Chapter 5 – Old Friends

Essential Listening: Circles, Passenger

0o0

"Prentiss," said Emily, wearily, into her phone.

She and Gideon had been working on a paper trail that was beginning to feel like a dead end for what seemed like hours, not even taking a break to eat. She peered into the nearest carton of takeout, hoping there was some left.

"What was the thing Jack the Ripper took from one of his victims?" Garcia asked, from her lair in Quantico. It had been a long day all-round and she, too, had ordered takeout. "Besides, well, you know, her life?"

"Oh…" Emily groaned, trying to force her tired brain to remember. "Uh… er?"

"Mm," said Garcia, between mouthfuls of noodle. "Tick-tock, tick-tock."

"I don't know," said Emily, giving in.

"A kidney," said Garcia, triumphantly. "How horrifyingly fantastic is that?"

"Mm-hmm," said Emily. "And are you going anywhere with this?"

"Just that I found an unsolved murder that happened four months ago in Galveston, Texas, with the same M.O.," said Garcia, rightfully smug. "The victim missing that very organ." Although no one could see her, she pretended to take a drag from one of her chopsticks. "I amaze myself."

"Yeah," said Emily, pleasantly surprised, jotting down the details. "Me too, great work!"

"What's that?" Gideon asked, wearily.

"Garcia found a similar case in Galveston, Texas."

Gideon nodded.

"Lot of Katrina refugees relocated there," he said.

"It could be the same guy," said Prentiss. "He removed the kidney, just like jack the Ripper."

"Call Reid and Morgan," said Gideon. "I want the three of you on a plane to Texas tonight."

0o0

Waiting for another drink by the bar, Reid's phone rang. Checking the caller I.D. he ignored it, frowning slightly, putting it back in his pocket.

He and Ethan had eaten at one of New Orleans's busier cafés, where Ethan seemed to be a regular, chatting easily with the waitress and surreptitiously watching his old friend. He'd been surprised at how much of the New Orleans accent Ethan had absorbed over the years, and had been left wondering at how much they'd both changed.

They had headed for Ethan's bar, since he had to work later, and Reid had been reluctant to talk in the crowded café.

"So," said Ethan, watching him again. "Are you gonna ask the question?"

"What question?" asked Reid, looking politely confused.

"Come on, man," said Ethan, with an easy smile. "It's me here. We haven't talked to each other in years – I know it's why you called me."

He chuckled at his friend as Reid began to look sheepish.

"Ask the question," he said, again.

"Why did you quit after one day of F.B.I. training?"

"Well," Ethan drawled, appearing to think about it. "I'm sure you've considered the evidence, analysed the signs," he glanced up at Reid. "What's your theory?"

Reid shrugged.

"You were battling your own demons, you didn't have time to analyse someone else's," he guessed. His eyes shot up to meet Ethan's, hoping that he hadn't offended his friend, but he needn't have worried.

"Not bad, not bad," said Ethan. "Those days I did prefer Jack Daniels to Jeff Dhamer… they both weigh on your soul, eventually."

Reid frowned as his phone rang again.

"Sorry," he said, checking the I.D. and slipping it straight back into his pocket.

"The Bat-phone," growled Ethan, and Reid forced a laugh. He was ignoring Emily as more of a whim than anything else – a childish reaction to being interrupted – but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he didn't want to know what was going on with the case.

And that frightened him more than anything.

It was part of the reason he'd called Ethan the night before.

"Let me ask you this, Ethan," he said, gathering his thoughts. "Do you ever regret it?"

He watched his old friend almost breathlessly as Ethan considered his answer.

"You know, I may not be changin' the world," said Ethan, after a thoughtful pause. "But my music makes me happy." He shot Reid a long look. "Doesn't take a profiler to see that you're not."

Reid grimaced, paying for his drink and watching Ethan move across to some comfortable looking chairs in a darker area of the bar.

"It's not easy," he said quietly, following him. "It's not… I don't really believe some of the things that I've seen."

He sat down across from Ethan, nursing his brandy.

"John Coltrane," said Ethan, wisely. "He was a genius too – died of cancer. But most people think it was the booze and heroin did him in."

"What're you trying to say?" asked Reid, uncomfortable. He didn't really want him to answer. He knew the way he looked. These days he could look in the mirror and catch a glimpse of the boy he had been, but those glimpses were increasingly sparse.

"You look like hell," said Ethan, bluntly.

Reid scoffed, lightly.

"I'm fine," he lied, wrapping his free arm around himself.

"Come on, man," said Ethan, not unkindly. "I'm a jazz musician in New Orleans, I know what it looks like when someone's 'not well'."

Reid stayed quiet, squirming slightly under his friend's scrutiny.

"This may be the one time I can tell you somethin' you don't know," Ethan continued. He pointed at the brandy, and Reid understood that that wasn't quite what he meant. "It might help you forget," he said, candidly. "But it won't make it go away. And if I can tell," he paused, shaking his head. "You're surrounded by some of the best minds in the world – if you think they don't notice…"

He raised his hand, palm downwards and made it tremble, staring straight at Reid, who swallowed.

"Well," said Ethan, dropping his hand. "For a genius, that's just dumb."

Spencer looked away, unwilling to acknowledge the uncomfortable truth – at least aloud.

He knew that Ethan was right, of course.

He knew the physiological effects of his addiction – knew the toll it was having on his health and mental state. The effects of Dilaudid on long term users weren't pleasant.

At first he'd tried to convince himself that what he was doing was simply a way of weaning himself off the drug; in the time he had been with Hankel he'd had so much of the stuff in his system it was only logical he'd need to back off from it a little at a time.

Logical.

Reasonable.

He had known that it was no longer an acceptable premise when it had taken longer than he'd expected. He'd known he was on a dangerous path, known the odds of being able to quit if he kept on it – he could probably have quoted statistics on it, had anyone asked.

Again, he'd rationalised it, dismissed the rising need he'd had for escape – for release – and convinced himself instead that it was a means of dealing with the torture. A break from reality.

If anyone deserved that after the past few years, he did.

Each hit he took had become a vacation from the chaos of his life into the blissful, light world of his childhood, or at least the parts of it that he wanted to remember. Every memory as vivid and real as if he were actually there, living it over again.

Eventually, he had stopped trying to explain his actions to himself; he had run out of excuses.

He'd tried to keep it separate from his work, tried to stay objective, but he knew that it was taking him over. The team had noticed – of course they had – it was impossible to hide anything from them for long, and in any case he was an appalling liar. The cravings were much worse now, making him short with his friends, breaking his concentration.

Somehow he had begun to convince himself that they knew and didn't care, but most of the time he was aware how stupid that sounded, even in his head. They were good people on whom he knew he could depend, but in the tight, hot flashes of desperate need he felt himself despise them, and was repulsed by his own selfishness.

The shaking was the worst part.

It would start slowly, like an itch at the back of his mind, building in intensity until he couldn't stand it any more.

As Ethan had pointed out, it was one of the more obvious signs, and he would tell himself that he had to do it – he couldn't let his friends see the way he was shaking – see how little control he had left.

Early on, he'd made the mistake of shooting up in his own bathroom. After, when he'd cleared up, he'd caught his eyes in the mirror.

He hadn't recognised the person staring back at him from the silvered glass.

He wasn't fine.

He hadn't been fine in a long time.

Ethan's low whistle jolted him out of his thoughts. He turned in his seat, following his old friend's gaze.

Agent Pearce was leaning against the bar, chatting easily with the bar man. She seemed different here, free of the nerves working with a new team might elicit. At work, she had been every inch the seasoned cop, though with that slightly odd sense of humour Gideon had referenced. He put it down to her being British.

She had obviously headed back to the hotel after they had split up – her neat suit had been exchanged for the jeans he recognised from the evening before, when she had reminded him of a student attending some out-of-town conference. She'd kept the blouse she'd been wearing during the day, however, and Reid wondered whether she had experienced the usual hassle at the airport and lost her luggage – though she hadn't said anything.

She had a light smile on her face that made the corners of Spencer's mouth want to twist upwards in echo.

Instead, he frowned and glanced back at Ethan, uncertain what it was he could see in Pearce that Reid himself had missed. She was just another agent, one that might become a friend if the B.A.U. suited her.

Another agent, who – like Ethan – had probably worked out that he 'wasn't well'.

She was checking up on him.

She took her drink from the lethargic bar-man then, and looked around for somewhere to sit; he saw the recognition in her eyes as she caught sight of him and Ethan – who was still openly enjoying her appearance – and she nodded.

He returned the gesture, fighting the wave of anger and suspicion that rolled through him as she started towards them.

"Well hello," Ethan drawled, clearly enjoying the view.

"Hi," she said, with a smile, adjusting her course ever so slightly.

She had been heading past them, Reid realised, with a fresh flush of irrational anger. Did she think he'd just ignore her? Pretend she wasn't here?

"You're not from around here, are you sugar?" Ethan purred.

"The accent's a bit of a giveaway," she said, smiling wryly.

"You got a name?"

"Grace," she said, returning his appreciative gaze.

Reid fought the urge to roll his eyes. No matter where Ethan went he would find a woman that would hang on his every word.

"I'm Ethan," he grinned. "And this is my old friend, Spencer."

"We've met," she said, her smile freezing slightly as she took in Reid's less than friendly expression.

Ethan, far too interested in Agent Pearce, didn't notice.

"Ah, you're B.A.U.," he said; he turned to Reid. "I'm beginning to regret dropping out more with every passin' moment."

There was a brief, awkward silence. Spencer was surprised to notice that Pearce's cheeks had tinged slightly pink at Ethan's words. It rattled him slightly: the way she had argued at breakfast he hadn't expect her to be shy.

"Well," said Ethan, glancing between them. "I gotta take a leak."

Pearce glanced at him as he passed her, before she returned her unwavering gaze back to Reid.

They stared at each other – one hostile, one mostly just confused – for a few long, tense, silent moments. It was funny, he thought suddenly, that he'd been glaring at her for most of the day and hadn't noticed how unsettlingly blue her eyes were until now.

Spencer had been about to demand an explanation as to why she was following him when her cell phone rang, interrupting them.

"Pearce," she said, turning away slightly, consciously excluding him from the conversation. "Oh, hey Prentiss."

Reid tensed. This was not going to end well.

"Reid?" she glanced at him, and he felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

She would tell Emily that he was ignoring his phone, he'd be reprimanded – Hotch would be forced to start an investigation into his recent behaviour. He'd be declared 'unfit' for duty – he'd lose his job – he'd –

"No, I haven't seen him," she said, jolting him out of his panic. His mouth fell open; he stared at her, dumbfounded.

"Yes, I'll let you know. Good luck in Galveston."

She hung up, still staring coolly back at him.

"Wh-" he began, but Ethan was already coming back towards them.

Pearce threw back the majority of her drink and smiled at Ethan.

"I hear you're a native," she said, with a quirk of her lips.

"These days," he grinned.

"Where would a girl go around here if she wanted to hear some blues?"

"Ah, good-looking, has a gun and taste in music – you sure you don't wanna stay here?"

Grace laughed, and it seemed to Reid that the laughter had been startled out of her.

"I'll take that as a gentle let down," Ethan grinned. "You want Miss Dixie's off Decayter Street – here –"

Spencer watched her as Ethan gave her directions and drew her a map on a napkin. Aware of his scrutiny, she was managing her micro-expressions carefully, not giving anything away.

"I'll leave you boys to it," she said, finishing her drink in one, final gulp. Ethan was clearly impressed. "See you tomorrow, Reid."

He nodded, watching her as she departed, one eyebrow raised.

"She is somethin' else," said Ethan, appreciatively. "What – you sayin' you haven't noticed?" he added, on Reid's look.

"I only met her yesterday," he said, wondering what Ethan could possibly see in her.

Ethan stared at him for a few moments – that long, slow stare that told Reid he was being sized up.

"You are a long way from bein' 'fine', my friend," he said, sadly.

Spencer looked away.

Don't I know it, he thought.