Like Water Through Open Fingers

"Time and people have a way of slipping away."

~Susan Gale.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

The day, the day, it's slipping away. The time and its hours, all blown astray. The day, the day, still slipping, always away….

He should have been counting the minutes. His mind was too fuzzy, flitting and flipping and whirling from one illogical thought to the next.

Terrorism. Him. It was real—the look on Keller's face informed him that this wasn't just some twisted joke, some mistake.

Well, obviously it was a mistake. But the people who'd put him in this room didn't think so—and that was the dangerous part.

He should have been counting the minutes. He was in too much shock at first—he'd let Keller pat him down, he'd heard the charges and the usual litany of the Miranda warning, he'd followed them down the hallway to this room, though he couldn't recall his feet actually touching the ground. He'd floated, and not in the pleasant, dreamy way one usually imagines when using such a phrase—no, he'd floated like a ghost, like a dead man, like an ill wind.

But the moment they'd closed the door to this room, he should have started counting. He should have paid very close attention to how long it took them to rally the troops, to build the defense, to dig up old dirt.

Timing was everything.

Problem was, he couldn't say if it had been fifteen minutes or fifty.

All he could think about was how this had happened, how he—Spencer Reid, a man who'd spent most of his life and his entire career at the FBI—was now seen as the Bureau's greatest enemy.

He shouldn't frame it like that. Made him sound like John Curtis. Goodness knows there were already enough comparisons between the Replicator and the current UNSUB, whom people seemed to currently think was actually him.

He'd built the profile. He'd helped. He'd done everything he could—he'd even opened up the wounds surrounding Maeve, had pried open his personal life like a clam for greedy gulls, letting them stick their noses into parts of his life that should have been his alone.

The evidence had to be there. It had to be good—almost water-tight (almost, because it was a lie, and all lies leak, even the best ones). It had to be convincing enough to people like Dawson, who'd seen enough of the world to know a fake, even a good fake.

Photographs? Some kind of photoshopped…something? Curtis had taken surveillance photos of the team. If this UNSUB was following the same pattern….

The day, the day, it's slipping away…

He needed to sleep. He'd been too worried about JJ, about Henry, about everyone. He'd told himself that he'd curl up with a nice long book and recharge himself once the case was over.

He'd have plenty of time to read in prison.

He couldn't think like that. Dour humor was good in most dark situations, but now wasn't the time for cracking jokes—he needed to be cracking this case, finding the leak, pulling it wider apart.

He should have been counting the minutes. It was all slipping away.

Slipping away. The UNSUB had felt as if everything was slipping away too—he was a coward, but a coward trying to take back some sense of control and assurance and courage. But control over what?

Linnea. She was part of this—or maybe she wasn't. Maybe it was sheer dumb luck that she'd gotten sucked into this.

Except Spencer didn't think luck was dumb at all—or that Linnea's involvement really bent towards the lucky category.

Linnea. Maeve. The bombing. Maeve dies, Spencer cries, Linnea writes the papers…

Someone reached out to Linnea, pretending to be Spencer. Out of a supposed connection—except that had been a mistake, because Linnea and Spencer had never met before. He'd gone to Maeve's funeral, but hadn't spoken to anyone. It hadn't felt right, introducing himself, pushing himself into the lives of her family during the darkest moment of their grief.

And who would think he'd be stupid enough to reach out to someone who could so easily be connected back to him?

God complex—the UNSUB doesn't expect to be caught. Maybe there was something to it—it could be misconstrued that Spencer intentionally contacted his former love's sister, believing that even when their true connection surfaced, he'd already be long gone.

Reynard the Fox, always eluding the snare…

Except he wasn't gone. He'd come back. He'd come back to help.

To truly help, or tempt fate? To prove your innocence, or test the intelligence of the other investigators?

He was interrogating himself, trying to answer the questions that would surely be asked of him.

But don't have everything figured out—it'll look too simple, too easy, too planned—and that will only make them suspect you more. Having an answer for everything implies that you knew it would hit long before it actually did.

Well, no problem there, because he certainly didn't have an answer for everything—truly, he didn't have an answer for anything.

Think. Think about Curtis. Not just why he did it, but what he did…

Phone calls, letters—taunts in the open. Photographs, surveillance—stalking in the shadows. Shards of glass with fingerprints, letters laced with poison—traps built in the cleverest of ways.

But it all unraveled. It always unraveled.

Not always. The Zodiac got away. Jack the Ripper got away. Dozens upon dozens of monsters slipped past the best of minds.

Can't think like that. Can't allow the possibilities to even surface.

Innocent people went to prison every day. He could become a statistic, too.

Fifteen or fifty? Take a guess, Doctor. How long has it been?

Focus. What's this guy's motive? Why you? Everyone has a reason—even if they don't know they have a reason. That was another lesson Gideon had taught him. Spencer suddenly felt a tug of longing for his old mentor—if Gideon were still here, he'd have already busted down the door, bellowing in protest at the absolute outrage of even considering that Spencer Reid would do such a thing (then again, that might be one of the reasons that Gideon wasn't a federal agent anymore—poor impulse control wasn't exactly something that got you promoted or showered with praise).

The UNSUB didn't seem to be targeting the rest of the team—aside from the bomb being sent to the entire BAU. The latest developments all seemed to be directly aimed at him.

So why? Was it some "master-mind" that he'd outwitted on a previous case? No, it was an inside job…someone he'd made look less-than-stellar on some joint case? It didn't seem likely—yes, he was good at his job, but he always made sure never to rub his intelligence into other people's faces (unless they were being jerks and completely deserved a good verbal lashing). He couldn't remember a single encounter in the last few years that would have been categorized as hostile—the team spent so much time on the road that he hardly had time to learn the names of the people on the sixth floor, much less meet, work with, and somehow insult one of them.

And how would this person know about Maeve?

That was the big question.

And whatever the answer was, it certainly wasn't by coincidence.

He needed Penelope. Really, he needed his whole team. But Penelope's skills would definitely be needed, first and foremost.

There it was—the logical way to look at it. Deconstruct the issue, take it apart like the alarm clock in his bedroom when he was seven (his mother hadn't been too pleased about that, though she'd taken him out for ice cream when he'd figured out how to put it back together again). Take each piece, assign it to the proper section—or in this case, the proper teammate.

Penelope was the easiest place to start. She could tap her little magic fingers across her keyboard and find things that no one else even knew existed. So what would he assign to her?

The email. By far the most obvious, and the most pressing. It was supposedly sent from his phone, from his standard Bureau account (which he almost never used—he couldn't even remember the last time he'd sent an email). Find out where it came from, really, and perhaps who sent it. And exactly when it was sent—he wasn't a technophile, but he knew emails could be set on delay, actually sending at a later time. Morgan had tried to show him how to do it, once. He'd been reading a book and not even remotely pretending to pay attention.

His cellphone. He needed to find it now—what was once merely something lost in the heat of the moment now became a crucial piece of evidence.

His train of thought skittered for a moment—he'd lost it (or at least realized that it was lost) when he'd gotten into the ambulance with JJ. He needed to be with her now. He needed to be with Henry now. He needed everyone to realize his innocence as quickly as possible, so that he could get back to doing more important things, like taking care of his family.

Family. Linnea. Maeve. Who could have known?

"So tell me how you know Maeve Donovan." Judith Eden's tone was back into conversational territory, as if she hadn't just batted David Rossi around like an insane cat with a mouse.

"Tell me how that's relevant to this investigation," Rossi shot back coolly, crossing his arms over his chest. He'd been answering Eden's questions, round and round, the same questions with the same answers, but this was the first mention of Maeve—and despite his desire to prove his innocence, he still needed to shield Spencer from any further damage that could come from pulling apart the one corner of his life that he'd so diligently tried to keep private.

Eden merely grinned (still on the ball, I see). Her tone was teasingly chiding, "Now, Agent Rossi, this isn't my first rodeo—nor is it yours, not by half. We both know that I'm supposed to be the one asking the questions, and you're supposed to answer them."

He simply stared blankly back at her.

"Ah, I see we've reached an impasse," she shifted in her seat, her words dripping with feigned concern. "So I guess it means that it is my turn to start spilling what I know. Fine, then, I'll play by your rules—but I can't promise you'll like what you get."

The man didn't even move a single muscle in response.

Eden leaned forward, planting her elbows firmly on the table, her once-jovial expression dropping like a mask to reveal a face of pure determination. Her voice pushed lower, becoming colder and more forceful as she shot out the next words with the precision of a sniper. "You knew Maeve Donovan—maybe not well, but you still knew her, through your colleague Dr. Spencer Reid. You knew Dr. Reid's true feelings for her, and the nature of their relationship. When Maeve was murdered, you took care of the funeral arrangements, but you did it all in Spencer's name—because you cared about Maeve, because more importantly, you care about Spencer Reid. You know what it's like to lose your first love, and regardless of whether you've actually ever admitted it, even to yourself, you see Reid as some kind of son. And you, my dear, are a very good father—you tried to help him, you tried to give him some sense of closure, and now you're trying to shield him from the consequences of his actions—"

"I'm trying to shield him for being unjustly prosecuted as a goddamn terrorist!" Rossi retorted hotly. "And the fact that you can even sit here, with a straight face and blatantly claim—"

"Like I said, Agent Rossi—I can't promise you'll like what you get when you let me do all the talking," she was grinning like a Cheshire cat now. She held open her hands in a magnanimous gesture, "Are you willing to set the record straight?"

On the other side of the glass, Scott O'Donnell set his hands on his hips again. Haltingly, he ventured the question, "Agent Eden…she's—unconventional, isn't she?"

Keller gave a light snort of amusement. Shostakovich turned to look over his shoulder at O'Donnell, slowly intoning, "Yeah, you could say that."

"But if we all know that Rossi's telling the truth—he truly doesn't believe that Reid is the UNSUB—why are we wasting our time with this line of questioning?" O'Donnell glanced over at Dawson. "What does it matter?"

"It matters," was Dawson's only reply.

"Yes, Reid loved Maeve. Yes, a loss like that—especially in that way—has the potential to send anyone to the looney bin, or at least turn them into a very broken and bitter individual." Now David Rossi was leaning in, his hands practically touching Eden's as he continued explaining, his voice low and quick. "But Spencer Reid isn't just anyone. He is the exception to every rule, in the best of ways. Heartache and disappointment are part and parcel of his entire existence, and he's never let it wreck him—if anything, it's made him even more hopeful and optimistic. I know that isn't always the side of him that you see, but it's always there, just below the surface. He would never hurt another human being—wouldn't even consider hurting somebody—just to make himself feel better. He's not the kind of man, never has been, never will be. He's one of the good guys—one of the best."

When he looked into Judith Eden's big brown eyes, he found them shimmering with unshed tears.

"Explain the email to Linnea Charles," she demanded, her tone impossibly neutral. With a single blink, the tears disappeared.

"Someone setting him up."

"And refusing to cooperate with the order to hand over his cellphone the morning of the bombing? And then subsequently losing the phone in question while dashing past the security cordon against orders—"

"He was going to check on his friend—don't act as if you wouldn't do the exact same thing if it was one of your teammates who'd just survived a fall down an elevator shaft—"

"You're avoiding the actual question, Agent Rossi. Were those actions someone also setting Dr. Reid up?"

"It was a traumatic situation. Sometimes we react to stress—"

"And today, when he discouraged the analysts from searching out the bomb-making materials, was that a reaction to stress or merely someone setting him up again?"

"Neither. That was using some damned logic to know that it would be impossible—"

"And what if there was a note, in his handwriting, with a list of places to buy those materials?"

"What?"

"What if he'd written down the places to purchase the items needed for TATP, and he knew that if the analysts looked long enough, they'd find the evidence they needed to link him or his accomplice to the crime?"

"You're serious," Rossi sat back, floored by this revelation.

She mimicked his actions, sitting back in her own chair as she crossed her arms over her chest. "If I wasn't, it'd sure be a helluva bluff."

He sized her up. She simply returned his scrutiny.

"You'd better send that to a handwriting analyst," he informed her.

She forced a smile, one that was better described as merely pulling back the muscles around her face. "So glad you're able to donate your invaluable investigatory skills to the case, Agent Rossi. Having only been in the FBI myself for almost two decades, I would have never even considered such an idea."

Jesus, it was exactly something Erin Strauss would say. He pushed down his irritation and focused on the conversation at hand, "I promise you, unless the person who wrote the note is a world-class forger, your analyst will prove it's a fake."

"Either the analyst will confirm it's a fake, or it will simply be such a good fake that it will fool the analyst," Eden gave a genuinely amused smile now. "Interesting—even now, you can't even contemplate the idea that Spencer Reid could actually be guilty."

"Because he isn't."

"Well," she suddenly leaned forward, offered one last winning smile, and rose to her feet, snatching up her notepad, which she hadn't even used. "I suppose that's it then, Agent Rossi. Sit tight a bit longer."

She exited the room.

A few seconds later, she reappeared in the viewing room, her demeanor transformed once again into a weary and worn woman.

"Whaddya think, boss?" Her only focus was on Jack Dawson, who was still watching David Rossi's back.

Dawson was silent for a moment. Then his cellphone buzzed. He took it out of his back pocket and glanced at the freshly-delivered text. "Roza has the two analysts from the Mobile Command Center here."

He glanced over at Scott O'Donnell, "We'll need somewhere to set them up for interviews."

"Of course," O'Donnell gave a curt nod and left the room.

"Jude, close the door," Dawson spoke quietly, but his voice easily filled the room. Jude did as she was told. Now the Flying Js' leader gave a heavy sigh, turning to lean against the one-way mirror.

"It is very important that everyone understands this: you cannot discuss this afterwards, even amongst yourselves. What I say next cannot leave this room."

Derek & Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.

"Jesus, Hotch, you gotta be kidding me."

Given the abrupt way that Derek Morgan practically jumped out of bed, Savannah Hayes was pretty sure that whatever he'd just learned wasn't good news. She rolled over, watching the shadows of the night ripple across her boyfriend's back as he leaned forward slowly, as if he'd been punched in the gut. Then he stopped, every muscle dead still.

No, not good news at all—the exact opposite, the very worst of news. She was sitting up, sliding across the bed to gently rest against his back, offering silent support in any way she could.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Derek promised before hanging up. He took a deep breath before informing her. "Spencer's under arrest. They're saying he's one of the people responsible for the bombing."

"Spencer—Spencer Reid?" Savannah tried to wrap her head around the thought. She hadn't spent a lot of time with the youngest member of the BAU team, but anyone who'd been around him for more than three minutes would swear upon a stack of bibles that he was the least likely person to ever do such a thing. "That's…that's ridiculous."

Derek was on his feet, moving around the room, gathering his clothes as he explained, "No, it's worse than that—it's downright scary. Because you see, the people investigating this thing—they're not ridiculous. They're smart—I mean, they do it by the book. They wouldn't arrest him if they didn't have damn good reason—and some damn solid proof. And that is that part that scares me."

"Proof? How could they have proof?"

"I don't know." He whipped his long-sleeve shirt over his head. "But that means that this thing is way bigger than we first thought—and that is not a good thing."

"Please be careful."

"Of course," he leaned over to give her a quick kiss goodbye. "I've gotta go."

She merely nodded, watching him hurry down the hallway. She heard him shuffle around, putting on his boots, dragging his keys across the countertop, opening the door—the fear that rippled through her entire body with every single sound that took him farther and farther away from her, away from safety, was almost too much to bear. But the loneliness that seeped in after was even worse.

The LaMontagne House. Washington, D.C.

"What's happened, sir?" Penelope Garcia didn't bother with greetings because she knew that calls at this hour after a day like today were not about the weather—and certainly not when those calls came from her unit chief.

"It's Reid. He's been arrested in connection with the bombing." Hotch's voice was tight, barely contained—whether it was anger or fear or frustration or all three, Penelope wasn't sure.

"Hotch, you can't be serious." She knew he was, before the words even left her mouth. "Sorry—I mean, I know you are—I know you wouldn't call—oh, god, why?"

"I'm not sure yet. I only found out a few minutes ago myself."

"And the rest of the team?"

"They know. They're heading back to Quantico now."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I—I don't know yet. But someone has to be there, to physically be there to speak up for him."

Ah, there he was—her valiant knight, Sir Hotch.

"Give me half an hour—I'll be back at my place and ready to help." Why didn't she let Morgan bring her car to her earlier? This would be so much easier and so much quicker if she didn't have to wait for a cab.

"Where are you now?" Hotch seemed slightly confused.

"At JJ's. Watching Henry for the night."

"Penelope, you don't have to—"

"You and I both know full well that I do, sir. And we both know that you can't talk me out of it, so don't even waste time trying."

There was a slight sigh from Hotch before he quietly admitted, "I know I should protest, but I'd be lying if I said we didn't need you right now."

"I know," she couldn't even grin at the thought—it was too dangerous for that sort of thing. "Look, just give me a little bit—maybe forty minutes—and I'll be ready to do whatever I can."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet—thank me when this is all over and our good doctor is back where he belongs."

Penelope ended the call and hobbled down the hall on her crutch, to Henry's room, where the boy was hard at work on a Lego set. He probably should've been in bed hours ago, but the general rule of the house when Aunt Nelope was in charge was that all rules were off.

"Hey, Nenry," she pasted on her brightest smile. "How about a field trip to Aunt Nelope's?"

"What for?" He seemed eager to go, but still cautious—as if perhaps there was something wrong behind the reason for the trip (poor darling boy, he was too young to know how to sense danger, yet he had developed that skill over the short years of his life).

She forced every ounce of energy into her smile and her voice, keeping it light and cheerful, "For an adventure, of course."

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Aaron Hotchner was rolling down the hallway of the Academy like a thunderhead, dark and full of pent-up frustration. The instant that Mateo Cruz saw him, the section chief knew that whatever happened next would not be pleasant.

"Why is Spencer Reid being charged with the bombing?" As usual, Hotchner was succinct and direct—both a relief and a source of fear, in Cruz's mind.

"How do you even know about that?" Cruz switched gears.

"That is the least of your concerns, I assure you," Hotchner's voice was quick, cutting with a forceful brutality that brooked no rebuttal. It was a side of the behavioral analyst that Cruz had seen a few times, but had never had directed at himself—and the new experience was not a welcome one.

"Agent Hotchner, you can't just come in here and cowboy up," Cruz pushed his own frustration in his words, allowing himself to brew up a good bout of righteous indignation—after all, he wasn't the one in the wrong on this one, not this time. "And you certainly can't expect us to just let you waltz in here and take over—because I simply won't allow it."

He had to put his foot down, remind his agent of his rank, his superiority—it wasn't a move that he relished, but still a necessary task.

Aaron Hotchner merely blinked. His body language didn't change in the slightest. However, Cruz got the distinct feeling that the normally-stoic unit chief was using every ounce of self-control to keep from going into an absolute rampage.

"You have one of my agents in custody for a federal crime. You can't expect me to sit back and do nothing, sir." Hotchner had schooled his tone into something less aggressive, but the undercurrent was still there, just beyond the surface of hearing.

In that moment, a line from one of Erin Strauss' BAU assessments sprung into Mateo Cruz's head—The unit itself, while performing efficiently and clearing one of the highest closing rates of any department, is too personally entangled for comfort. Their unhealthy level of support for each other is not only a hindrance, but at times, a danger to their own safety.

That particular assessment had been written shortly after a clash between Chief Strauss and the BAU, and the general assumption was that she was trying to get them back for some perceived slight (no one said so, not aloud, and no one claimed that Erin Strauss was less-than-fair in her assessment, but the fact that the unit had never been broken up implied that the higher-ups deemed her statements to be inaccurate, or at least too small of an issue to truly worry about it). However, now her successor realized that her words weren't born out of sheer spite, but rather concern—they were too close, and it was a danger, at times. Particularly now, when SSA Hotchner came barreling in, risking his career and his professional reputation over a piece of information that he technically shouldn't even know yet.

And still, Matt understood it all. He understood the bond of blood, the family forged from mutual tragedies, from moments shared in the darkest of times. He understood the need—the instinct, the push that went beyond mere desire, the pulsing, pounding, animalistically-clawing creature of need—to protect and defend that family, especially against outsiders.

Cruz sighed heavily, shaking his head—he was much too tired to fight, not tonight. "Hotchner, I can't possibly have this conversation with you—"

"And I can assure you, you can't not have this conversation," the BAU chief shot back, his voice filled with an aggravating certainty (I'm not going anywhere until I have answers).

Clenching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, Cruz grimaced, finally ceding defeat as he admitted, "We have a suspect."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter—not really. The guy's dead. But he's got a ton of notebooks, Hotchner—and they're all filled with references to Spencer Reid."

"Was he a stalker?"

"No. It seems…." Cruz took a deep breath, looking Hotchner directly in the eye, "It looks like he was a collaborator."

"A collaborator?" Hotch blanched, stepping to the side slightly as if he'd become unsteady on his own two feet. He still watched his section chief with hawk-eyed intensity, "What are you saying, exactly?"

"The books…there is some pretty hard evidence that he and Reid knew each other—"

"It's a set-up. Obviously." Aaron shouldn't have added that last word, it came across as patronizing, dismissive. Still, he meant it.

"That was my gut-reaction, too."

Was. Past tense. As in, Cruz's opinion had been changed.

"Look, Aaron, I shouldn't even be telling you this right now—" Cruz glanced over his shoulder, as if someone might pop up any minute and whisk him away for talking about it. He looked back at the unit chief, "This isn't your job. You shouldn't be here. There's nothing you can do. Let them figure it out—let them prove Agent Reid's innocence."

"Hard to prove what you don't believe," Hotch returned coolly. "If they've arrested him, it means they believe he's guilty of the crime—otherwise, they would have merely questioned him."

"Hotchner." Cruz clapped a hand on the man's shoulder, his eyes shining with earnestness. "I am begging you—leave. The only thing you can do is further damage this case—and don't think for a single second that I'm not going to find out how this leaked to you in the first place. But I've got other fires to put out tonight, and your presence is more like gasoline than water."

"Sir, I'm not leaving—and I should warn you, the rest of the team's on their way, too."

Cruz looked up at the ceiling, warring between the urge to shriek and the sudden desire to laugh like a madman.

"Of course they are, Hotchner. Of course they are."

"And I want to be there when you interview him."

"Excuse me?"

"I know I can't be in the room—but I want to be next door, seeing his reactions in real-time. Because I can assure you that I know him better than anyone else here right now, and if one of my agents is some kind of domestic terrorist, I think I deserve to see it firsthand."

"If? Five seconds ago, you were adamant about his innocence."

"I still am. I'm just using reasoning that will appeal to the rest of you—and truth be told, I want to be the first one to look into every single person's eyes and say I told you so."

Mateo Cruz warred between admiration and an itching desire to punch the guy square in the face.

"Has he been questioned yet?" Hotchner asked quietly.

"No. They're still talking to Rossi. But he's up next."

"When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching—they are your family."
~Jim Butcher.