Though I Am in Still Water 5/5
Written for the Eagle's Nest Crossover Challenge.
Title: Though I Am in Still Water 5/5
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Band of Brothers / Criminal Minds crossover
Rating: R for language and drug use
Total Words: ~33,000
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Skip Muck, Carwood Lipton, Don Malarkey, Roy Cobb, Bill Guarnere, Joe Toye, Lewis Nixon, Babe Heffron, Eugene Roe, Derek Morgan, Alex Penkala, Dick Winters, George Luz, Don Hoobler, Lester Hashey, etc.
Summary: Easy Company receives two new replacements while stationed outside Foy: a young medic named Spencer Reid, and a sergeant named Aaron Hotchner.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Band of Brothers book or miniseries. I also don't own Criminal Minds. In fact, I own nothing except my own addled imagination. I'm sad to be me.
A/N 1: This fic came about for two reasons. The first, is, I love Spencer Reid and decided I wanted to see him as a World War 2 medic. The second is, I'm crazy I thought maybe I could trick fans of Criminal Minds into watching Band of Brothers. *evil laugh* Note: This is NOT some wacky cracky time travel fic. This is a Criminal Minds A/U where the characters from that show live in the 40s and some of them are replacements in Easy Company. This fic takes place during The Breaking Point. You don't have to be familiar with Criminal Minds for this fic to make sense (I hope.) Lastly, I've kept the story true to the times. That means, don't expect to see Derek Morgan as a replacement. Lastly for real: for bobfans hesitant to read this (and I don't blame you) there's a LOT of Doc Roe and Skip Muck in this. If that makes a difference.
A/N 2: Info on Criminal Minds and Band of Brothers with pics and links to characters for those interested.
A/N 3: Thank you to __kat__ , degare , and venacavarex for the absolutely gorgeous artwork. I'll be sharing their pretties throughout the fic. Thank you! ♥
"They never taught us anything really useful like how to light a cigarette in the wind, or make a fire out of wet wood, or bayonet a man in the belly instead of the ribs where it gets jammed."
~Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet On The Western Front
artwork by __kat__
Reid can't sleep. He lies awake, watching the sky. Flares turn the night to day. Shells fall nearby. New foxholes were dug while Reid was gone. This time the shells bring noise, not the promise of death. This is just another lullaby.
Reid shivers beneath his thin blanket. He can't get warm. Hotch's body heat doesn't even help. Spencer knows why. He can't stop shivering for the same reason his foot doesn't hurt, that the pain in his side seems part of someone else's body.
Reid covers his face with his hands. He doesn't want to be the person he's become. He's supposed to be stronger than this. He's not this weak. Reid's father was the weak one, he's the one who couldn't handle a sick wife or a genius son. But Reid's just as guilty. What does it matter that his body's here? He's still spent the past two days running away.
The shelling continues. Its the sound of Ares wandering through the forest, uprooting trees, smashing the earth. Paul whispers inside Reid's head. We lie under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty.
Uncertainty surrounds them all, thicker and heavier than the constant fog.
Reid thinks of his mother, what she'd do if she received a letter stating he was dead. He should write her. Tell her he's okay. That he's studying. That he loves her. Spencer goes as far as digging a pencil and notebook out of his bag. But the pencil and paper might as well be oil and water, he can't bring them together.
Hotch stirs. "Go to sleep."
Reid nods. "I will. Sorry I woke you."
Hotch snorts. "Unless you're behind the shelling, you're not the reason I'm awake."
Reid wants to tell Hotch the truth. He's spent most of his life lying about his mother, protecting her, protecting himself. He's tired of lying. But he can't seem to stop. Spencer opens his mouth, licks his lips. Hotch will forgive him. Hotch will help him. That's what Hotch does. All Reid has to do is ask.
His throat closes, shrinks down to a hot straw, his words expand to stones. Spencer shivers beneath the blanket, and when he is able to speak, the only word he can manage is a hoarse "goodnight."
* * *
Perconte's using his jump knife to scrape an unidentified stain off the leg of his trousers. His uniform still looks shitty, but slightly less shitty than five minutes ago.
"Frank?"
Frank looks up. Houdini's lookin' in on him.
"What?"
The doc slides down into the foxhole. "Do you have any morphine?" He pats his medic bag. "I'm trying to get a few more supplies. Roe only has one syrette and I don't want to take his."
Perco sighs. Christ. Why is everybody always comin' around sniffin' at his stuff?
"I dunno," Frank says irritably. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't."
Houdini watches Frank move the knife up and down. "That works pretty good," the kid says.
Frank shrugs. "Yeah. I guess."
The doc pulls at his jacket. Perco can see the livid stitches peek out from beneath the bandage. "Don't bleed on me," Frank warns.
"I won't. It stopped bleeding. I just wanted to see if I could get the blood off my jacket. Can you show me how to do it?"
"It ain't gonna look good as new or nothin', but it's the closest we got to laundry day out here." Frank holds up the knife, demonstrates scraping it against the fabric. "You just get as close as you can, without cutting the fabric. The sharper your knife, the better it works."
"Thanks."
Houdini actually looks grateful. His eye is less swollen, but he still looks like he hasn't slept in a month. "Do you want to play a game of chess?" the doc asks.
Perco huffs. "The last time I played you, you beat me in twelve moves."
"I can take longer," Reid offers.
"Jeez, takin' longer to kick my ass? That's mighty kind."
"What about a book?" Reid asks. "I have some books I can lend you."
This kid just don't give up. "Look Doc, I ain't in the mood for company. I got a letter from my wife with another picture of my kid. My kid is fuckin' adorable. Only I've never seen him. And there's a good possibility I never will. So thanks for the offer, but unless you can get me a trip home, there's nothin' you have that I want." Unless. Frank lifts an eyebrow. "Any of those books got sex in 'em?"
"Um. No. Not really." Reid swallows. "I'm...I'm sorry that you haven't been able to see your son yet."
That's it. Frank's gonna clean his uniform and brood. Eventually he'll write a letter to Evelyn and then he'll bitch to Luz. There. His day is all planned out. And none of those plans include Reid. Could the guy be more awkward?
Frank sighs. Nobody has books with good sex parts around here. "Okay then, get out."
Reid turns to go.
"Wait just a sec," Frank says, digging in his pack. He pulls out his syrette of morphine. "Don't say I never gave you nothin."
Reid reaches for the box, hesitates. He looks at Frank's face with a searching expression. His eyes go all sad, he looks like he's been kicked every day of his life. Like Frank's kicking him now. What the fuck is that all about?
The moment passes, so does Reid's expression. "Thanks Frank. I really appreciate it."
* * *
Lip, Martin, Hotch and a dozen other guys clear the woods west of Foy. There's some sporadic gunfire, but nobody gets hurt. Reid checks on Alley's trench foot, Liebgott's phlegmy cough.
Reid spends most of the day trying to avoid Roe and Hotch. He doesn't bother shaving. What's the point? Roe tracks him down around midday, brings him coffee. He inspects the flowering bruise on Reid's temple.
"Lemme see your side."
"I'm capable of inspecting my own wound," Reid says. He knows he sounds like an asshole, but he can't help it. He is one.
Roe ignores Reid's protest. "Two sets of eyes are better than one." He lifts Reid's shirt, frowns. The bandage is stained rust, but it's still secure. Gene peels it away carefully, checks the stitches. He pokes gingerly at Spencer's skin. "This hurt?"
Eugene's prying fingers don't hurt. The wound feels fine. Reid likes Gene, he likes him a lot, and that's precisely why he has to get rid of him.
"No, it's good. Fine. There's no fresh bleeding, no signs of infection, no pain." Reid pulls away, yanks at his jacket. "Thanks for the coffee."
Roe's forehead creases and he gives Reid a long look. The medic's gaze feels like fire. Reid can feel his face burn. Finally, Roe nods. "Okay. Good."
Reid walks away, nearly running. The scarf around his boot comes loose, but he can't risk stopping, can't risk Roe catching up to him. He ends up next to a pine tree, squatting in the snow. He ties the scarf tighter, rests his forehead on his knee.
There's a cigarette butt half buried in the snow beside his boot. He blinks at it, starts to laugh. He's not willing to smoke, to dirty his lungs with cigarettes but he's okay with sticking himself full of opiate. Reid sits in the snow, laughing, one hand clapped over his mouth.
Bull Randleman walks by, rifle slung over his shoulder. He's a big guy, but graceful. He's got the stump of a cigar clamped between his teeth. His blond eyebrows lift at the sight of Reid.
"What's so funny, boy?"
Reid just shakes his head. He can't speak. If he utters a single word the laughter will turn to something darker, more desperate.
Bull stares a second longer, shrugs. "I think you got knocked on the head harder than you think."
Reid can't disagree with Bull's assessment.
There are more pancakes for dinner. Spencer chokes one down, but he's not hungry. It tastes like guilt. Like shame. Eventually Reid winds up near Muck, Malarkey, Penk and Luz.
Luz is doing his new impression of Dike. It's pretty good. The other guys laugh.
Sergeant Lipton walks up, exuding authority and kindness in equal measure. Reid wishes he could be like Lip. Or Hotch. Or Roe. Anyone other than who he is, really.
Lip nods. "Hey, Luz."
Muck's still marveling over Luz's impression. It captures Dike's combination of assholery and cowardice perfectly. Skip shakes his head in disgust. "Complete asshole."
Malarkey's impressed. "That's really good."
Luz glances from Lip to the guys. He's wearing an oh shit, I'm in trouble now expression. "You know, fellas."
Malarkey takes Luz's cue. "Good night, all."
"Yeah, see you, Luz." He gives Reid a grin and a wave. "See you, Malark."
Reid pokes at the snow with a stick. He writes: S = A + L times N over 2. The equation's not his. It belongs to a fictional German named Mueller. He listens to Lip compliment Luz on his impression. He listens to Lip ask Luz not to do it again. Lip asks in such a way that you'd have to be the biggest dick in the world to refuse him. How does he do that?
Reid stands, brushes the snow from his legs, the seat of his pants. He should probably turn in too. Perco's morphine is in his pocket. He could--
There's a deafening explosion.
Someone screams the dreaded word: "Incoming!"
There's another explosion. Reid is knocked off his feet. He feels hands on shoulder, around his waist. Liebgott and Alley pull him into their foxhole. They huddle together, Liebgott hacking painfully into his sleeve.
"Luz! Come on! Come on! Hurry! Luz!"
Oh God. Luz is still out there.
Malark and Penk scream for George to hurry up.
The morphine does the same to Reid.
Spencer sweats, trembles, lifts his head over the edge of the hole. He can see Luz running, falling. He's crawling along the ground. Please. Please let him make it.
Reid listens. He listens to his need, to Muck, to Leibgott, who's shrieking get down, get down. He listens for Hotch. For someone calling his name.
Trees splinter, the earth cracks. Snow falls, dirt rises. Men scream.
"Stay down! Come on! Get in!" Muck calls, his voice barely audible over the end of the world.
Luz is still crawling toward Skip and Alex, eyes wide with terror, teeth clenched in determination, desperation.
Reid's in the process of dragging himself out of the hole, he'll grab Luz himself, pull him to safety, when Muck and Penkala explode.
There's a flash of fire, noise, Muck's helmet hangs in the air, and then its gone. They're gone. A wave of ash blows toward Luz. He shrieks, groans, turns toward Lip.
Reid stares at the empty hole, mouth open.
Incredibly, the shelling continues.
It should be over now, Muck is dead. The war should end. The world should end. No. No. Reid shakes his head. He's a medic, they're okay. He can save them. He has bandages and morphine and the will to help. Surely that's enough. That has to be enough. He starts moving.
Liebgott pulls him back. "Stay here," Lieb says. His eyes are huge, much too big for his face, his hair sticks up. He's been biting his lips, they're bleeding. His teeth are red. "You're gonna get killed out there."
"Medic! Medic!"
Reid kicks Lieb's hand free. He has to go. Someone's calling. Maybe it's Muck.
It's not.
Reid runs toward the injured soldier. He has no prayers. He doesn't believe in God. He doesn't believe in anything except the calm goodness of the men he serves with, and two of them just got blown to dust. He falls back on Paul Bäumer's words. They offer no comfort, but he whispers them anway. He whispers them because the feel of the words in his throat, the sound of his choked voice proves that for now, he's still alive.
Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear.
He runs without fear.
Lester Hashey is face down in the snow.
Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more. Reid drops to his knees, beside the fallen soldier. "Hashey!" There's no blood.
"Shit!" Hashy groans, "It's my shoulder!"
"Come on! Get up! Move!" Reid puts an arm around Lester and drags him to the closest foxhole. He checks Hashey's shoulder. There's a red mark and its tender, but the skin isn't broken. Hashey was probably hit by a flying branch.
"You're okay," Reid tells him. Then, "We've got to stop meeting like this."
Hashey smiles grimly. "No kidding."
The 88s fall.
Reid leans his head against the dirt, closes his eyes. He puts his hands against the wall of the hole. The earth trembles with him. He whispers, lips barely moving, Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear.
The shelling stops.
Men emerge tentatively from foxholes. No one is seriously wounded. Except, of course, for Muck and Penkala. Hashey leaves first. Reid takes just enough time to empty the syrette, bury it in the snow. He needs the goodhappysafesunlightbetter. He'll never be able to face the loss of Skip without it. He follows Hashey, blinking hard.
"Where are they?' he asks. His speech is slurred. No one notices. Reid stumbles toward Muck and Penk's foxhole. Luz is already there.
"Get back," Luz says. His voice is broken. He doesn't sound like Georgie Luz. He sounds the way Reid feels. "There's nothing here," Luz says. He looks stunned. He sinks to the ground, head in his hands.
Roe's there too. He pats Reid's shoulder, wipes his face. Gene sniffs, wipes his face again. "I'll...I'll tell Malark."
Reid closes his eyes. Thank God for Roe. Spencer would need a hell of a lot more morphine than this to handle the look on Don's face.
Lip is in charge, as always. He instructs the men, comforts them. Reid walks past him, heads for the false safety of his own foxhole. For Hotch.
Paul Bäumer's sitting on a little hill of snow. He's leaning against his rifle. Reid almost waves, catches himself. He sits beside the World War I soldier.
"We live in the trenches out there. We fight. We try not to be killed," Paul says. He looks at Reid sadly, lifts one shoulder. "But sometimes we are. That's all."
That's all.
Muck and Penk are dead. That's all.
Toye and Guarnere got their legs blown off. That's all.
Reid is seeing, hearing, men who don't exist. That's all.
His mother started hearing fictional characters too. Men from the literature classes she taught climbed right out of her books and into her head.
This isn't the same thing. This is stress. This is his concussion talking. This is what terror sounds like. It has the quiet voice of Paul Bäumer.
Reid's a good liar. But he can still tell when he's lying to himself. He leaves Paul behind. Hotch is in their foxhole. Reid tries to feel relieved. He's glad Hotch is alive. But he can't feel much beyond the warmth of the drug and a deep, insistent exhaustion.
"Reid! Are you all right?"
"Muck and Penkala are dead," Reid says. He drops into their hole, wraps himself in his blanket.
"What? What happened?"
Reid does't want to talk about it.
Hotch does.
Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me. "A shell fell right into their foxhole." It hit them dead on. Dead center. Reid never realized just how apt those descriptions really are.
Spencer closes his eyes, pulls the blanket over his head.
Aaron's voice moves closer. "Spencer? Are you okay?"
"It hurts," Reid whispers. He speaks to his dirty wool blanket, not to Hotch.
"What does?" Aaron sounds gentle.
Reid doesn't know how to answer. His heart hurts. His mind. Everything hurts. Except his body. He lies. "My side." He moves the blanket, looks at Hotch. Not at Hotch's face, he can't make eye contact, but he can look at Hotch's ear, his eyebrow. "Do you have any morphine?"
Hotch is quiet. "Roe said you were feeling okay."
He's actually proud at how quickly, how easy, the lie comes. "I was. But I pulled some stitches dragging Hashey." It's not a complete lie. He did pull Hashey. It's possible he pulled some stitches.
"Reid?"
"Yeah?"
"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?"
No. Not anymore. It's too late. That's all. Reid forces his mouth into a smile. "Sure."
When Aaron hands him the ampule, Reid can't see his face. Reid doesn't have to. At least Hotch is alive to feel disappointed in him.
* * *
The battle starts bad, right off the bat. When Dike freezes up on the field Eugene can literally feel his vision turn red. That chickenshit motherfucker is gonna get everybody killed. Oh God. He wraps his grandmother's leather cord around his palm and prays Lord, make me a channel of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, your pardon Lord; and where there's doubt, true faith in you.
Reid's next to him. The kid looks gutted. Not as bad as Malarkey, but bad. Reid's face is flushed, he's leaning against a tree like he can't even stand. He's been wringing his hands like an old woman for the past five minutes.
Finally, Winters has enough of Dike's useless bullshit and sends Speirs out to take over. The men move forward amid mortar strikes and machine gun fire.
Roe bounces on the balls of his feet, jaw clenched. Come on, come on, let this thing end with no casualties. Goddammit, Perco's been hit. Gene paces back and forth, restless, stomach churning. How can Reid just sit there like a fucking bump on a log?
The battle shifts off the field and into the streets of Foy. It doesn't look like there are too many wounded. That's good.
He starts running toward Perco, Hotch and Johnny have him next to a barn. Ken Webb's down too. Laisser les bons temps rouler, Roe thinks bitterly. Let the good times roll.
Eugene expects to find Houdini lagging behind, but he's right there with him. He directs Reid to Webb. Within seconds Roe's at Frank's side.
"Hey Frank, you paint a target on your ass or what?"
Perconte grits his teeth. "Ah fuck, Eugene. It fuckin' hurts. Fuck my ass, the bullet got me in the thigh."
"Yeah well, it came out your ass, so you ain't broke the Easy Company tradition after all."
"He gonna be okay?" Martin asks. He's holding Frank's arm like he's never gonna let go.
Roe tears Frank's uniform so he can see the damage. There's a lot of blood, but not too much. It's a painful wound, but it doesn't look deadly. Eugene breathes a little easier. He smiles at Frank. "You're gonna be okay, Perco."
"Thank Christ," Martin says. "If you weren't around, I'd be the shortest guy here."
Frank scowls. "You already are." His face contorts. "Shit. God. I didn't need a fuckin' Purple Heart this bad."
"Looks like you're gonna get one anyway," Roe says.
"What can I do?" Hotch asks. "Should I find Luz, have him call the BAS? Find a makeshift stretcher?"
Reid comes running up. He looks unsteady. He drops down beside Roe. "Webb's dead. So's Mellet."
Martin closes his eyes, turns away. "Oh, fuck."
"Dammit," Roe grunts.
Roe thinks. Word is, they're moving out tonight. So the aid station's probably already down. "Find Lip or Speirs--whoever's in charge--and tell them we've got two KIA and one wounded. If you can find a stretcher, that'd be great."
Hotch nods and takes off at a run.
Frank shifts, rolls his head. "Jesus H. Christ on a Tuesday." He turns to Martin. "Johnny, what about my stuff? I need my stuff."
Martin smiles. "We wouldn't want the enemy usin' your toothpaste, that's for damn sure." He rests a hand on Frank's head. "I'll make sure you get your stuff, okay? Don't worry about it."
Frank's eyes go glassy. "Evie sent me a picture of the baby."
Martin leans down, speaks right into Frank's face. "You're gonna see the kid." His voice leaves no room for doubt.
"Hey Houdini," Frank groans, "You got that morphine I gave ya? I think now's a good time to break it out."
Roe and Martin both look at Reid, expectant.
Reid's kneeling. He leans back on his heels. He blinks. Rubs a hand over his mouth. His hand trembles. "Um," Reid says. His eyes flick to Roe, away again.
Just like that, Roe knows. The little son of a bitch has been using the morphine himself. Maybe not the whole time, but at least since he got hurt. The sweating, anxiety, moodiness, it's all there. Hell, all the guys are moody and anxious, but they're not flushed, they're not sweating, they don't avoid eye contact. No wonder Reid didn't feel any pain when Roe checked his side. Fucking asshole.
Reid looks sick, he looks trapped, and part of Roe is glad, wants to let him hang himself, but this isn't the time or place.
"I got you," Roe says, and reaches for the syrette Reid gave him. He takes a deep breath, tries to stay calm for Frank's sake. For Johnny's. If Reid has been injecting himself with morphine the whole time, there's no way he'd have shared any with Roe. He's heard the story about the German who helped Reid. That Kraut didn't do Reid any favors.
Roe sticks Frank with the syrette. He's not sure who relaxes more, Frank, Johnny, or Spencer. What a fuckin' mess.
Hotch returns. He's got Bull and part of a German camouflage tent. "This'll work, right?"
Roe nods. "Good enough."
Hotch and Bull lift Frank onto the tent, they each pick up an end. "Jesus Christ, don't drop me on my ass," Frank bleats. He looks more terrified of the tent ride than the hole in his ass.
"We ain't gonna drop you on any of your parts," Bull says calmly. He shifts his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. He glances at Hotch. "You ready?"
Hotch nods. They move off slowly, carrying Frank between them.
Reid remains on the ground.
"Stand up," Roe snaps. "Look at me."
Reid looks at him, but won't meet his eyes. What a surprise. Roe gets a good enough look to see Spencer's pupils are pin pricks. Jesus fucking Christ. If he weren't a medic, he'd kill Reid right now.
Roe leans down, rests his hands on his thighs. He tries to keep calm. He feels like he deserves a Bronze Star at the very least for keeping his voice steady. He sounds almost friendly.
"You think I'm stupid?"
Reid shakes his head.
"Are you stupid?"
Reid doesn't do anything this time. He just stands there, looks at this feet like a kid in trouble with his teacher.
Fuck that.
"You seem to know a lot, been to college, read a lot of books. You'd think you'd have learned somewhere in there that injecting yourself with morphine's a bad idea."
"I know," Reid whispers. He looks torn between fury and despair. Despair wins. His voice turns as thin and small as a blade of grass. "I'm--I'm sorry."
"You're sorry," Roe spits. He shoves a finger in Reid's chest. "You are a grown-up. You should know better. You're not just fuckin' with your own life, you're fuckin' with the life of every man in this company."
Roe takes a step back. He glares at Reid, fuming. "I get that you're new. You feel like you don't belong. And after this, I think you're prob'ly right. But I been with these men for almost three years. Three years, Reid. These men ain't just soldiers to me. They're my family. And if you're too out of your head to do your goddamn job, then you risk their lives. And that make me want to beat on you 'til you need your own medic, you understand me?"
"I know," Reid says again. "I'm sorry. I would never--"
"You would never," Roe repeats scornfully. "Only you just did. I can see you're doped up right now. And what if I wouldn'ta had morphine for Frank? Then what?" Roe's smile makes Reid flinch. "You asked him for his morphine so you could stick it in yourself?" He shakes his head, sickened. "Va te faire foutre."
Reid looks up, pushes the hair out of his face, adjusts his glasses. "No," he says, "fuck you. You don't know what it's like knowing--"
"I don't know what?" Eugene demands. He runs his hands through his hair, incensed. "I know what it's like to see men's skin burned off by phosphorus shells. I know what it's like to see my friends die right in front of my face. I know what it's like to see guys lose their arms, legs, their fuckin' heads. I know what everything's like," Roe says. This asshole's been here two weeks and he thinks--
"Schizophrenia." Reid shouts the word. "It comes from the Greek words schizein and phren which roughly translates as 'splitting of the mind.'"
Roe frowns, caught off guard. What?
"My mom has schizophrenia," Reid says. His voice drops toward the ground. "Ever since I was kid. I had to put her away. I had my own mother committed because I couldn't help her." Reid holds his hands out like the twin pans of a scale. "I couldn't take care of her. She doesn't want me to be here, she doesn't even know where I am." He looks like he's about to burst into tears, but he curls his hands into fists.
Roe rolls his eyes. "You think my mom wants me here? You think anybody's does?"
"At least your mother knows where you are, when she sees you, she can recognize you."
Eugene sighs. Okay. So here is a little of what's behind Reid's problem. Not only is the war shit, so is his life back home. Well. Too fuckin' bad.
Reid pulls that goddamn book out of his bag. "She read this to me when I was--"
Roe takes two quick steps, yanks All Quiet on the Western Front out of Reid's hand and sends it sailing. It lands a good twenty feet away and disappears into the snow.
"You think you're the only person who's ever read that book? Who cares about Paul and what he went through? You think you're the only person who knows war is bad? Did you really need a book to tell you that?"
Reid stares at Roe with wounded eyes.
"I've got a quote for you, Reid. 'And our bodies are earth. And our thoughts are clay. And we sleep and eat with death.' Recognize that? We sleep and eat with death every day, Reid. All we've got is each other. That's it. You're not Paul, you're not stuck in some World War I trench, you're here. These men need you now.
"These men put their lives on the line every single day. These are good men. These are the best men I will ever know. For God's sake, do them the courtesy of not being out of your mind on morphine when you tend to their wounds."
* * *
When Roe's finally done yelling and stalks off, Reid carefully digs his book out of the snow. He wipes it dry with the hem of his coat, puts it back in his bag. He stands by himself for a few minutes, his back to the barn, and cries. He cries for Hoobler. He cries for Guarnere and Toye. He cries for Skip Muck and Alex Penkala. He cries for the man he's become. He cries for his lost mother, his missing father. He cries because he let Eugene Roe down. He's let everyone down. Especially himself. He cries because even now, after everything, he still wants morphine more than anything else. More than forgiveness, more than self respect.
He wants it, but he no longer needs it. He won't let himself.
Never again.
Reid cries until his head aches and eyes burn. He leans his head against the cold wood. The wind cuts his face, his hands. He wipes his eyes, rubs his nose on his sleeve. He feels empty, like he's been scrubbed clean. He's hollow. The sunlight is gone now, only darkness remains. He's been afraid of the dark his whole life, but he knows there are worse things than the dark. Getting lost is one thing. Losing yourself is another. He'll find his way back to the man he wants to be eventually.
He will.
When he heads toward the waiting trucks, he avoids everyone. His shame is company enough. Everything Roe said is true. Reid's been busy trying to make himself feel better, instead of the men. And worst of all, his "better" never lasts long enough, his relief is always denigrated by guilt. By lies.
Spencer keeps thinking about the look of desperate trust on Perco's face when he asked for the morphine. His shame is so heavy Reid feels dizzy beneath its weight. Fresh tears sting his eyes. Thank God Eugene still had morphine. Thank God Roe's a better man than Reid is, will ever be.
The men are relieved to be in trucks. There's laughter, cigarettes, gossip, jokes. Reid plans to sit by himself, as far from Hotch and Roe as possible, until he sees Malark. It looks like Malarkey has the same idea. He sits at the far end of the truck, Muck's rosary in his hand. He's erected a wall around himself, his body language screams keep away.
Reid doesn't listen. He works his way down the bench until he's next to Don.
"I'm sorry about Skip," Reid says softly.
Malarkey ignores him.
Reid leans closer, so Don's the only one who can hear. "You'll get through this. Skip was a good man. He...he loved you. He'd want you to go on, you know that. Maybe not now, but you will. And Don, I'll help you in whatever way I can. It's time I stopped fucking up my own life and help somebody else."
Don turns to look at Reid. He looks like he's seeing Reid from a great distance. "You...you said fuck." Malarkey looks mildly surprised.
Reid smiles, a little embarrassed. "I know plenty of four letter words, I just prefer the ones with two or more syllables."
Don blinks, recedes.
"That was a joke. A stupid joke." Reid bows his head, frustrated. "I'm sorry. I'm not always good at talking to--with--people," he finishes awkwardly. "I just want you to know, you're not alone, Malark."
Malarkey looks back at him, a faint smile frozen on his face. His red hair burns dully beneath his helmet. "I know. It only feels like I am."
They ride the rest of the way in silence, but gradually, Don relaxes enough to let his elbow touch Reid's.
* * *
Reid sits in the back of chapel, in a convent in Rachamps. The choir sings, the chapel is warm, the men are quiet. Dozens of candles cast a golden sunset along the walls. Perco's curled on his side next to Roe.
Spencer sits by himself.
Hotch watches his friend surreptitiously from the other side of the chapel. After a long, depressing conversation with Eugene, Hotch feels no anger toward Reid. There's a fair amount of disappointment, but Aaron saves most of it for himself. He should have realized something was wrong, should have seen the signs.
Spencer's been avoiding almost everyone but Malarkey and Cobb. He's not unfriendly, and Aaron doubts most of the guys even notice. But Aaron does. He knows Reid's avoidance stems from guilt. And Hotch has been letting him get away with it. Mostly because he feels guilty too.
But that stops now.
Reid is smoothing a crumpled piece of paper over a Hymn Book. He's got a pencil in his hand. Every time he tries to write something, the pencil stops in midair. Hotch can read the frustration on his friend's face.
Hotch steps around Reid, sits beside him. Reid stares down at the blank sheet of paper. Knowing Reid, he's composing endless apologies in his head to Aaron, to Frank, to Roe. Probably even his mother. But he just sits there, silent, staring, miserable.
Spencer glances suddenly at the pew across the aisle. He inhales sharply, and shrinks back against the padded bench, toward Hotch. Hotch follows Reid's gaze. There's no one there.
"Are you okay?"
Reid nearly jumps at Hotch's voice.
Spencer starts to nod, stops. He shakes his head, sighs deeply. "No. Not really." He looks at Hotch. His eyes are bright, his words tentative. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm--I'm sorry I didn't ask for help."
There's fear in Reid's eyes, behind the unshed tears. Fear of rejection. It's a look that's been there for years, as long as Hotch has known this strange, talented, brilliant young man. Aaron promised himself long ago he'd never do anything to give that look credence. Spencer's already been rejected by both his parents, consciously and unconsciously. Aaron's been rejected by Haley. There's enough rejection between them, Aaron refuses to add more.
Hotch stretches his arm along the top of the pew behind Reid. He doesn't quite touch Spencer. He's letting Reid know he's here. He's got his back, that's all. Metaphorically and literally.
"And I'm sorry I didn't see what you were going through," Hotch says quietly. "I think I just flunked my own class."
A smile flits over Reid's face. It's gone so fast Hotch thinks he might have imagined it. "You didn't flunk. I've got so many problems I'm like walking extra credit. We can get your grade back up."
Hotch nods. "Glad to hear it."
Reid folds the paper, tucks it in the front of the Hymnal, slips the pencil in a pocket. "Hotch?" His voice is small, nearly a whisper. It flickers like a candle. "Are...are we okay?"
Now Aaron rests his hand on Reid's shoulder. Just for a moment. "Always," Hotch says. Hotch has broken promises before. Not many, but a few. He makes a promise now, to himself, and to Reid. He'll never break this one.
Hotch clears his throat, wills the burn in his throat away. They'll get through this together. Reid's addiction, the war, everything. And then they'll go home. Together. He doesn't look at Reid when he asks, "Do you have any more?"
Reid doesn't play stupid. Hotch is relieved.
"No. Roe and I decided he'll, uh, be in charge of the morphine."
The girls' voices fill the room. The music is beautiful. Heavenly. If there is a heaven, Hotch thinks it will be like this. Someplace warm. Where he can sit with his friends. Where he can remember what peace feels like.
Hotch leans forward, rests his arms on the pew in front of him. "I know you don't think so, but you're stronger than I am, Reid. You can go home and do anything. Go home to your mom, study psychology." He flashes a crooked smile. "Learn how to fix us, yourself."
Reid rubs his chin. He runs his index finger over the edge of the Hymnal. "I don't know, Hotch. I feel like war ruins us. It ruins us for everything."
Hotch shakes his head, looks at the faces of the fine men who surround him. "War might ruin us for a lot of things, Reid," he says, "but not for each other."
* * *
The music, the chapel, the candles. It's all too beautiful. Reid has to leave, get some air. He's grateful for Hotch's acceptance, his forgiveness, but he doesn't deserve it. Not yet. He needs to make amends to the men. To Roe. And maybe, himself.
Reid excuses himself and slips outside. The cold is a slap after the warmth of the chapel.
He's not alone outside. Someone is sitting on the stone steps. The someone looks up. Reid recognizes Lewis Nixon.
Nixon nods knowingly, smirks. "So you couldn't take it in there either, huh?"
"It's just a little..."
"Too perfect," Nix finishes. "It's hard to go from a month of living in frozen dirt to a choir of angels sitting on my shoulder. I prefer a smoother segue. I'm a snob that way."
Reid smiles. He doesn't know much about Nixon except he drinks, comes from money, and he's Winters' best friend. But the use of the word segue makes Reid sit on the step beside him.
"I guess I am too."
Nixon lifts his flask in a mock toast. "To snobbery." He frowns, considering. "And fewer angels."
The angel talk makes Reid think of Skip. His chest constricts painfully. He feels sick. "Angels don't fuck," Reid says absently, "they cuddle."
Nixon turns, gives Reid a hard look. Finally, he shrugs. "Good to know," he says, and then, "You're kind of an odd duck, aren't you?" Nixon takes a sip from the flask. He grunts, scratches at one wrist, then the other.
Reid ignores the odd duck comment. He's been called worse. He watches Nixon for a moment. The moon is big and bright, a silver balloon above dark clouds. The chapel windows glow. There's enough light to see that Nixon's skin is red and inflamed.
"Can I see?" Reid asks, pointing to Nixon's arms.
Nixon shrugs, holds out an arm. Reid touches the skin gently. Inflammation of the epidermis. Something in the eczema family. From the dry, scabby look of the skin, probably xerotic eczema, also called pruritus hiemalis, or winter itch. "You have eczema," Reid tells him.
"Goody for me," Nixon says wearily. "How the hell do I get rid of it?"
Reid thinks. "Well, less stress helps."
They look at each other. Nixon laughs first, then Reid. "I'll get right on that."
"Um, there are several medicated lotions...which I don't have access to," Reid says slowly. "But," he holds up a finger, "coconut oil and petroleum jelly are quite helpful."
"Huh," Nixon says, reaching for his flask. "You're not."
"Butter," Reid blurts. "Butter helps. It's not as good as lotion, but it soothes the dryness. Stop itching and smear butter on your skin." Reid smiles, triumphant.
"That'd be great if we had butter in our rations."
Spencer nods. "It would be great. But that's okay, because the Germans do." Reid pulls a little cube of waxed paper from his medic bag. "I got this off a prisoner and keep a little supply in my bag. If you need more, just ask."
Nixon's eyebrows shoot up. "Hey, thanks." Now he returns Reid's smile.
The door opens behind them. Winters stands there, looking from Reid to Nixon. His eyes go wide. "Nix? You okay?"
Nixon waves his friend's worry away. "Aside from the fact my skin's peeling off, I'm great. The doc here fixed me up good, though." He holds up the cube. "With butter."
Winters and Nixon exchange a look. "I hear he's gonna fix Perconte's butt with marmalade," Winters says with a slow smile. The smile fades when he takes a look at Reid's face. "You doing okay, Spencer?"
Reid nods. "Better." For once, he's not lying.
"The kid's a medical marvel," Nixon says to Winters, and the two men go back inside. Nixon stops in the doorway, turns back to Reid. "Thanks, Doc."
Reid nods. He can't tell if Nixon's making fun of him or not. He decides it doesn't matter. "Anytime."
The door shuts.
"Not too bad."
Reid nearly falls down the stairs. He looks around, spots Roe leaning against the stone wall, arms folded. Gene steps forward, a silhouette against the gold window.
Spencer hugs himself. "You scared me." For a minute, he'd thought Paul was standing there. It was bad enough he saw him in the chapel. He picks nervously at the fraying scarf around his boot.
"Sorry," Roe says.
Reid speaks to the scarf, but the words are meant for Eugene. "No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I let you down. And the guys. I want to do better." He looks up, blinking hard. "I will do better."
Eugene sits beside him, fills the empty space Nixon left behind. "I know you will." Roe crosses his arms over his knees. "What are you doin' out here?"
Reid shrugs. "I don't know." He shivers. "I just needed some air." He looks down at the Hymnal sitting beside his foot. "I was trying to write a letter." He laughs weakly. "Not having much luck."
"That reminds me." Roe has a blanket draped over one arm, he puts it around Reid's shoulders. "You're gonna feel like shit for a while."
"I already do."
Eugene laughs. "I don't mean guilt, Reid. I mean the shakes, vomiting, you name it. I told the guys you looked like you were comin' down the flu."
Reid nods, grateful. "Thanks." He looks at the side of Roe's face. "Thank you for talking to me like that. I--I needed it."
Roe looks mildly chagrined. "Yeah. I don't have much of a temper, but when it comes out, well." He grins. "Everybody notices."
Spencer twists the blanket between his fingers. "Eugene?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I tell you something?"
Roe's dark brows jump into his hairline. "Jesus, what else you got to tell me, Reid? You drinkin' Nixon's secret booze too?"
Reid looks up at the stars. He picks out the constellations, clasps his hands. His books were good teachers. Just not good enough. Books teach you, but they can't protect you.
"I've--I've been seeing things." He shifts on the cement. "Or, I guess, not so much a thing, as a person."
Roe nods, as if soldiers tell him they're nuts every day. Maybe they do. "What do you mean? Since you were a kid? Since you got here? Since you hit your head?"
"Since I hit my head. I thought it was because of the concussion, but it's still happening. I saw him yesterday," Reid's voice dips toward the ground. He pulls it back up with effort. "Tonight. In the chapel."
"Him?"
Spencer hangs his head. This is so humiliating. Admitting this is like ripping out part of his soul. Like standing naked in front of the world. He wipes his face with the blanket, looks up. If he's going to be a better person, he needs to face his fear. Even if he's afraid of himself. Of his own mind.
"Paul Bäumer." Off Roe's blank look, he adds: "The main character from All Quiet on the Western Front."
"Ah. Sorry I threw that in the snow."
"It's okay. I found it."
"When'd you start seein' Paul? Before or after Tobias gave you morphine?"
Spencer thinks. He can't remember much about that day. But it must have been after. "After," he says.
"And you think because your mom's in a mental institution you're on your way to join her?"
Reid tries to protest. "No, not exactly--" he sighs, gives up. "Sort of."
Roe laughs, ruffles Reid's hair. It's a curiously affectionate gesture, and Reid doesn't know how to respond. The gesture feels like forgiveness, the same as Hotch's hand on his shoulder. Spencer can't stop the tears this time. He scrubs them away roughly, sniffs loudly. "What's so funny?" he asks. He's so busy trying not to bawl all over Doc Roe, he doesn't notice the nasal whine in his voice.
Roe laughs harder. "Jesus Reid, you know as much about morphine as I do. More, I guess. You know as well as I do one of the side effects is hallucinations." Gene stops laughing, puts a hand on Reid's arm. "You do know that, right?"
Of course Reid knows that. There's shivering and reduction of pain and insomnia and loss of appetite and depression and anxiety and nightmares and...hallucinations.
Hallucinations.
With his mother's history, he'd never even considered Paul a product of the drug. "Oh my God," Reid says, and drops his face into his hands. "Oh my God. I thought--I thought--" He can't continue. His shoulders shake. For the first time in a long time, Reid cries from relief, not despair.
"I'll be keepin' an eye on you," Roe says. His voice is quiet, patient. "If Paul keeps poppin' up, you tell me. Reid, I seen lots of things in the last year. I seen a soldier so scared he went blind. I seen a man try to dig a foxhole with his bare hands and his teeth. I seen a man go catatonic, he hadda be carried off the field. People get hurt in all kinds of ways. The way I figure it, the body heals a helluva lot faster than the mind does."
"I'm afraid all the time," Reid whispers. "I'm afraid of the shelling, of dying. I'm afraid I'll actually live through this and go home. I'm afraid I'll go home and end up like my mom." He tells Eugene something he's barely admitted to himself. "And if that happens, I don't think I want to live."
"You can't worry about the future," Roe says, adamant. "It's hard enough to get through each day. You wanna concentrate on the future, you concentrate on an hour from now. That's all."
Reid thinks of the Bäumer quote. That's all. Reid will get through this. He'll be a good medic. And maybe, he'll live. That's all.
Reid pulls a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his bag. "You want one?"
"Holy shit, Reid. When you get corrupted, you go all out."
Spencer grins. "No. I don't smoke, but you do. Figured I'd carry some around in case you or Luz or--" he almost says Muck. He catches himself. The grin fades. "--or Malark wants one. I see Lip is smoking now."
Roe nods, eyes wide. "I don't know if the war's endin' soon, but I guess the world must be. You swearin' and Lip smokin'? Sounds like end of days to me." He takes a cigarette, lights it. "Thanks."
Roe smokes and Reid looks at the stars. He's cold, he feels lousy, but the silence is nice. If he concentrates, he can hear the choir faintly. It sounds like music from a dream.
"You want me to leave you alone, or you feel like company?"
"You can stay," Reid says. He tries for nonchalant. "If you want to."
Roe just nods. Smoke drifts like a ghost.
Reid picks up the paper and pencil. He takes a deep breath. He puts lead to the paper.
He starts with two words: Dear Mom.