Haunted Minds 7/?

[buffyaddict13]

Title: Haunted Minds 7/?
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: RFT/R for violent images
Fandom: Supernatural, Criminal Minds
Pairing/Characters: Gen, Sam and Dean Winchester, Andy Gallagher, Bobby Singer, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Jennifer "JJ" Jereau
Summary: A shocking discovery sends the BAU to Cold Oak, South Dakota.
A/N 1: Betaed by the fantastical riverbella. I love you babe. Big buckets of thankies to all the people who've been reading this.
A/N 2: Spoilers up to Seven Seconds for Criminal Minds and spoilers for Supernatural up to Fresh Blood.


 
gorgeous cover made by riverbella.


Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.
~Aldous Huxley

Andy paces.

They're back in the living room. Spencer's sitting like he's made out of wood, all angles and edges. The guy looks like he'd break in half in a strong wind. Andy walks past a large chair, back and forth. Each time he passes the chair he touches the back with the palm of his hand. He can feel the material beneath his skin; it feels strange. It feels less. It's like feeling something when your hand's asleep. Everything is fuzzy, made of pins and needles.

Everything looks slightly out of focus. As if he's looking through a dirty window. And the part that completely freaks him out (besides being dead) is he can't feel his heartbeat. He never realized how loud it was, how steady, how constant, until it stopped. Being dead hurts. Not physically. But in every other way. He feels wrong and lost and invisible and utterly alone. Andy knows that even if Reid doesn't believe him, he'll never leave, not willingly. The thought of wandering through whatever this this, for who knows how long, is more than Andy can bear.

Andy can still hear the crack of his ribs; feel the hot spatter of his blood on his chin, the strain of his vocal chords as he screams. He falters and leans against the chair, head down. He feels like he's about to faint, which is bullshit. First, because he's had this feeling countless times since he died and he hasn't keeled over yet. Second, because you can't faint when you're already dead.

"I know this all sounds like I'm high or talking out of my ass, but I'm not," Andy says, waiting for the sick feeling to pass. He walks around to the chair and curls himself into it, tucks his feet beneath him, holds his hands like he's praying. "The first time I met Sam and Dean they thought I was, like, some kind of psycho killer. And that's because I used to be able to make people do stuff with my voice. Like, I could say, give me your coffee or let me drive your car and they'd let me." Andy's eyes move to the bookshelf, but he doesn't see the books. He sees Dean scramble out of his Impala, expression fixed. Andy glances at Spencer. "Not that I…you know, did those things.

"And you don't have to believe me, but if you're already going with the ghost thing and the demons-are-real thing, and the there-might-be-a-God thing, the fact that I had some kind of freaky power isn't that huge of a leap to make."

Spencer's eyebrows do a jumpy thing. He looks annoyed. Or nervous. Andy can't tell which. But his hands keep twisting together like he's trying to start a fire and he forgot the kindling.

Andy shrugs. "Dude, I'm just saying." His right hand slides away from his left and down to the sleeve of his leather jacket. He rubs his thumb over the frayed edge. "So anyway, they figured out I wasn't a killer because it turned out I had an evil twin named Ansem. And I know, weird name. Only he'd been, like, stalking me, and going by the name Webber. So I went from being this boring-ass guy who liked to get high and read a little, to being in the middle of some kind of fucked up crazy episode of the Twilight Zone." He frowns. "Or maybe it's more like the X-Files. Cuz there was this one episode called Pusher about this guy who could make people do stuff with--"

Spencer's eyebrows jump some more. "Your voice," he says.

Andy smiles, impressed. This guy knows his sci-fi. "Yeah, exactly."

Spencer shakes his head and his hands jab the air. "No. I'm not talking about the X-Files. I'm talking about the first time I saw you in Cold Oak. You…" His expression turns inward and his voice softens. "Did this thing? With your voice? When you asked me about Sam Winchester. Although, actually, you didn't ask, you told me to tell you where he was."

Andy snaps his fingers. "That's right. And you didn't."

"That's because I didn't know where he was. I still don't."

Andy exhales through his nose. Part of him wonders how he can do that; how he can sigh and laugh and move. Part of him doesn't want to think about it. Not thinking wins, and he turns his attention back to the FBI agent. "Doesn't matter. The magic mojo's gone." He drops his head against the back of the chair. "It's not like it was the most awesome power ever. Although it was better than Sam's. His power really sucked ass."

Spencer stands suddenly. "I’m getting something to drink."

"Do you have any beer?" And here Andy thought hope had died right along with him. A beer is exactly what he needs. Or twenty.

"Ghosts don't drink beer. Ghosts don't drink anything," Spencer says, watching Andy from the edge of the couch. "Unless you want to tell me you're not a ghost now." His mouth curls. "Although I don't think delusions are big drinkers either."

"Did you just make a joke?" Andy asks. He tilts his head. "Or are you making fun of me? I can't…I can't quite tell."

"I can't quite tell if I'm having a psychotic break, so I guess we're even."

Andy grins. "Look at you with the funny."

Spencer grimaces and walks to the refrigerator. "I'm not joking." He returns to the couch with a bottle of water. He pulls a multicolored afghan from the back of the couch and spreads it across his legs.

Andy scratches his nose. God it feels good to be in a chair. To be talking. He doesn't know if he's safe or not, but for now, he's going to pretend he is. It's easier. "Where was I?"

Spencer twists the cap off the bottle. He keeps his eyes on his hands and his voice rises toward the ceiling. "You were telling me that Sam had…some kind of paranormal ability?"

Andy's head bobs. "Right. He had, like, these visions. He was always seeing people die, and then he'd try and to save them before they actually kicked the bucket." He blinks and traces one hand along the arm of the chair. The chair prickles beneath his fingers like a field of tall grass. He wants his throat to hurt, his heart to pound, but neither happens. All he feels is empty. But somehow, even dead, he can still cry, because fresh tears blur his vision. "He saved Tracy. His vision helped me save Tracy."

Andy sniffs loudly and wipes his face. "And then he and Dean left." He leaves out the part about killing Webber. (He'll always be Webber, never Ansem.) His brother died a long time ago, long before Andy shot him. His brother was dead the first time he dreamed of the Yellow Eyed demon. And now Andy's dead too. His entire family is gone. Shit. He rests his head in his hand.

Andy listens to the sound of Spencer drink, the noise of plastic on wood as the agent sets the bottle on the table. Andy rubs his forehead, as if he can shove the memories away with his hand. He can't.

"How did you get to Cold Oak?"

Andy stares down at the chair arm. It's made of some kind of brown cloth. There's a tiny pattern of tan diamonds in the fabric. The only thing that feels normal is him. If he touches his own skin, his jacket, his hair, he can almost convince himself none of this is real. Spencer's not the only one who's having trouble believing the truth. "I don't know." He lifts his head to see Spencer's look of disbelief.

"I mean it," Andy tells him. "One minute I was getting high in the back of my van, the next I was lying on a muddy street in fucking Westworld. That's when the official freak-out began, and I've never really stopped. But it…it got better when Sam arrived." Andy shakes his head in amazement. "He knew what was going on. I mean, not at first. None of us did."

Spencer leans forward, curiosity finally replacing the doubt on his face. "Who's 'us'?"

"Me, Sam, Jake, the lesbian chick-I can't remember her name," Andy adds apologetically. "I think it was, like, some kind of flower. Rose, maybe?"

"Lily," Spencer says automatically.

"Oh. Yeah. And then of course, the bitch." Off Spencer's look, Andy rolls his eyes, huffs. "Ava. Ava Wilson. She was a friend of Sam's. At least, she used to be before she went all batshit crazy and killed everyone."

The agent loops his fingers through the holes in the afghan, his expression grim. "Ava really killed all those people all by herself?"

"She killed me. So that earns her a spot on my shit list right there." Andy slides his hands into his pockets, feels the warmth of the leather. For a split second he lets himself believe he's holding Tracy's hand. She won't even look at him. She hates him. Worse, she's afraid of him. He pulls his thoughts from Tracy, but they don't come easy. His head feels muzzy, as if it's filled with sawdust and smoke. He tries to make jokes; he likes to be funny. It's easy to avoid getting beat up if you can make the bullies laugh. But nothing feels funny now. Nothing feels.

"Was Ava held captive there? We found a sort of cell-a hiding place inside the hotel."

"I don’t know. At first maybe. But once she learned how to use her powers, I mean really use them, she went all darkside."

Andy blinks his tears away and studies Spencer's face, looking for truth. "She's dead though, right? I saw her body when I was…when I was there."

"She's dead. We think Jake Talley killed her."

Andy's lips compress. "Good."

A shadow crosses Spencer's face. "We found her journal, Andy. She was terrified. The UnSub-demon-whatever he was, terrorized and manipulated her into becoming a killer." He moves the water bottle to the center of the table, frowns at it. "I'm just saying there may have been…there may have been extenuating circumstances." Spencer's voice is sand. "And I know that doesn't excuse what she did. But in some ways, it means…it means she was as much a victim as you were." He blinks rapidly and turns away.

Andy ducks his head. He thinks of Spencer's story about Tobias. Maybe he's supposed to feel sorry for Ava. But he doesn't. Not yet. He listens to the clock tick on Spencer's desk, the sound of the tap in the kitchen. They're small, familiar noises. The kind of everyday sounds you take for granted. When you're alive you take everything for granted.

Spencer breaks the silence between them. "Was there an older man there with you? In his forties, by the name of Paul Rogers?"

Andy looks blankly at the agent. "There wasn't anyone else there." Could someone have been hiding? He adds a caveat. "At least not that I saw."

"So, are you telling me all of you just…appeared in Cold Oak?" He wiggles his fingers. "Like magic? Or teleportation?"

Andy stares at the afghan. What he wouldn't give to sleep again. He's so damn tired. But he doesn't think he can sleep anymore. He lifts his gaze from the blanket to Spencer. "I don't really have any other explanation, dude. I mean, Jake came all the way from Afghanistan or wherever. And he didn't need any frequent flyer miles."

"But why you? Why were you brought there? And by whom?"

"There was this powerful demon. Sam called him Yellow Eyes." So did his brother. "And the demon wanted us to fight in some kind of war. I don't know." He sighs. "But I do know that all of us had some kind of power. We were all-" Andy makes air quotes around the final two words, "-special kids."

Spencer sits perfectly still. Andy thinks he's finally had it; he's about to start yelling or run out of the room, but he surprises Andy. "Ava had a journal. She mentioned a demon with yellow eyes. I think his-it's-" Spencer fumbles with the words, "name is Azazel. Have you heard that name before?"

Andy thinks. Webber had talked about a 'yellow eyed demon' and so had Sam. It could be the same person. Demon. Whatever. He shakes his head, uncertain. "I heard the name 'Lilith', but not Azazel."

"Who's Lilith?"

"I'll get to that. Just let me tell this in order, okay? Jeez, man. Don't rush me."

Spencer's posture stiffens but his expression remains one of interest, not anger. "Okay," he says. "You said you had a form of mind control while Sam had precognitive visions. Ava mentioned telekinesis in her journal. What were the other paranormal abilities you saw?"

"What's this journal you keep talking about?"

The agent lifts an eyebrow. "I'll get to that. Why don't you tell the story in order."

Andy snorts. "Touche, dude." He blinks at Spencer. "Does this mean you believe me?"

"I'll let you know after you tell me about the other abilities."

Andy grins. He's not about to admit it, but he's really starting to like Spence. And not just because the skinny dude's the only person on Earth who can see him. But that does help. "Lily's power was fucked up too. If she touched someone they had a heart attack or something. She said she accidentally killed her girlfriend." He twists his hands together. "That must have really sucked," he says softly. "I think Ava killed her too." He eyes Spencer's water bottle, wonders if he could drink some. "I don't know what Jake could do. He was kind of quiet. But Ava was like Sam-she had visions. And I mean was because there's no way Sam would kill anyone on purpose, much less a whole fucking ghost town."

The FBI agent sits with his elbows on his knees, arms folded over the ugly afghan.

Andy bounces his knee impatiently, eyes on the other man's pale face. "Well?  Spencer? Do you believe me?"

"Stop calling me that." Spencer says. "You can call me Reid."

Andy stares at him. "Your last name? Why would I want to do that?"

The agent considers. "It's just what everyone does where I work. And not many people call me Spencer, so." His tone of voice makes it clear Andy doesn't number among the not many people.

"Is this where I'm supposed to tell you to call me Gallagher or something? Because that's the name of some freaky magician who smashes watermelons. I've got a first name for a reason, man."

"Gallagher isn't actually a magician," Reid tells him, "he's a comedian. More specifically he's what's referred to as a 'prop comic.'"

"I don't care what he is. Just call me Andy. Okay?"

Reid nods. "I will." There's a thread hanging off the blanket; Reid wraps it around one finger like a ring. "Andy?" He doesn't look up. "I have to ask you something."

Andy bristles at the tone of Reid's voice. "What?"

"How do you…how do you know Sam's still alive?"

He swallows. Andy's mouth tastes like saltwater and metal. "Did you find his body?"

"We haven't identified anyone named Sam Winchester. But there is a possibility Sam could be somewhere else. We found Jake's body at a cemetery several miles away."

Andy's eyebrows draw together. "Someone killed Jake? Who?"

"We don't know."

Andy considers the information. "Okay. I'm pretty sure if Sam was dead, you'd find Dean nearby. And a black '67 Impala. And I think---I think I'd know if Sam were dead."

"What about the message? Why is it so important that you…we-" Reid falters, tries again. "--that Sam is found?"

Andy thinks of the Acheri demon, her twisted features and razor claws. His hands shake. He can feel his skin tear, his bones break. He can taste his own blood. Don't think of the pain. Think of what you heard. He opens his mouth to tell Reid when he hears the whistle. It always sounds the same. Like wind whipping through empty branches. But he's not in Cold Oak anymore, there are no trees, no wind. He's free now. He's with Reid.

It's not fair.

He tries to say Wait, not yet, not again but it's too late. Endless, swirling fog surrounds him on all sides, disorienting him completely. Spencer Reid and his apartment are gone. Andy is alone. Again.

ooooo

Reid stares at the empty chair. He jumps to his feet and the afghan puddles around his legs. He stumbles out of it and over to the chair. He touches it. There's a faint warmth where Andy had been sitting. Or is he imagining it? Andy had been here.

Spencer spins in a circle checking the corners of the room, the kitchen. He runs to the bathroom and looks inside. Andy's not there. He goes into his bedroom, throws open the closet. Nothing.

Reid sinks onto the edge of the bed, lost in the sudden silence. He remembers Andy's panicked words in the bathroom: I keep blinking in and out. I'm like those fucking Christmas lights, you know? And apparently he just blinked out. Reid smoothes his hands over the bedspread, hoping the familiarity of his surrounding will serve to anchor him. It doesn't. He feels loose and untethered. The last hour has taken his reality and shattered it. Reid broke a mirror after all, but not the one he intended.

He rubs his eyes with his fists and surveys the room blankly. Everything looks off-kilter, unhinged. He knows it's all in his imagination, but the feeling remains. There's bound to be consequences to accepting (considering) new possibilities, ideas that were heretofore too strange or unfamiliar (or terrifying) to believe.

He stands and goes back to the living room. He wonders if he should worry. Is this normal? Does he really believe? What was that old tagline from the X-Files? I want to believe. The problem is, Reid's pretty sure he doesn't want to. But a kernel of faith has been planted and Spencer can feel it growing, unfolding tendrils of uncertainty throughout everything he knows and accepts to be true.

Reid sits down at his desk and reaches for the computer keyboard. His fingers move expertly over the keys; he's no Garcia, but he's an excellent touch-typist. Reid pulls up Google and types in paranormal empirical studies. He taps the enter key and less than three seconds later he has 15,400 results. The Journal of Parapsychology has several interesting articles, so does the Skeptical Enquirer. But actual empirical evidence supporting paranormal phenomena remains elusive. None of it equals proof. He wonders, Isn't seeing Andy evidence enough?

Spencer spends another hour at the computer, rapidly scrolling through studies and statistics. He feels dizzy and his stomach hurts and he can't remember the last time he ate. At some point he gets up and goes back to the refrigerator. He eats an apple while he makes another circuit through the apartment, checking bathroom, bedroom, closet. Still no Andy. But there's shattered glass inside the tub and Reid didn't put it there.  He didn't.

Gideon's voice fills his head. Was the world always this grey? Is it only in the movies that it's black and white?

Reid holds the apple while he walks. He finds it impossible to sit still, to think clearly. Gideon was right, there's too much grey. It fills his head like a shadow (the dark), makes him look for explanations that aren't there. He stands in the bathroom looking at the broken bottles in the tub. His fingers are clamped around the apple; he's already forgotten its there.

He thinks: You broke the bottles yourself. You did this, no one else. And at the same time: Sense experience is, in itself, empirical. Paranormal or supernatural effects present themselves naturally. I saw a ghost.  My brain interepreted signals from my optic nerves. The supernatural can be measured via light waves, optic nerves, brain…which means it can be measured with science. And science is something Reid believes in.

Reid stares at the tub until his legs ache and his foot cramps. Finally, he returns to the couch, as if returning to the spot where Andy disappeared will bring him back. He thinks about Ava Wilson locked inside a closet.  He thinks about a mass grave. He thinks about Jake Talley and sigils and salt. Reid reaches for the afghan and pulls it around his shoulders.

I used to understand my place, my direction, where I was headed. Gideon's words, again. Once Reid knew his place, his path, as well. Now he has no idea what direction he's heading in. He doesn't know what to believe. There's only one thing he knows: If Andy Gallagher exists-in any sense of the word-Reid will help him. Reid learned a long time ago, only cowards-and the weak--stand idly by and watch. Or worse, they just walk away.

ooooo

When Bobby said he had something, Sam was hoping for more than this. He wants a way to save Dean, not an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

He exits the Impala and the first thing that strikes him is the noise. A high-pitched chatter sounds from a nearby field and the surrounding area. Sam listens, identifies the sound. "Hear those cicadas?"

Dean squints toward the house, puffs out his lips. "That can't be a good sign."

Sam frowns. "No. No, it can't." Bobby's car is parked down the road. The old hunter walks toward them, gaze fastened on Dean's hand.

"So,we're eating bacon cheeseburgers for breakfast, are we?"

"Well, I sold my soul. Got a year to live. I ain't sweating the cholesterol." Dean grins and takes a huge bite of the burger.

Sam's gut clenches at Dean's iron stomach as well as his words. He hates it when Dean says shit like that, like he's fine with the deal, like he doesn't care. Sam doesn't understand his attitude at all. How can he not care? Doesn't he realize that Sam is fucking terrified? He feels like he's dying all over again. Maybe he never really stopped. He darts a look at Dean, steels himself. Right now they're on a job. This isn't the time to freak out. Not in front of Dean and Bobby. Focus, asshole. "So, Bobby, what do you think? We got a biblical plague here or what?" He's only half serious but the word plague pulls a dusty passage from his head. And all the firstborn sons in the land of Egypt shall die. Okay, not something he wants to think about.

Bobby shrugs, hands in his pockets. "Well, let's find out. Looks like the swarm's ground zero."

They head for the house and Dean jogs up the front steps. He pounds on the farmhouse door. "Candygram!"

There's no answer. The three of them exchange looks and Sam steps forward to pick the lock. He can feel the tumblers give beneath the pick's pressure and he turns the doorknob. Dean goes in first, Sam second, his gun raised.

The smell hits him like a fist. Sam gags and covers his nose. His eyes water. "That's awful," he gasps.

Dean rolls his eyes toward Sam. "That so can't be a good sign."

They move through the house slowly, weapons at the ready. The stench feels like a physical presence. He can hear voices from the next room, and then-screams.

Sam's eyes go wide, he tightens his grip on the gun. It's a woman's scream, and for just an instant he thinks Jessica. He nods toward Dean but keeps his gaze on the door to the other room. "You hear that?"

Dean nods and takes a step toward the door. One solid kick smashes the door open and the two of them burst into the room.

The screams are coming from the television. The fetid smell of decay hangs over the couch--over the entire room--like a stifling curtain. Sam and Dean stumble back from the couch in disgust. Sam says "Oh my God." There are three corpses, a family from the looks of it. From the state of decomposition they must have been dead for days.

Sam stares at the grey skin and clouded eyes. His mind flashes back to Cold Oak and he coughs, tries to choke down the rising bile. Is Andy still on the floor of that house, alone with Ava? He should have gone back. He owed Andy that much.

Bobby enters the room from the other side; he recoils at the sight on the couch. His puts one hand on top of his head, as if he's trying to anchor his faded hat. His expression is bleak.

There are no bullets wounds or ligature marks on the bodies. No blood at all. Sam lifts his eyes to Bobby. What could kill a family of three without leaving a trace? Some kind of poison? An illness? "Bobby, what the hell happened here?"

Bobby's mouth pulls into a frown. "I don't know." But his real answer is the look of determination on his face. But we're gonna find out.

ooooo

"Computers," Garcia says, adjusting her red-framed glasses.

Emily Prentiss sits across from her friend, considering. "Okay, but are you saying just owning one, being a hacker, or what?"

Garcia rolls her eyes. "Computer games. RPGs, first person shooters, puzzles, hidden object-" her gaze flicks toward the computer screens and she crosses her legs primly "-and massive multiplayer online games. Which I don't really play. Anymore.  At all."

Prentiss rolls her eyes. "I stopped at Pacman, Garcia. Although I surf the Net. And I do play online Scrabble and a few word games."

Garcia grins and points a finger at Emily. "See? I told you, it works. The three C's. We've got a total trifecta of nerddom going on."

Emily shakes her head and laughs. "Exactly how much thought have you put into this?"

Penelope reaches for a pen with a large pink heart on one end. When she lifts the pen a tiny light inside the heart blinks on and off. "All anybody talks about around here is the trifecta of early indicators." Garcia waves a hand dismissively. "How come homicidal sociopaths get all the trefectas? I think we should have more trifectas. And thus:  I make my own."

"For nerds," Emily confirms.

Garcia nods. "Exactly."

"In other words, it's a pretty slow morning so far."

Penelope shoots Emily a baleful look. "You wound me, madam. With your cruel and ugly words."

Prentiss rolls her eyes and plays along. "Okay, okay. What's the second 'C'?"

"Collecting. As in comics, autographs, stamps, CDs, coins-"

Emily leans forward, a memory stirred. "Oh my God! I totally used to collect coins when I was a kid. We moved around all the time and collecting coins was one of the things that made it sort of…" she wants to say bearable but settles on "worthwhile." She smiles wistfully. "I wonder what I did with my collection. I had these huge albums just full of-"

"Nerd," Garcia cuts in. "As in, you are. That's two out of three."

"And the third?"

Garcia uses the heart pen as a pointer and directs Emily's attention to her screensaver. An image of a girl with rectangular glasses floats across the screen. Beneath her face is the word Ghostworld. "Comic books," Garcia says reverently.

Emily sighs. "Garcia, I promise you I'm a nerd. Ask Morgan. But I’m not into comics."

Garcia lifts an eyebrow. "That's because you haven't read the right ones. When you hear the word 'comic' or 'graphic novel' you think of the tights and spandex crowd, am I right?"

"Yeah. I just…I never really go into Superheroes when I was a kid." Emily's childhood heroes didn't dodge bullets or jump tall buildings. Her heroes smoked pipes and wore deerstalker hats. They spoke in terrible French accents and used 'little grey cells' instead of flexing sculpted muscles.

"I can recommend tons of graphic novels without so much as an inch of spandex." Garcia ticks the names off on her fingers. "Blue, Strangers in Paradise, Blankets, Maus, The Plain Janes, Sin City, V for Vendetta…" Garcia pauses. "Although, to be fair, there is a cape in that last one." She frowns. "Or maybe it's a cloak." She eyes Emily. "But it's still awesome town."

"I saw the movie," Emily says, "I liked it." She'd forgotten the story was based on a graphic novel.  Huh.

"Come on," Garcia wheedles, "let me tempt you with the taste of nuts and funny." She pulls a book from the colorful tote next to one of the monitors. "Oh, and plagues." She hands the book to Emily as if she's passing over the Holy Grail.

Emily stares at the cover dubiously. The title reads Y: The Last Man. There's a picture of a youngish dark-haired man…with a monkey. A monkey. "Penelope, I don't think-"

Garcia holds up a palm. "No. Read the first five pages. If you're not completely in love, then I'll never bug you about reading comics again. And by 'never' I mean for the rest of this week." She smiles mischievously. "Besides, didn't your mom ever tell you not to judge a book by its cover?"

Prentiss makes a face. "My mom told me lots of things," she says, but that still doesn't excuse-" she lowers her voice and taps her finger against the offending picture, "-monkey." She's about to explain her theory on why monkeys, apes, and orangutans should never ever appear in any movie-or comic-and how the inclusion of said primates should be met with a minimum of steep fines and arduous community service, when she notices movement outside Garcia's door. Reid is in the hallway.

He looks awkward and rumpled. In other words, exactly the same as every other morning. She lifts a hand in greeting. "Hey Reid."

"If it isn't the estimable Doctor Reid," Garcia says fondly. She waves him into her office. "Now." She regards him seriously. "Please tell me you're an avid fan of comics."

Reid glances from Garcia to Prentiss, as if they're both teachers and he's been caught without a hall pass. "Um, no?" He says. His voice sounds too thin, like Reid himself. "Not really. Not since I was, uh, a kid. I used to read the X-Men." His brows furrow. "Although I did read Maus.

Garcia claps her hands, triumphant. "See? The good doctor reads Maus." She turns to Prentiss and mouths, no spandex.

Emily snorts. "First, Reid reads everything. Second? No monkey."

Garcia stares at Emily, one hand to her chest. "Dude.  Let it  go."

Prentiss laughs. "Not just yet." Her spirits are high. Chatting with Garcia is a good way to start the day, and she's looking forward to surprising Reid with what she learned over the weekend.

"There aren't any monkeys in Maus," Reid says, snapping into lecture mode. "But there are mice, cats, pigs, dogs, gypsy moths, frogs, reindeer…and, um, fish." His voice sounds too fast, too manic, even for him.

Some of Emily's excitement melts into worry. Spencer's hair is stringy and the shadows beneath his eyes are more pronounced than usual. He doesn't look well. "You okay?" She asks, faltering slightly. She always feels a little on edge asking how he is. Reid hardly ever loses his temper, but on the few occasions he has, it's generally been lost in her direction. Emily's not one to hold a grudge however, especially toward Reid. He was the first to welcome her into the BAU, the first to offer a word of encouragement. And to say he's been through a lot, that he's earned himself a little leeway, is the very definition of 'understatement.'

Reid nods at (toward, he won't meet her gaze) her, but his smile is pained. Emily knows he's lying. "It must have been a long couple of days in South Dakota," she says gently, trying to give him an opening.

Spencer nods again, shoulders sagging. He yawns and brings a hand to his mouth, embarrassed. "Yeah, it was. I just…I just didn't sleep very well, that's all."

Emily stands, nods her head vaguely in the direction of the small kitchen. "Hey, I was about to go grab some coffee. Can I get you some?"

Reid peers at her, as if he's trying to see across the ocean and not three feet of blue carpeting. Emily's worry deepens. But then Spencer's smile reappears. It doesn't reach his eyes, but it looks reasonably genuine. "Oh. Thank you." Emily makes a mental note to offer him coffee more often. From Reid's tone of voice you'd think she just offered him the Nobel prize.

"Three sugars, right?"

"Yes, please. And thanks."

"One thank you is plenty." She winks at him. "It's a cup of coffee, Reid, not a kidney. But can you, ah, meet me in the kitchen in a few minutes?" Emily suddenly feels shy. Nervous, even. Oh God. She is a nerd. She doesn't have three defining factors to prove her standing either; she's got a dozen. Her hands are sweating. She grips the paperback before it slips out of her grasp. Make that two dozen. "I…" she clears her throat, "just wanted to show you something I learned over the weekend. From my cousin," she adds, followed by an overwhelming urge to hide her face behind the graphic novel.

Reid nods, oblivious to Emily's embarrassment. "Sure. I'll be right there. I just need to ask-I need Garcia's help first."

"Doesn't everyone?" Garcia asks pleasantly. She pats Reid's arm. "What do you need, sugar?" She wiggles her fingers over her keyboard. "Stand back and prepare to be amazed."

Emily tucks the graphic novel under her arm. "Thanks for the book," she tells Penelope. "See you later." To Reid she says, "And I'll see you in a few minutes."

Spencer nods, distracted, and Emily feels another pang of worry. You're overreacting. Reid's off in his own world half the time, it's no big deal. But for the first time, Prentiss finds herself wondering what that world is like.