tw- mentions of drug use/abuse, alcoholism
The Founder's Ball is now only a week away. The impending doom of the event starting to become more palpable day by day.
Between new cases every week and adjusting to a new-ish job, she hasn't had much time to mull over the detestable event she will inevitably have to attend.
"Admit it, it's horrible. He only serves champagne, the music sucks, and there's hardly any dancing. How can you even consider that a ball? That's hardly even a party, there will be no tequila."
"You can't really call it a ball considering it will suck," Derek sips his beer, "But you can consider it an excellent brown-nosing opportunity for someone who wants a promotion, like me."
He finishes his statement with a cheeky smile that makes Jo roll her eyes and stick out her tongue in mock disgust.
"I'm fine with my station for now, thank you very much."
"Could've fooled me."
She turns her head toward him, elbows hunched on the bar in front of her.
"What's that supposed to mean?" She asks, popping a bar peanut into her mouth.
"I don't know. I didn't really mean anything by it, and you don't have to get so defensive."
She squares her shoulders toward him, her interest piqued, "No, tell me."
She cracks the shell of the nut off in her mouth then spits it into her old cup with a clang.
He sighed, "I don't know, Jo-"
"Don't do this," she points a finger at him, "I hate when you do this."
He sighs, the intent look in her eye causing his defeat, "It's clear, to Hotch and me at least, that this job, at times, can be difficult for you."
Her eyebrow twitches, but she pressed on, "Difficult for me?"
"I just mean that I know working at the BAU wasn't your choice, and I know you didn't want to come back here in the first place-"
Jo quirks a brow.
"You're drinking a lot, lately. I just wanna make sure you're-"
Jo clears her throat, moving her gaze away from Derek and back to the drink in front of her.
"You might wanna ease up there, profiler."
"Alright," He concedes, "Sorry. I didn't mean to go there."
"Sure you didn't."
"Anyway," He sings, "You're kicking ass on these cases, despite everything. I always wondered what it would be like to be out in the field with little-miss-hothead."
She scoffs a laugh, "I do like it. It's nice to be able to have a case and then go home in a week. Being undercover for months at a time became brutal by the end."
"I bet," He nods.
"Hotel rooms every night, isolation for weeks on end, several identity crises. I would trade the power trip that comes with ordering police officers around for our private jet any day."
"You're vindictive, you know that?"
"Haven't had any complaints, other than Reid's incessant bitching."
"Can you cut my boy some slack?."
"Not likely.. It's just slightly too amusing to get under his skin. And a little too easy. Seriously, if I so much as breathe in the wrong direction he jumps down my throat about breaking his concentration."
"He's been a little...skittish lately. I'll give you that."
"I honestly think he just gets flustered by pretty girls."
Derek guffaws, "Bullshit."
"What? You don't think I'm pretty?"
"No, I think you're gorgeous," He corrects, "You, on the other hand, do not. Don't play with me."
"Whatever," Jo sucks her teeth.
His phone buzzes on the counter.
"Shit, I gotta run." He shrugs his jacket on.
"Who are you running off to? Selena or Tess?"
"Who? I'm going to meet Silvia," and a second later he is at the front door of the bar.
"You're disgusting!" Jo yells after him, cupping her hands around her mouth.
She earns glares from two elderly ladies at a table behind her.
"Oh calm down."
Her boots crush the pavement with grotesque thuds, smeared residue of what was once eyeliner coats her already dark under eyes masking her eyes in a shadow.
Her hair would be considered a rat's nest by any hairdresser, up in a bun with some strands falling around her face.
The B train rushes by, fanning her flushed cheeks with still night air. Her toes are lined up on the edge of the platform. She looks down at them.
The yellow warning line means nothing to her as she shoves her feet a little further off the platform.
The risk makes her buzz.
Her toes now dangle, the edge of the platform pressing firmly into the arches of her boot-clad feet.
She edges them a little further, her left foot slightly ahead of the right.
What if I just-
"You shouldn't stand so close to the edge like that. On average, there are 700 accidental railway deaths per year."
No fucking way. Her head twists over her shoulder slowly in disbelief.
"Congratulations. I assume you've now got your tenth Ph.D., in train deaths? Cuz clearly you haven't gotten laid looking like Jack Skellington over there."
There he stands, Spencer sweater-vest Reid, in all his unexpected glory.
"No, I just know a lot of meaningless shit that I shouldn't."
"Talk about swearing like a sailor," She turns back toward the train tracks.
He is silent, and she frowns before turning back around to face him.
Teasing him is no fun if he doesn't give it right back to me.
She observes him more steadily now, with stony eyes and bony cheeks. It's unlike anything she has seen, or expected, from him.
He wears baggy jeans and a loose-fitting hoodie with his hands shoved into the pocket, fiddling with something she can't see.
Her brows raise.
He stands a few feet from Jo, looking at her with nothing behind his eyes, and he is eerily still.
A bit of fear settles deep in her stomach at the lack of anything in his eyes and her curiosity gets the better of her.
She takes a step toward him.
"What're you doing on this side of town? Doesn't seem like your scene," She says with a slight tilt of her head.
He clears his throat, hands still in his pockets. His eyes dart around quickly and he wonders if they are alone on the platform.
They are.
"I, you know...I was meeting some friends."
Her brow raises further, nearly popping off her forehead altogether.
"You? Friends? Come up with something a little more believable."
A gut feeling tells her that something is off about this, and all frivolous arguments aside, she feels he may really need her help right now.
In a real way.
"Doesn't matter," He says, voice smooth as shattered glass, "I'm on my way home now."
Jo checks the watch that always rests on her left wrist, "Half-past midnight," She looks back up at him, "Didn't peg you for a night owl."
"Why do I feel like I'm being interrogated?" He reaches his left hand up, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably.
"Sorry," She holds up her hands, taking a slight step back, "Force of habit, I guess."
Jo smiles slightly, and the way the white of the street lamp above them shines on her teeth catches his attention. She's never smiled at him before.
She's smirked, she's grinned maniacally, but she's never smiled. Not like she is now.
"What're you doing out here so late?" He asks, his voice coming out a higher pitch than he would have liked.
"I was grabbing a drink with Derek. My favorite bar is on this side of town."
Spencer nods back, the two of them coming to a silence.
The two stand, still a few feet of distance between them. Jo tries to come up with something to say but is falling short.
Some sirens blare in the distance, along with the rumbling of the tracks below them.
She realizes then that they've never had a normal conversation. she doesn't know what to say to him on a human level. She doesn't know how to talk to him without bringing up his sweater-vest wearing habits or his unrelenting knowledge about things that don't matter much at all.
But she recognizes the droop in his eyelids, the slurs of his words, the shifting of his feet, and none of that stuff matters. .
"Look, it's not too late. I know a diner not far from your place. Let's grab a bite, on me," She offers.
"How do you know where I live?".
She bites her lip, "Hopefully you'll soon learn that I know everything." She finishes in a whisper.
The rumbling of the tracks gets louder until a large train car comes to a stop before them.
The doors open and Jo hops on the train. Literally, she jumps a foot in the air and lands in the car.
She turns to face Spencer, whose gangly form is standing still on the tracks, watching her trepidatiously.
"Come on, smarty pants. If we get there before one am I can get us free drinks."
Spencer wonders how on earth this is happening to him. He is high as a kite, about to join Jo Banks of all people on a midnight excursion.
He steps onto the train car, though, and joins her in the dim yellow light. There is a man sleeping a few feet away from them, but otherwise, the car is desolate.
Jo's hand wraps around a silver pole lodged into the floor with a stiff grip, and Spencer places his hand just above hers, steadying himself so the movement of the train doesn't rock him.
"12:48 on the dot. Perfect."
Spencer follows behind as Jo swings a glass door open to reveal a small and rather cozy diner.
There is some excitement from the patrons and workers when they see her come in, and Spencer concludes this is probably where she spends most of her weeknights.
The lights are dim, folks smoke cigarettes at the bar, and neon signs hang from almost every wall illuminating the place in a bright, colorful haze.
Spencer quite likes it.
"This is my booth," Jo stops before a table in the back corner and slides into the smooth leather seat.
Spencer sits across from her, folding his long legs to fit in the small space.
"This is nice."
"Nice?" She looks around, "I wouldn't call it nice."
"There's a charm to it," He shrugs, his gaze caught onto a neon green Heineken sign above Jo's head.
"Yeah, I like to think so."
They lull into silence. Her eyes dart around the space for a sign on what she should do next. They land on a menu.
"You hungry? They have killer BLT's here," She offers, trying to be of some help, "Well, I don't eat meat but I hear they're good."
Spencer nods slowly, eyes glued to a neon sign over her head. He taps his fingers on the table and Jo is really starting to get worried.
"Oh, no. I ate a huge dinner," he nods, "Oh! Maybe just a black coffee."
He nods to himself, "Yeah. A black coffee."
What is he on?
"Sure thing. Whatever you want, sweater-vest."
Her gaze lingers on him. She narrows her eyes, noticing his own are dilated and frantic.
She wipes the suspicion from her face when her favorite waiter approaches the table. She is grateful for the interruption.
"Thank god you're still here, Harvey. I thought I might have missed you."
"I know you like to come in late, Jo," Harvey smiles fondly at her.
Spencer notices, and he wonders if this Harvey thinks he is being covert in his interest in Jo.
"I'll take a Yuengling, and a black coffee for my friend here," She nods over to Spencer.
He almost laughs at her use of the word friend.
Harvey eyes him for a second, quickly turning back to Jo, "Sounds good. It'll be right up."
He is gone, and Jo feels Spencer's eyes have shifted to her instead of the sign above her head.
"What?" She asks in response to him looking at her with a childish glint in his eye.
He has a stupid smile on his face, and he shakes his head.
"Nothing. It's just cute that he thinks he has a chance with you."
She laughs loudly, which takes him by surprise.. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and her head tilts back a bit, exposing a razor-sharp jawline.
"You're funny," She nods.
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
Jo stops laughing.
"I was such an asshole to you," He looks at her intently, "I even tried to apologize... you didn't want it. You didn't even care."
Jo looks around them when his voice raises a bit, hoping he didn't draw any attention.
"Look, I'm sorry," She leans forward, lowering her voice to a whisper, "Just keep your voice down."
"Don't tell me what to do," He spits at her.
"What's wrong with you, dude?" She looks at him honestly, no bullshit.
"Nothing! God, why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Are you high right now?"
The exasperation wipes from his face, a smirk painting his features.
"Now look who's the funny one."
Jo isn't out of her element. She's dealt with people, friends, who were high out of their minds, those going through withdrawal, and hell, she's even been there once or twice herself.
"I won't snitch on you, ya know," She leans forward, "You can tell me what's up. I know we're not exactly, even acquaintances, really-"
"So why would I tell you? If we aren't 'acquaintances', as you put it."
Spencer's elbow slides towards her ever so slightly on the table between them, and the movement makes Jo's breath hitch.
"Uh," She blows air through her lips lightly, thinking, "I don't know. You and I are the youngest on the team by about ten years. I just figured it might be easier to talk to me than to like, Hotch...you know?"
Her voice was coming out quietly, contrary to her usual resonant blabbering. He crosses his arms over his chest, face barring contemplative curiosity.
Jo shrugs her shoulders as he continues to stare at her in silence. The stillness of the moment almost makes her shiver, and his heavy stare makes her feel pinned to the wall behind her.
He's the one who's got her backed up into a wall for a change.
She blushes involuntarily and he stared at her, smooth skin painted over with freckles and scars. She gulps, not understanding why she can't find words for the man in front of her.
It usually came so easily to her when it came to Spencer. Then again, they are usually arguing about something stupid and not even really speaking to one another.
Harvey arrives back at their table a moment later, wielding a glass bottle and a mug.
"Beer for you, Jo," He sets it in front of her with a warm smile that she tries to return.
"And a coffee. For your friend."
The mug settles on the table in front of Spencer with a small clang, a little coffee spilling over the sides.
"Thanks, Harley," Spencer salutes him, and 'Harley' sends Jolene one last small smile before walking away.
"It's Harvey."
"I know."
He sips his coffee and Jo watches as another mischievous little smile fades onto his face.
All night his face has been contorting into dark grins and sinister stares.
This is so fucked up, he is so fucked up.
"Okay, Look," She retracts her hands from the table, wiping the sweaty palms on her jeans.
Snapping back into reality is hard, though, when she glances up and sees the way he's looking at her.
His jaw is illuminated by the neon light, the precise edge prominently framing his face. It's strong, like his brow ridge that is pushed together while he looks at her carefully. His gaze does not relent.
She feels seen, which made her want to crawl out of her skin because who even is he? A co-worker who has done nothing but provoke her in the most irritating ways possible. He's practically a stranger, yet, she's letting him see right through her.
"Are you going to go on, Doctor Banks?"
Her lips part, in surprise or satisfaction, she isn't sure.
For a moment, Spencer has her in the palm of his hand. Checkmate.
He smiles smugly at this victory, waiting for her to make the next move. He wonders what she will say; if she will get passionately angry like she usually does, or if she will continue this unexpected, but very appealing, bashful facade.
"Y-Yes," She nods, "You just didn't give me any time."
"Mhm," He leans back.
Her eyes widen a bit, enough for Spencer to notice before she composes herself.
"I only asked you to come here because I felt like you might need some help. But I'm starting to sense I've made a mistake. Trying to help you. You usually want nothing to do with me, except for when you want to list all of the things about me that you hate."
He crosses his arms, "Don't pretend."
Her neck cranes back, the salacious way his voice comes out of his mouth makes her heartbeat like a canary is stuck inside the cage of her ribs, "Pardon?"
Her voice is as level as it always is, despite the raging going on inside her chest.
"Don't pretend you don't get a kick out of our little back and forth," She's reminded that he isn't himself when the end of this sentence almost slurs together into one big word.
She swallows, "You're the masochist here, not me."
The left side of his mouth curls up, leaning into the table, "Keep on telling yourself that."
How the fuck is this the nerdy know-it-all that she's come to know and loathe? How is he speaking like this, so confidently, so in control?
What could he have possibly taken to make him act this way? There's no way in hell it's coke, as it would make him more jittery than he usually is. Once heroin reaches the brain it provides the sensation of a rush, which is definitely contrary to the languid way he's keeping his composure now.
It could be an opioid, probably of the analgesics variety. Probably hydromorphone. But how did he get his hands on something like that?
His "friends" on this side of town?
"Can I call you a car home?" She pulls her phone out, hands shaking a bit.
She needs to make sure he gets home safe. No matter who it is, this shit can mess you up really bad.
The last thing she needs to see on the news tomorrow morning is twenty-four-year-old FBI prodigy dies of overdose.
She realizes she really didn't need to drink the last of her beer when the words on her phone look too blurry to read.
"Shit, I don't have my glasses," She sets the phone down, rubbing circles into her temples.
"I live about an eight-minute and 47-second walk from here. If you walk me home, I'll call you a car. Sound like a plan, Jolene?"
She scowls, the hard facade that had been slowly deteriorating over the last few minutes reappearing strongly, "You kidding? Why would I trust you to call me a car? You'll probably tell the driver to take me to fucking Florida or something."
"That's funny, but I'm not evil enough to think of something like that. Only you are."
He slides out of the booth, having some trouble getting his legs out, and throws a bill from his wallet on the table.
"Come on, it's late," He nods his head toward the door, "If you want to make it to Florida by sunrise we better call you that car."
The apartment is nice.
It's more or less what Jolene had expected. Muted colors and some gothic furniture with books lining most of the walls. Oh, and a Star Wars poster or two.
Or five.
"Nice place, save for all this nerd shit," she calls from her spot on the couch.
"Huh," He laughs. It's quiet enough for her to hear him rummaging around in the kitchen.
He appears a moment later carrying two cups of water. He sets one down in front of Jo on the coffee table before sitting on the couch a few feet from her.
He gulps his glass down in a few large sips, and Jo watches him in disgust.
He's high. Don't pester him right now. Save it for tomorrow morning.
Her shoulders are stiff and held, spine straight and tall.
"Thanks for playing babysitter tonight, but I think I could have found my way home."
She cuts him a look, "You were slurring your words half an hour ago."
"Don't worry, Jojo. I don't have a drinking problem," He shakes his head slowly.
Jo's breath hitches.
"Strike a nerve?"
"This is about you, not me," She levels.
"What about me?"
"I want you to be honest with me-"
He sucks in a breath.
"You owe me that much."
Even in his out-of-it mindset, he nods.
I owe you more than that.
"What are you taking?" She asks, blunt as ever.
He pretends to ponder for a moment, lips pursing together, "Mmm...I don't wanna scare you."
He's toying with her again.
Her face morphs into defense, she's almost offended, "Do I seem like the girl next store to you?-"
"Yes, actually," He laughs in realization.
"Cut the act."
This is it. This is what he's been running away from.
The way she is so stern with him now makes all of the playful carelessness that had invaded his system leave his body in an instant.
She has the power again, Checkmate, he thinks.
"This is it, then? Why you've been acting so intolerable and downright awful? Derek said it wasn't really you, but I had no idea-"
"You don't know me," He reminds her.
"Keep on telling yourself that," She throws his own words back at him.
"Okay, you've had your sick fun or whatever but I'm not-I, I'm not on anything," his left hand comes up to the back of his neck, holding the skin there.
He claims to know so much about pacifying behaviors but can't even see that he's showing Jo that he's stressed by rubbing his neck?
Women go for the sternum to calm themselves during stress. But men? Men always go for the back of the neck.
Some profiler he is.
He notices that his hand on his neck is signaling a tell, and quickly brings it down to rest on his thigh.
"Is it coke?" She asks.
"No," He doesn't move.
"Is it meth?" She searches his body language for any change in behavior.
"Nope."
"Speed?"
He shakes his head.
"Opioids?"
He pauses.
"No. Don't fucking profile me."
"It's not what I think? It's just a one time thing? You're never gonna touch it again?"
His throat closes, "You're putting words in my mouth."
"No. I just know everything, remember?"
Spencer knows the statement is meant to be a hyperbole, but he's starting to believe it to be true.
"Just," Jolene presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, "I don't know, dude. Be careful, you're young. You still have a chance to get that eleventh Ph.D."
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out to respond to a text, Spencer sitting beside her, stuck.
His high has almost completely faded, this conversation with Jo has definitely sobered him. Now all he feels is a pounding in his head and a weight on his chest from her words.
"I'm gonna go, my ride's out front."
"Ride?"
It's nearly two am. Who would come pick her up at this hour?
"A friend," She stands, grabbing her water and chugging the whole thing.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve and sets the cup back down.
He nods, looking up as she pulls her hood up over her head, hair spilling out of the sides.
She doesn't wait for him to say anything else as she makes her way to the front door.
As she twists the knob and the door creaks open, they both wait for the other to say something.
Jo even stops at the threshold, hand gripping the doorframe in anticipation. She just nods swiftly and shuts the door behind herself.
She takes a deep breath on the other side of the door. That was certainly-unexpected.
Outside of the apartment complex was the familiar 1989 Cabriolet. Jo looks both ways swiftly before crossing the large sidewalk to the passenger door.
"Who lives here?" He asks.
"Oh," Jo contemplates as she puts her seatbelt on.
Her eyes rake up the tall building and finds the room on sixth floor with the lamp still on.
"A friend."
