It had sat in the pit of his stomach after reading the case synopsis, fingers leafing over the photos. Corn fields, why did it have to be corn fields? To tell the truth, he was happy Garcia gave him a paper file, paper files he didn't have to touch to advance photos, he could turn a page. Paper files he could quickly close the lid to, flip it shut. He didn't have to actually find the X at the top corner as his mind ran through that god-forsaken field praying he'd get back to JJ in time to help her. He didn't have to be derailed from that thought with a fist punctuated to his jaw.
He didn't have to be shackled in a seat in a shack in a cemetery with a revolver pointed at him.
For not having to do all of that, it was remarkably similar to a flashback. He hardly noticed the sets of eyes on him, for they were brief. Waves washing over the sands of a shore, one crashed over, another gently pulls up, and just as quickly as they graze the top layers, they reseed, back to the body of motion. Their new tablets of horrors, that Garcia misappropriated funds to get. No, he was fine with paper files he could close, and he did just that after committing their words to his memory, flipping back to the images of the victims autopsy photos once to stave off any potential worry his teammates might have.
Sand at the edge of the beach, even if only casually brushed by the waves still became heavy and sopping, soaked to a packed capacity. Reid tried to focus on aspects about this case, not Georgia, what made this unique; what made it similar to past cases, anywhere but Georgia, he almost missed it when Hotch told him to interview the strippers but his head spun when Hotch extended him a life-line, sending Morgan and Rossi into the field. The lag of words struck him, and for a moment Reid wondered if he'd be hit on by yet another prostitute, stripper, or other professional friend. He didn't forget to give his boss a truly thankful look. After all these years he'd never had to rescind his statement. He knew he'd understand, it was a farce, he didn't even know why he knew Hotch always would. Boy genius that he was, the Junior-G-Man and all his dark-age glory and he didn't get how Hotch could get him so well. He blamed it on the man's ability to profile, but that was just as much a smoke-screen.
He glanced at the photos on the jet's prompter, Morgan addressing the zig-zag style and couldn't help but think if he had zigged instead of zagged would he not have been addicted to narcotics for almost eight months?
Distracted wasn't an adequate phrase for Reid. He thought on so many levels at any given time that even if five layers of thought focused on one topic he could still tell you the ingredients in every item in his fridge, alphabetically by expiration date, form a geological profile, read back Dante in Latin from memory, play scrabble against himself by mentally assorting letters to statistical probability of pulling them, and still have space to think about whether or not he should refresh the paint in his apartment when he gets back.
That said, he was perfectly willing to give Hotch an ingratiated look. The others began working on dimensions of questions to ask, patterns to observe, things that might come in useful if they could dust it off from where it sat in the shelves of their own mental libraries, and for a moment it was Hotch looking back at him, not like a wave in the ocean, but like the moon looking down upon it, effecting everything the ocean had in it to move and feel and act.
Reid gives a soft smile, Hotch a curt singular head nod.
"We're going to get through this." That's all Hotch said, he didn't have to elaborate further, because he too understood, Reid understood that Hotch would never lie, and he'd always understand.
Fin.