This is the thing about HIV: you don't want it. It may not be the death sentence it once was, but it still has the potential to leave Reid feeling absolutely miserable. If not the virus, then the side-effects of the medication that is supposed to slow the progression down. Some days, it hurts to walk. Some days, he physically cannot get out of bed, and he thanks whatever higher power is out there that he has stockpiled vacation days for years. Some days, it's the most innocuous thing he does that ends up putting his team in jeopardy.
Today, for example, has been a good one so far. He's gotten this wonderfully funny video from JJ of Henry's latest milestone. He sings and dances to a popular children's song and the sight lifts Reid's spirits. It's nice to have a break. The day has been terribly boring, and in retrospect, that should have tipped him off that something bigger was coming.
He's behind a desk - by his own request - helping Garcia with anything he can. His health is unpredictable. Sometimes, he feels well enough to join them in the field, but most of the time, Reid chooses to stay back. To be of use in some way will put his team at less risk, if something should happen.
This, at least, is Reid's theory until he slips on a file that has fallen to the floor and reaches out to catch himself on the sharp edge of Garcia's metal cabinet drawers. He jerks his hand away grabs the napkin that previously held Garcia's doughnut of choice. He wraps it tightly around his hand.
"Hey, you okay?" Garcia asks, turning, but Reid backs away from her, trying to stay calm.
"I'm fine," he reassures. But he isn't fine. There are people everywhere. This is the first time something like this has happened since his diagnosis. It is more terrifying than the idea of dying at sixty from pneumonia or a virulent strain of flu.
"We're on our way out," Hotch says, scaring all reason out of Reid when he approaches from behind. "What happened?" he asks.
"Gloves, Hotch." It's all Reid can manage. Unfortunately a hand injury is one Reid will not be able to remedy alone.
Reid's eyebrows raise, impressed, in spite of his own fear, as Hotch pulls a pair of latex gloves and two plastic Ziploc bags from his pocket. He wonders, for a split-second, if the rest of the team is like Hotch. Do they all have gloves and Ziplocs on hand for emergencies like this?
"Come with me," he says calmly and leads Reid to the men's room. Reid washes the cut thoroughly but it's deep, and L-shaped. There is a flap of skin that can be lifted and seen underneath like a human body exhibit at the Science Museum. It would be fascinating if it were not so terrifying.
Reid tries to staunch the blood, but it refuses to be stopped.
"Here. It's okay," Hotch reassures and efficiently bandages Reid's injury with gauze and plenty of medical tape. Reid takes out a latex glove of his own, and wears it over the injured hand, just to make absolutely certain that Garcia is safe working with him today.
When Hotch is finished, he carefully double-bags the napkin, wrapper from the gauze and his own gloves. Then he pulls out a third bag - something Reid himself would have done, especially at work - and disposes of everything in the dumpster behind the offices.
Reid exhales sharply and then returns to Garcia's office to ensure that she hasn't touched anything, in case he bled anywhere else. He finds her focused intently on the computer screens in front of her, and breathes a sigh of relief.
"I'm sorry about this…" he apologizes, after Hotch is on the jet to Houston with the rest of the team. "I should really learn to walk…" He goes to his desk for his own bleach-based cleaning supplies and does a thorough job cleaning up, though he wonders, as always, if it is thorough enough.
"No problem," she answers, but there is a catch in her voice.
She is making an effort not to look at him, and for a moment, Reid's heart is in his throat. If Garcia starts shunning him, things at work will go from passable to beyond awkward. She seems to feel gaze and turns to look at him. He registers that her skin has a strange pallor. She seems green.
"Oh, honey, trust me. It's not you. It's me. I can't stand the sight of blood. Not just yours. Mine, too. I sliced my heel open on something in here a couple years ago and JJ fixed me up, but I was all squeamish the whole night afterward." She inexplicably takes a bite of her chocolate glazed Krispy Kreme and then offers it to Reid when he is done double-bagging and taking off the extra glove he wore over his original.
"That's all right. Thank you, though, for offering," he says.
That day, he is distracted. He cannot stop thinking of his hand. Of the blood. Of Hotch and Garcia and the rest of his friends, who have treated him so well despite the fact that he kept this terrible secret from them for more than a year. When Hotch video conferences in to ask them to check Houston employment records, Reid waits for the inevitable question. He waits to be asked if he is okay. However, no such question is asked. Only, how fast can they get the information.
It sets Reid's mind at ease.
The same can be said, days later, when JJ gives him a call to let him know that she is feeling a little under the weather. She has started doing this, and the others have followed her lead. They know the nature of Reid's illness and they are not taking any chances. Due to the necessity of the team and their job, it's not possible for them to take sick days for a cold or slight fever. Nevertheless, they let Reid know about their own maladies, no matter how slight, because of the state of his immune system. If one of them isn't feeling the best, Reid often video-chats in, like Garcia, since she set him up with a camera and some kind of account. He likes working from home. He likes staying in his pajamas and taking it easy, but it can get lonely.
JJ stops by most often, but as she isn't feeling good, Reid mentally crosses her name of the list of potential visitors. Everyone else, though they claim to feel fine, have been exposed to whatever JJ has, so it's unwise to be around them. They find ways to stay connected but it is not the same as being there.
Reid sends a get well card to JJ, glad to be able to do something for someone else, instead of always being thought of and catered to. He reads a book he's loved since childhood. That takes up most of an hour. Suddenly, Reid hears the strange tone on his computer that means someone is trying to get a hold of him on video.
He rushes out and clicks the 'accept' button, not even checking the who the caller is. It's 9 PM. The Houston case isn't over. Still, Hotch's face appears from his hotel room. It's as if he's here, even though he's not.
"Just checking in," Hotch says. "How are things?"
"You carry Ziploc bags and latex gloves in your pockets?" Reid asks, unable to think of anything else to ask.
"I figured it would make things easier if we were prepared, as well," Hotch says simply.
"Did you have some kind of seminar on me?" Reid asks, irritated.
"No. We didn't have to, Reid. We have common sense. It's not the 1980s anymore. It's not hard to be educated about blood-born pathogens…"
"I guess you're right," Reid admits, regretting his short temper. Hotch will likely forgive him though, especially if he's as versed in HIV medication and side-effects as he is in protecting oneself from infection. "How's it going?" he asks because he can't deny the desire to want to stay involved in every aspect of the case.
"Things are progressing…" Hotch allows. He is clearly hiding something.
"But…" Reid prompts.
"Something seems off with Prentiss, and unfortunately I don't have the time or resources to deal with it right now."
"You're asking me to check in with Prentiss so I'll feel like a part of the team? Or because I have nothing better to do?" Reid snaps, irritable again, for no reason he can put his finger on.
"I'm asking you to check in with Prentiss because she is your teammate and because you can likely identify with what she's going through."
For the first time since Reid has shared his diagnosis, he is speechless. For a while, his team has been careful around him, but this feels good. It feels right to be put in his place and to have his misconceptions corrected.
He unceremoniously disconnects with Hotch and calls Prentiss on her cell phone. If Hotch is in the hotel already, everyone else definitely should be as well.
"Reid? What's up?"
"You tell me," he prompts.
"Hotch talked to you," she sighs, sounding just as irritated as he was earlier.
"No…sometimes, I just these feelings about things and I-"
"You are such a bad liar," she says and he can hear her smiling. A silence falls between them and it is a full minute before Emily fills it. "Do you think doubt is catching?" she asks finally.
"Doubt?"
"Last case you said you didn't know what you were doing in the FBI. Now…I'm not sure I can cope here."
Reid stays silent, waiting.
"There are so many things that get to me now. So many things that make me remember Bethesda…and Paris and Spain… So many things that make me remember the case before that," Emily elaborates quietly. "I can't do my job properly. I look at pictures of these victims…people who have been beaten and stabbed…and I see myself…"
The memory comes, unbidden to Reid's memory. How more than four years ago, this was him. How looking at pictures of victims' bodies in the leaves brought to mind his own torture at the hands of an unsub with multiple personalities. He thinks of his grief and his confusion. He thinks of what he turned to, instead of the people around him, and how much he regretted it. He thought of the words spoken to him on the jet. They were on their way back from somewhere. Reid isn't sure where, but he remembers admitting how strange he felt.
"I felt the same coming back from Atlanta," he admits softly. "I know it's not the same as Witness Protection for seven months…"
"No, it's okay," Emily encourages. "I'd to hear. If you're comfortable sharing, that is."
"I'd see pictures of victims and I would think of myself, about to die. Digging my own grave. I couldn't focus. I was irritable. And I…I wasn't coping… Luckily, I had a friend who talked to me, in spite of all my assurances that I was fine. When I asked what to do, I was told to use what happened to me to make me a better person. What I was feeling was empathy, which, of course, I knew, but didn't know how to deal with. It took a while, but eventually…I started coping. I started truly dealing with what happened to me. It's still difficult at times, but it's all a matter of perspective…" Reid trails off, certain that he is talking too much.
"You had a friend…" Emily muses. "So do I, it seems…"
"Pardon me?"
"You said you had a friend who talked to you about all this?"
"Yes, I did," Reid confirmed, thinking of Morgan.
Another silence falls and finally, Emily breaks it. "Things never quite heal the way we want them to, do they?" she asks solemnly.
"No, they never do," he answers, grateful beyond words for her honesty.