Chapter 08

Somewhere over the Midwest

The entire team settled into their seats, dimmed the lights, and didn't talk. That kind of bad. Spencer pulled out his iPod and sat listening to the roar of the jet engines because no music could soothe his soul. That kind of bad.

He knew that everyone on the team would do what it took tonight to get themselves back on an even keel. Garcia would go to Kevin, JJ to Will and Henry, Hotch home to Jack. Morgan would go find a girl and at least dance. Rossi would drink remarkably little scotch and listen to remarkably lots of the Rat Pack. Emily, of all people, would pray. Everyone had some healthy way to ease the memory of too many too young bodies and get themselves ready for the next case.

Everyone except for him.

He pulled out his phone and pulled up Paul's name. Once upon a time Paul Markos had been DCPD Vice, working a drug buy out of a far too expensive hotel on the hill. The supplier had insisted he sample the merchandise. Eighteen years later he was a NA sponsor, someone who both understood and would be there when a case ate a hole in your soul.

Bad case. Need to talk, please. –S

Spencer settled back and sighed. He didn't want to go home to his empty apartment tonight. He knew he'd spend far too much time staring at the walls, imagining them to be empty sewer pipes, imagining himself too young and the water getting too high. But he didn't want to go to Clare's either. Even after six months he still hadn't told her. He didn't want to tell her. 'Tell her' Paul had counseled, 'Yeah, you've been clean for what, four years now? But you're still and addict and she deserves to know what she's getting in to. Tell her.' But he didn't want to tell her. He didn't want to sully her clean, lovely life with his addiction. Not ever.

No.

He kept the phone out, and watched the stars.

1653 Caton Pl.
Georgetown
Washington DC

"Spencer. It's two in the morning." Claire yawned and belted a silk kimono around her waist. "Come in, love, you don't look well."

"I'm not." Spencer stepped in, left his rain splattered shoes and jacket on the rack by the door. In the end Paul hadn't gotten back to him, and he didn't dare stay alone any longer. In the end he had to come here. All he could do was hope that this wasn't the last time he'd be in her presence, in this little cottage that made everything right again. "This case was a bad one. I couldn't be alone anymore tonight."

"Want to talk about it? I'll make some tea." Spencer followed her to the kitchen, found his usual spot, a battered wooden chair that fit his long frame, leaning against the wall under the china clock; legs sprawled out under the table. How many times have I sat here watching her silently busy herself with kettle and pot, he thought, and it's always a good thing, a comfortable thing. "I'm making sleep tea." She knocked him out of his musings, "You look like you could use the rest."

"I just realized, you don't make any sound when you walk." Yeah, his brain was still switched over to profiler mode, clearly. "Just make regular, please, I have to be at a meeting in four hours."

"I'm barefoot." She shook her head but pulled out the black tea blend she favored for his mug. "The FBI expects you in at 6am?"

"No, ever. Not even when we went hiking that time. I just realized it." He slumped against the wall, rolled up his sleeves and took off his tie, relaxed into the warmth of steam and gas stove and kitchen. "Not the FBI. We're off tomorrow." He took a deep breath. "Narcotics Anonymous." He waited for her to be shocked, angry, confused. She just looked over at him with a small smile, as if waiting for him to continue. "Either you're clueless or you're not surprised."

"I've always been light on my feet." She came over and gently took his wrist, lowering his arm to the table so she could run a finger over the small scars in his elbow while she looked into his eyes, did not look away. "I figure you have to be clean, or else you wouldn't still be in the FBI." She smiled and brushed the hair back from his forehead, a gesture that curled around his heart. "Tell me, hm?"

"Yeah, four years now. They mean the whole one day at a time thing, though. Tonight's proving to be tough." He watched her slender form go back to the kettle and the pot. "We were chasing an unsub named Tobias Hankel out in Georgia. He was a computer repair technician; used peoples network cameras to decide who lived and who died. Only it turned out it wasn't really him. His father had abused him so badly that he ended up with Dissociative Identity Disorder." The silence of the kitchen was broken as the top of the pot slipped from her fingers and nearly fell on the counter. "He ended up with two alters, alternate personalities, one was the angel Raphael, who was actually doing the killing. Which is odd because Raphael was actually the archangel of healing, although it might have had something to do with the idea of cleansing and then healing the world of the perceived filth of the..."

"Spencer." Her voice was quiet and gentle.

He smiled. "Right. Anyway, his other alter was actually his dominant, abusive father. He couldn't survive without the leadership he'd come to rely on, so he internalized it and created it." He took a deep breath, shook his head and cradled the mug she brought him in his long fingers. "JJ and I went to interview Tobias before we realized that he was the unsub. I was stupid, thought I could catch him. The father, Charles, ended up holding me hostage for three days. You would not believe how painful it is to be beaten on your feet."

"Nooo." A look of strained distress crossed her features, and she took his other hand, held it across the small table.

"I'm fine now, I swear." Ah, see, he hadn't wanted to upset her. He held her hand snugly, lifted it to kiss her fingers. "So when Tobias came back out he realized what his father was doing and introduced me to his way of coping with the pain of the abuse. Dilaudid. It's a potent narcotic, which he mixed with some LSD, or something similar." He gave the tea a sheepish smile. "I ended up seeing things, high school, old cases, my mom mostly. And all of a sudden everything was okay, none of it hurt to remember. By the time the team found me I was pretty well hooked."

"I can understand that." She didn't let go. "What happened?"

"A few months later I was busily trying to piss off everyone enough to get myself fired when I ran into an old college friend on a case down in New Orleans. He helped me detox, then I came back and got into NA. I've been clean ever since." He took a big breath again. "So now you know the size and scope of my baggage pile."

"Yeah." It was her turn to kiss his fingers. "I'll drive you to that meeting tomorrow."

"Really?" There was something too easy about this. Maybe she really did love him. "You're okay with this?"

"Yeah, it's not that bad as these things go." Claire stood, tugged him to get him to his feet. "Stay here tonight, my bed is big enough."

Now that stopped him. "Wait, what?"

She chuckled. "Not that, just sleep. You don't look up to it anyway. I just hope the stars don't keep you awake." She pulled him in the direction of the stairs, turning out lights as she went. He brought his tea and obediently followed her. Once there she stopped at the tiny bathroom, pushed him past it, into her bedroom. "Right out."

Cozy. Like the rest of the house. Like her. Spencer had expected flowers and lots of white like the rest of the house, but the walls were dark blue, with swirls and patterns he couldn't quite understand at first. After a moment he realized it was glow in the dark paint, they would be surrounded by the night sky. Her bed was big and old and clearly well padded under those quilts. He stripped off his shirt, and pants, left them hanging on the bedstead where he could reach them if need be, then sat as a wave of tired overcame him. He flopped back, sinking into the softness of her feather bed, letting his head fall on the hard, sharp angles of her pillow.

The Glock 36 is a .45 caliber automatic pistol. It weighs one pound, four-point-one ounces, has a standard five-point-five pound trigger pull, and trades off being .16 inches narrower than the standard .45 for only carrying six rounds in the magazine instead of ten. It is a sublimely well-crafted killing machine, suited for smaller grips and hiding under snugger fitting clothing. It is also a remarkably ugly thing, both in design and purpose. He would have found a cockroach under her pillow less of a surprise.

He was lying there, looking at the ugly in his hand, when she came out of the bathroom. Silently she came over and took it from him, putting it back under the pillow that carried a delicately embroidered edging and the scent of her hair. "You're on my side of the bed." was all she said.

He watched her, then obligingly slid over. "Why do you have a gun under your pillow?"

She took off her robe, and in nothing but a soft sleeveless top and underpants lay down beside him and pulled up the covers. She's comfortable, he noted, she sleeps like this all the time. She clicked off the light, and the heavens surrounded them "Haven't you had enough today, hm?"

He was about to insist, but the yawn he gave would have made that a lie. And she was soft and warm in his arms and everything he had was dragging him towards perfect sleep. "Tell me someday. Tell me tomorrow."

"I will." She kissed him gently, then turned and spooned up into his arms. "Good night, love."