TITLE: Foxtrot Whiskey Bravo
AUTHOR: Kuria Dalmatia
PAIRING: Reid/Elle
RATING: FRM/R
See Chapter 1 disclaimers, author's notes, etc.
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It's almost one in the morning, it's freezing, and of course, the heater doesn't quite work in the sedan. This isn't the first time Elle's returning late to the hotel after a grueling evening with victims' families in a city/town/state she can't remember because it's so damn late and, in the dark, everything tends to look the same. It isn't the first time that late night construction has closed roads, leading to a traffic jam and detours that add an hour and a half to the trip. It's also not the first time she's been on the road with Reid, either.
It is the first time he's been so damn quiet. Except for giving directions around the construction—without any discourse about traffic patterns, the history of the public highway system, or whatever odd bits of useless trivia he always has on hand—Spencer stares out his window. He occasionally cranes his neck forward and presses his nose against the front windshield as he looks up at the sky.
The radio is off because they can't get a clear FM signal that isn't Country music and there's no way in hell she's going to put on an AM talk station. Reid is the only person she knows who carries books on tape with him and she's surprised he hasn't tried to put one in. Hell, she's surprised the car even has a cassette deck.
She's not sure why, but the silence totally pisses her off.
"Will you just say something?" Elle demands as she grips the wheel tighter. She glances over, expecting to see Reid flustered and his mouth opening and shutting like guppy. That's what he does when he's yelled at: turns into a startled nine-year-old. Okay, a normal nine-year-old, not one with an eidetic memory and an off-the-charts IQ.
However, in the pale green glow from the dash, Spencer looks calm, contemplative, and even a bit concerned. It makes her do a double-take. His voice is inquisitive yet soft as he asks, "What do you want to talk about?"
And shit, it's like she's back in some counselor's office; apparently a ten-year-old girl wanting to grow up to be a police officer is wrong, despite the fact that her father was one. Her mother's voice is shrill and clear in her mind: Ninguna hija mía… Elle reigns in her temper; there's no way in hell that Reid would know that he sounds like a therapist.
Or maybe he does.
It's hard to tell just what Reid knows.
Despite growing up in Vegas where betting on sports teams is legal, he's clueless about professional football yet…on that train in Texas and facing down a delusional psychotic with two guns, Reid knew exactly how to talk to Bryar. Exactly how to address the empty space next to Bryar, to refer to it as Leo, and to treat it like it was physically there. Going so far as to address the hallucination directly and, of all the damn things, carry on a conversation with both Bryar and Leo.
Impressive yet wholly unsettling.
Reid knew and he was on the train for less than thirty minutes. Elle was there for hours, and she had no clue about Leo until Reid brought it up. Thinking back, Elle comes to another stunning conclusion: Bryar's doctor didn't know about Leo either.
Proof that it's stupidly late and she's exhausted, Elle blurts, "That woman writes a book on the guy, but misses that he has an imaginary friend!" Once the words leave her mouth, she realizes that she's expecting Reid to know what she's talking about with only generic hints. She starts to clarify by saying, "I mean.…"
"Bryar isn't Deaton's only patient," Reid interrupts smoothly, not quite in lecture mode but close enough. "While she has an office at that facility, it's not her main one so she's not there to monitor him constantly. He could have easily kept Leo hidden from her."
She's getting used to his perceptiveness when it comes to talking about cases. Throw a pop culture reference at him, and Reid may not get it. Mention anything about any serial killer, and he knows. It's because of that, Elle goes on, "And no one else at the institution saw Bryar talking to himself?"
He snorts and shakes his head. "They probably did but thought nothing of it. It's a pretty common delusion. At that particular facility, the ratio is one staff for every four patients, which is higher than average. However, the staff can be anyone from a volunteer to an orderly to a social worker to an intern."
"You're saying they're not qualified?"
"No, I'm saying that it would be relatively easy for a paranoid psychotic to keep his imaginary friend a secret," Reid retorts, but it's not as friendly as she's expecting.
There's an edge to it, a tone which she can't remember ever hearing from him. There's something personal about it, just like there was more to the whole 'knowing what it's like' conversation he had with Bryar. Elle can't resist asking, "And you know all this because you bought into his fantasy?"
She glances over, again expecting to see a shocked expression on his face, disbelief that she'd bring that conversation back up again. Instead, she's treated to a completely unreadable mask.
His tone is flat as he says, "Yes and no. I did buy into Bryar's fantasy. I also had Garcia pull information on the facility before I boarded the train." He pauses and then his voice takes on a curious edge. "I guess you can compare it to how you knew that our two victims were high-functioning alcoholics. How their older children knew, but the younger ones and the women's closest friends had no idea. Those women only drank in the privacy of their homes and kept strict personal rules for when and what they drank."
Elle nearly slams on the brakes as he finishes his sentence. She knows she sounds hostile, belligerent as she demands, "What the hell are you implying, Reid?"
"I'm not implying anything," he replies, his voice still soft. "We all have different experiences, Elle."
And that is when Elle Greenaway realizes that she never wants to get on Reid's bad side. Oh sure, he looks like a harmless, geeky grad student with his messenger bag and sweater vests. He's rail thin and has foppish hair and is so totally not an alpha male it's amazing he ever got in to the BAU. His intellect is what opens the doors, and that's how they primarily use him, but right then, right there, any doubts that Reid can't fully hold his own are erased.
She should have seen it when he interviewed Eric Miller during that family-annihilator case. She wanted to stop the proceedings after Miller snarled at Reid to shut his mouth and asked if Hotch was his daddy.
Then Reid boldly asked, "My one concern is, Eric, did you or did you not continue the cycle with your own children?"
Miller broke, hard. And while Elle teased Reid about his interrogation technique, he simply replied that he wasn't getting anywhere with Miller and he needed a way in. Matter of fact. Not arrogant. Professional.
She shivers and swallows hard. The team has a tendency to baby Reid, even (sometimes especially) Gideon. It's automatic. It's instinctual. Reid's the type of guy who should need protecting, the clichéd brainy kid who uses his lunch money to hire a bully as his bodyguard.
Yet Elle knows now that Reid has been taking care of himself far longer than anyone expects. He's self-sufficient in his own way, and while his social awkwardness can be a source of amusement, Elle knows that he can use his intellect to ruthlessly cow someone into submission. Like now. She's at his mercy, because of all the slings and arrows she can shoot at him, his genius is his shield and his sword. He's a goddamn gladiator.
Her only response is to stutter, "No intra-team profiling, Reid."
Lame. Pathetic. Cowardly. Because the last thing she wants is a discussion on her 'experiences', on how she knows about the victims' drinking habits without having to look at the autopsy results or see the broken blood vessels on their noses that are usually hidden by makeup. How she knows their drinking patterns by what's kept in the fridge and why the highball glasses and full decanters of whiskey and vodka prominently displayed on the bar are dusty, because those women drank cheap booze from plastic tumblers (because they were just like your mother, her mind whispers).
"Like anyone follows that rule," Reid scoffs, but his voice is back to that light-hearted teasing tone, as if all is forgiven.
Elle forces her attention back to the road, mouth dry. He knows your secret, her brain sneers; it is countered quickly by, but he'll never betray you.
"If you take the next exit, there's a Waffle House point three miles from the off-ramp," Reid casually tells her as he settles back in his seat.
She knows it's not only a peace offering, but also a chance to talk. Elle automatically rails against it; the first rule of being a female law enforcement officer is not to share one's feelings. Even though she knows it's just Reid and he's far from the typical agent, she can't bring herself to accept. Instead, she asks, "One fourteen in the morning and you want waffles?"
"One fourteen in the morning and I have to pee," he replies with uncharacteristic bluntness.
It's her turn to gape. He usually doesn't use words like that. 'Urinate' or 'use the facilities' or any number of polite euphemisms for going to the bathroom. Never, ever 'have to pee'.
He looks over, a coy smile on his lips as satisfied he's blown her mind. "I can hold it if you don't want to stop. The hotel is only another thirty minutes away."
When Reid doesn't launch into the expected discourse about the human bladder, Elle finds herself laughing. "Waffle House it is."
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