that safe, first."

"Right."

She passed him, and he caught that scent of gunpowder again.

"Shall I start in here, or –"

"Be careful. He's the kind of ass hat who would booby trap his study," she warned, which wasn't a no, so Spencer pulled on his gloves and started rifling through the leather-bound volumes on the shelf.

In the background, he heard Morgan and Prentiss bustle in, check on Grace and then fan out into the house. Morgan stuck his head around the door and nodded at him, presumably to ensure that he was in one piece, and then said, "They're all good, Babygirl. Now, will you shut your screens down and go sleep in the breakroom, please?"

Spencer smiled slightly

"Yes, even Pretty Boy – he's right here. Hey man, tell this sweet lady you're okay, would you?" He thrust the phone at Spencer, who held up his gloved hands, so Morgan put the phone to his ear.

"I'm alright, Garcia, and Bole is dead."

"Oh, thank God," she moaned, with a relief palpable even through the phone. "Is – is – what – is –" Garcia stammered, and he guessed what she was trying to ask.

"Yeah, Grace is fine, too. We're going through his stuff, now, and we'll be a while. Morgan's right, go get some sleep."

"Hear that, Mama?" Morgan asked, taking the phone back. He rolled his eyes at Spencer, and carried on out of earshot.

Spencer's eyes met the empty sockets of the skull of a large bird, artistically placed on the shelf in front of him and quirked his eyebrows at it, as if it would understand. It stared impassively back.

Rossi came next, giving him the once over before continuing out through the back door. Spencer let the sounds of his team and local law enforcement Getting Stuff Done wash over him. This was how he felt safest, he realised. His mind on a problem, and people he trusted around him.

Not that he could let his guard down, even if he was essentially acting as a place holder until Grace finished with whatever she was doing in the kitchen. He moved to the desk. This, he felt, was something to be wary about. He started with the items on the top: a crystal ball on a ridiculously ornate stand; a letter opener that was probably just a very sharp dagger; another skull – feline this time (and under further examination, made of resin); a large, amber coloured geode (plastic); several beautiful looking books, stacked attractively in a way that suggested they had never been touched; a set of black and gold pens; a ridiculous inkwell with a red quill in it.

So, this is exactly the kind of person who would like the drama of secret panels and hidden drawers…

He dropped to his haunches and examined the bottom of the desk with his torch; sure enough, towards the back of the left hand drawer unit was a glint of metal: a catch.

He heard footsteps approaching and managed not to hit his head as he straightened up. Grace raised an eyebrow and he beckoned her over, and pointed the catch out.

"Alright," she said. "You should probably clear out."

He stood his ground. "Yeah, not gonna happen."

She raised an eyebrow. "Stand back, at least."

Spencer moved a couple of feet back and raised his chin defiantly.

Grace made a tutting noise, but flicked her hand and opened the catch with her magic. There was a click, a drawer that had previously looked like it was an un-openable part of the structure of the desk sprang open, and a cloud of something inky and black puffed up into the air. Grace cleared it with a wave of her hand.

"Is that it?" Spencer asked, after a moment of rather tense silence.

"I think so," said Grace. "Nasty little thing, for anyone not expecting it – like everything else he's set up."

Still, they approached the drawer with caution. There was a strong scent of liquorice and cedar, and Spencer recognised the resinous tang of dragon's blood. Inside, beneath a cloth of black silk, were seven cut glass trinket boxes, their inner sides lined with silver. Five of them had a sizeable dark crystal on top, and inside, just visible through the lid…

"Is that…?" Spencer asked, gaping at the crimson smoke.

"Looks like." Grace sighed. "I need to release them. Can you act as lookout?"

"Um, sure," he said, and went to fiddle with the bookcase closest to the door. A quick peek outside told him that there was nobody nearby – which he supposed Hotch was quietly orchestrating, elsewhere on the property. "You're good to go."

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Grace opened the window, returned to the desk and carefully lifted the first box out of the desk. It looked particularly strange – the obviously arcane in contrast with her blue forensic gloves; two worlds overlapping.

She murmured some words that he did not catch and the crystal on top of the box cracked with an audible snap that made Spencer mildly nervous. He checked the hallway again, but no one appeared to have noticed. When he glanced back, Grace was cautiously opening the lid of the little box. The smoke inside rose slowly into the air, hanging there a moment as if it was uncertain. Then it flowed out of the window.

"I hope no one outside is watching this," Grace remarked, mostly to herself.

Spencer nodded mutely, and continued the pretence of examining the books until she had repeated the process four more times. He felt the atmosphere in the room shift considerably when she had finished. It was one of those feelings that he hadn't known was there until it had dissipated, like a change in atmospheric pressure that wasn't quite real.

Grace nodded to herself with a kind of professional satisfaction, and put the box back into the drawer.

"Done?" Spencer asked, though he already knew the answer.

"They're at peace," said Grace, but she didn't stop examining the desk.

But there still might be things that could be risky to forensic techs, he inferred.

They worked quietly, side by side for a while, profiling as they went and disarming a wide array of magical paraphernalia. Soon, Spencer was beginning to appreciate why Grace felt such scorn for the wizard she consistently referred to as a hack. Dark and harmful objects were mixed in with useless trinkets that added to the 'aesthetic'. It was… tacky. He couldn't think of a better word for it.

"Hmm," said Grace, and this time Spencer recognised the intonation as 'Interesting.'

He joined her beside the sideboard under the window. It was littered with papers (predominantly scrolls), maps, props – anything and everything you would expect to find in the study of a wizard from a fantasy novel. His earlier cursory perusal suggested that the majority of it was gibberish. The scroll she was presently looking at, however, wasn't artificially 'aged' the way many of the others were, although it was on a fine, vellum-like paper.

"He designed the circle ahead of time," Spencer observed, noting the annotations.

"And took the containment into account," said Grace, pointing to the part which extended up the wall, like one of Dali's melted clocks. "It's actually reasonably clever," she said with audible scorn. "But it's flawed."

"How so?"

"These bind runes, they're temporary. They'd stop working as soon as he tried to absorb them," she told him, pointing them out. "The victims would have torn him apart."

Good, thought Spencer, and felt a curious lack of guilt for it.

"Hey guys, take a look at this," Prentiss called, from the lounge.

They abandoned the scroll and joined her, Morgan and Rossi beside Bole's computer desk. He had been, it seemed, a meticulous note-taker.

"He'd already picked out his next two victims," said Prentiss, showing them a notebook.

"Andy Lin," Spencer read. "A fireman who has multiple awards for bravery."

"Three guesses which aspect he represents," Morgan remarked.

"Anthony Fairley. I know that name," Rossi said, with a frown.

"Yes, you do," said Grace. "That's the DA."

Prentiss gave a low whistle. "Well, that ought to give them a scare."

"Legal, adversarial power?" Spencer pondered. "The power of argument and logic, perhaps?"

"And just general power," Rossi speculated. "In many ways, a DA makes decisions that affect people's entire lives."

"Life and death, even," said Grace. "That's why he left them until last, I guess."

"Garcia said he dropped out of medical school," said Morgan, thoughtfully. "I guess that's where his skill with the scalpel came from."

Or not, Spencer thought privately.

Outside, someone gave a shout.

They were out of the room like a shot, guns drawn – as were every other agent and cop on the lot, but when they arrived in the yard, where the coroner was processing Bole's body, they discovered the weapons were unnecessary. Two very pale forensic technicians were staggering back from the tool shed they had just opened.

Hotch was already at the door, and he waved for them to put their weapons away, putting one hand to his mouth as though fighting nausea. When Spencer reached the dark doorway, he could see why. Inside, hanging on pegs on the wall, were the skins of Bole's five victims.

0o0

The jet was quiet. Most people were drowsy, after several days of no sleep, compounded with nightmares that would last decades. They had stayed on in Wichita for a couple of days, helping Detective Singh finish up the investigation and paperwork a majorly weird case like this tended to generate, and for the first morning, Hotch had ordered them all to bed – including the Detective.

He had seen them off that afternoon, with much relief and a vast smile. Garcia had told them, when they'd got on the jet, that he had already applied to get himself and various team members on various BAU training courses.

All in all, with Bole dead and Rosetti's out of action, buried – Sergeant Barnum, who seemed to Spencer to be rather pleased with this news, had told them – under a mountain of tax return infringements (Grace had seemed just as glad of the news, and the exchange had left Spencer wondering whether that particular sergeant had some arcane connections of her own), the case had been resolved in a very satisfactory fashion.

It would have been somewhat more satisfactory, Spencer felt, if fewer people had been flayed alive, and if Garcia hadn't been targeted by a madman, but you didn't always get what you wanted.

As it was, their faithful technical analyst had – unusually – shunned Morgan's company and put herself between the window and Spencer, as far as she could get from Grace. Spencer didn't mind; nor did he blame her. His own introduction to the reality of magic had been much less dramatic, and much less illusion shattering. He had still needed to put a little distance between Grace and himself until he could reconcile it with their weird friend. Even so, the events in Wichita had shaken him. So, they were sitting side by side, not talking, but aware that there was something changed in them after what they had witnessed in the warehouse.

He knew that everything Grace had done had been in their defence, and there had been a handful of moments in that fraught half-hour when he had been unable to see anything but her beauty, with the magic she seldom used flowing freely through her, it had still been a terrifying thing to behold.

Further down the jet, just visible between the seats, he could see her, quiet and guarded still. He wondered if it was the dread of what Garcia might decide to say that was keeping her so close and wary. She was squashed into the four-seater around the table, with Prentiss, Morgan and Rossi, who were playing – from what Spencer could make out – seven card stud. Grace wasn't playing, and when, after a while, Hotch asked to be dealt in, she gave up her seat and slid into the one behind it, which was reasonably private and quite isolated.

She's putting up walls, he realised. She doesn't know how long she'll be welcome…

Momentarily, in his mind's eye he saw her striding towards Garcia, the glow of magic still clinging to her skin, her eyes flashing with strangeness, and felt himself move between them, and raise his gun. Spencer swallowed, feeling faintly nauseous.

Had he really done that?

No wonder she was feeling separate.

"I – uh – I gotta check on Grace," he said to Garcia, whose eyes widened a little, but nodded.

JJ was fast asleep on the bench seat, so he paused to pull the blanket over her shoulder. The others were absorbed in their game, but even so he felt Hotch's eyes on the back of his head as he took the seat next to Grace.

She was staring out across the clouds, her mind elsewhere. He saw her shift slightly as he sat down, aware of his presence, but not knowing quite how to respond. Spencer wasn't entirely sure where to begin.

A couple of days before, when they had slept tangled in one another's arms, the world had made a lot more sense. He could have jostled his leg against hers and probably raised a smile. Now, though, despite the conversations undertaken in a professional context, they were more distant again. He didn't like it.

It was lucky, really, that they were both profilers, and thus accustomed to reading meaning from other people's micro-expressions.

Slowly, giving her time to move if she needed to, he took her hand between both of his, willing her to understand that the rubbing of his thumb against the back of it was all he could do in a busy jet full of their friends and colleagues, and that had they been elsewhere, the gesture would have been something more.

Warily, and with some surprise, she met his gaze.

"I'm sorry about…" he said, and touched the hilt of his revolver. "It was – uh – all a bit of a shock."

Grace turned her face away, but he felt her fingers curl around his, and he pulled their hands lower, so they might be obscured if any of their spectacularly nosy co-workers glanced in their direction.

0o0

"Show her the butterflies," Spencer suggested.

It was the weekend – the first one in a while that they hadn't spent on the road, and the first one since they had returned from Wichita – and they were in Grace's back garden. It was sunny and warm, and she had felt Garcia would feel less edgy around her if they were outside.

It had been Spencer's idea to invite her over, and while Grace would have far rather avoided the conversation entirely, she owed Garcia an explanation – and the truth. She hadn't entirely expected her to show up, but she had, and she had brought a couple of bottles of wine, which they were now most of the way through.

Which was why Penelope was on the giggly side of scared, Grace was relaxed enough (despite the two hour conversation about magic) to let her guard down a little, and Spencer was sitting back to front on one of her lawn chairs, practically sprawled over the top of it.

He was looking deliciously dishevelled, and with the wine, was providing a not-unwelcome distraction – albeit one that came with its own problems.

"Butterflies?" asked Garcia, interested.

"Yeah, they're pretty cool," said Spencer. "Grace showed me them when we got stuck in the Pine Barrens," he told her. "You know I'm scared of the dark?"

Garcia giggled. "Uh-huh, and I know you hate that we know that."

"Not the point," he retorted, though he was smiling. He looked up at Grace, a sweet playfulness about his face. "Show her the butterflies."

"Alright," said Grace, and cupped her hands to her mouth.

0o0

When Garcia had gone, charmed and disarmed, and giddy enough to require a cab, she half expected Spencer to follow suit. The evening was warm, and it was a pleasant enough walk to his apartment, but he did not.

They waved Garcia off and it was he who led the way back to the garden. She watched him, strolling comfortably through the tight-budded early roses and the honeysuckle, and wondered if this was all a weird, stressful dream.

Spencer tilted the bottle toward her, and Grace read it for what it was: part invitation, part request to stay. She smiled, and let him fill up her glass.

"Thank you," she said, joining him on the bench. "That was a good shout about the butterflies."

Buoyed by the wine – and perhaps by the mutual changes they had made, to themselves and to whatever it was they were (which remained largely still unexamined) – he put an arm around her shoulder. Grace smiled into her glass, settling back against him, remembering how bold he had been in his hotel room. Perhaps this boldness was just a part of who they were now.

"I thought it might help if she could see that magic wasn't all fire and fear and stuff," he told her. "And I knew as soon as she saw that, you two would be fine."

"Still, I appreciate it," she said resting her head against his shoulder. "And I appreciate you not making a run for it. After what you saw in Wichita, I'm astonished you want to spend time with me at all."

The doctor made a derisive sound that settled the last remnants of the qualms in her chest. "Don't worry about me," he said, and somehow the way their legs fell naturally closer felt wonderfully safe and good. "I know what it is to be afraid of your own mind."

Grace snorted, but only gently. He wasn't incorrect. She held up her glass for him to clink it, and he did. Together, under the waking stars, they finished the bottle.

0o0

Well folks, I'm a bit under the weather right now, and with the way things are, I am therefore terrified. It's taken me most of the week to write this chapter, working as much as I have been able. I'm not trying to curry sympathy here, just letting you know there may be some delays in the coming weeks. It's also why this chapter is a little disjointed, because my writing brain is not on full power.

Also, with the best will in the world, for various reasons, I am not going to write the majority of Amplification, as I had planned. (I'm aware some of you don't watch the show, so suffice it to say, it's the Anthrax episode). To be honest, I don't think you guys need an in-depth examination of that particular storyline any more than I do right now. It's a shame, because honestly I think the performances in that episode are some of the finest in the whole show (particularly the General, in that bit on the subway). Anyway, I'm going to write the important bits – by which I mean the parts that advance Grace's character arc and her relationships with the team (primarily Reid). It's also annoying, because I was really looking forward to what I had planned for them, but in the interests of all our mental well-being, this will have to do.

Love you all – take care of yourselves, and each other.

Pxx