Role Play

Post-ep 11X21 The Devil's Backbone

"You've lost protectors before, haven't you?"

The words echoed in his mind as Spencer Reid walked rapidly away from the solitary ward, outstretched palm holding the macerated contents of the mouth of Antonia Slade. The woman had done her best to get under his skin….and on it, as well. His natural revulsion to her action was contained only through a supreme act of will on his part, one that he'd cultivated in earnest over the past few weeks.

As quickly as he was moving, and as mightily as he had to work to squelch his natural reaction to becoming contaminated, Reid's powerful brain still had time to flash back on the recent changes to his team, and that one vivid dream they'd precipitated. It had haunted his sleep for a long time after Morgan left them, and these past few minutes had made it seem as though Antonia Slade had been able to see right into it, right into his subconscious.

Derek Morgan had been through an ordeal. Another ordeal, in his life's series of ordeals. It had followed close on the heels of the one that had nearly cost the man his life, just over six months ago. Reid knew that Morgan would gladly have given himself up at that earlier point, if it could have meant sparing the subsequent trauma to Savannah and their unborn child. But the senior profiler had not been granted the luxury of choice, and so he'd been made to suffer both traumas. No matter the happy outcome, no matter the survival of all three members of the newly-formed family, it had still proven to be a breaking point. Maybe Derek Morgan hadn't broken, but his attachment to the work they did had, supplanted by his attachment to the wee hands and feet, and enormous smile and heart, of Hank Spencer Morgan.

His leaving had been understandable. It had been, ultimately, the right thing for him. But it had thrown Reid into something of a crisis of identity. He felt like his role within the team was changing, or needed to change, and he wasn't at all sure he could discern how, let alone accomplish it.

With the departure of Morgan, Reid had only three team members in common with the one he'd joined. Or, perhaps better put, the one he'd been hatched into. Barely out of his boyhood, he'd been lured to the team by one master, and then unceremoniously passed off to another. Not that he would ever complain about either circumstance. Gideon had been his way out of wherever his directionless life might ultimately have led him. For that, Reid would be forever grateful. And Hotch had been the role model he'd longed for all his life, without ever realizing it. He was, in fact, a role model still, even if a bit battered and bruised from all of his life's ordeals. And Morgan. Derek Morgan had been the greatly-admired combination of brains and brawn to which Reid knew he could never aspire. Not the brawn. Definitely not the brawn.

Derek Morgan had been Reid's protector. Antonia Slade had been right on target with that. But he'd also been the team's protector. With his departure, there'd been a hole left in the middle of the team, and it needed to be filled. For reasons he couldn't quite articulate, Reid felt the responsibility of it. His erstwhile older brother had left the nest, and it was time for the younger man to step up.

It's not that big a stretch, he'd assured himself. I'm not who I was ten years ago. I'm not a kid anymore. And they see it, too. None of them look at me that way anymore.

But he hadn't known if he was up to it. He might not be a kid. But he was still pretty much a geek. And still a relatively skinny one, at that.

A 'relatively' skinny, mature geek. Sure, I'm just what the team needs.

He'd ridiculed himself for being who he was, and not who he wasn't. And he'd ruminated on it endlessly, having long ago become expert at the process. Eventually, it permeated his sleep.

The dream always started the same way. A case was coming to a head, and the team was on the move.

Okay. So, I jump out, run ahead of the others, and situate myself in front of the door. Or…wait. Should I stop short of the door, and let one of them open it? Then I can be the first through. For most of his life, Spencer Reid had considered himself a thinker. Someone who could run all the possibilities, who could see all the angles. Someone who noticed everything, who processed everything. But, for the life of him, he couldn't quite picture how Morgan had done it, all these years. Not even in a dream.

Maybe I'm supposed to be just a step behind them. But then….

The only image that would come to mind was of Derek Morgan kicking down a door. This door. That door. A series of doors. Kick down, enter, firearm pointed, ready to shoot.

But he didn't kick all of them in. Some of them we opened. I even opened some of them. But he was always the first one through.

When the dream began occurring, it had been under a week since Morgan had officially left them, but it had been three since that godawful night they'd almost lost him. The second time they'd almost lost him.

They say that you get used to things, the more they're repeated. But I don't think I'll ever get used to the idea of losing one of us. And, God knows, I've had plenty of practice.

The first to be taken had been Hotch. Well, if he didn't count himself, that is.

But, that time, we barely knew he was gone, before he was dropped at the hospital. It was frightening, but we knew he would survive.

Then there had been that time that had seemed so very real, because it had been intended as such.

I thought we'd lost Emily. That I'd lost Emily. When what I'd really lost was my ability to trust my friends.

That one had taken weeks….months….years for recovery, along with every ounce of forgiveness and understanding he'd owned. In the end, he'd just had to decide to absorb the hurt, because forgiveness and understanding had done nothing to assuage it.

Then…God, JJ. I thought you were gone, that time. I don't know what was worse…thinking about what they might be doing to you, or thinking that the boys wouldn't have a mother. Oh! That's right! You hadn't even had Michael yet. God, what if there had been no Michael?!

As disturbed as he'd been about Hotch, as heartsick as he'd been about his two female colleagues, he'd never been more shaken than when it had been Morgan. On the surface of it, his reaction might have been attributable to fear. As in, 'if they can do what they want to Morgan, what hope is there for the rest of us?'

But that hadn't been the root of his reaction. He'd feared for Morgan because he'd feared exactly what had happened. That they would lose him. And that Morgan might lose himself. More specifically, that Morgan might lose the self he'd so carefully cultivated since his youth

I'm glad we'll still be in each other's lives, at least.

Flooded with that sense of joy and gratitude he felt whenever he remembered being honored with his second namesake.

Hank Spencer Morgan. I hope we'll still know each other long enough for me to watch him grow up.

Wondering, in passing, how Spencer Johnson might be doing, and making a mental note to have Garcia do some spying. Lightening from slumber just enough to realize he'd been ruminating even in his dream….then falling immediately back into it.

In Reid's subconscious, they were pulling close to where a number of police cruisers' beacons were flashing, and the moment was nearly at hand.

So, I'll just run on ahead and play it by ear. Right? That's what Morgan would do, right? He didn't obsess on thinking it through. He just did it. The only thinking he had to do was to remember that there was someone inside, someone in danger. He focused on them.

So, as the SUV pulled to a stop, Reid jumped out as quickly as he could and headed in the direction of the house.

Don't think, don't think, don't think, don't think…

That might have been an effective diversion strategy for a less powerful mind. But 187 IQ points allowed Spencer Reid's mind to recite a mantra, simultaneously ponder on the events of the moment, have the capacity to run all the possibilities, and still be frightened for what might happen.

He'd already passed Lewis and Rossi. JJ was faster….much faster….but still staying a respectful step behind their unit chief, who was operating with caution. So it wasn't really all that difficult to pull ahead of his team and reach the door first. He wasn't about to open it without an order, but he also wasn't about to let anyone in ahead of him. Something in Reid knew that Hotch understood that. And that he understood why.

He was poised at the door, gun raised, flashlight in place, ready to try the door.

Please let it be unlocked.

Because, as much as he might seek to emulate his good friend, he wasn't quite sure he had the lower body strength to accomplish it.

Hotch arrived just a step or two behind him, his stare demanding Reid's eyes. They exchanged a look that was simultaneously questioning and commanding.

Do you know what you're doing?

Yes. And I have to. Please let me.

The unit chief gave the command. "Go."

Reid tried the lock. No such luck.

He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, uttering a lightning quick prayer. Please let this work.

Then he lifted his leg, and putting all the strength he could muster into it, he kicked at the door. It bent but didn't break. Nor did it open. So he did it again, to the same result.

JJ had been staring at him the whole time, just as she'd watched the look he'd exchanged with their boss. She knew where his head was at. And she knew it was imperative that he have success, both for himself, and for the sake of capturing their unsub. So, instead of stepping forward and trying it herself, she stage-whispered to him.

"Above the lock! Try it just above the lock!"

It was the final thing, the thing he hadn't quite recorded to memory. And, having not recorded it, it hadn't been available to him. But she'd given it to him, and he would try it.

Reid lifted his leg a third time, and struck the door with his foot, just a few inches above the lock. And the door swung open.

In another circumstance, his success might have delighted him. But, in this one, all it did was grant him access to someone who'd already killed four people. And who wouldn't have minded making him the fifth. The breaking down of the door was just the overture. The first act was about to begin.

Without thinking, Reid moved inside, ahead of the others. He swung his body left, and then right, his eyes scanning the space in front of him, his outstretched hands holding his flashlight and his gun steady. He sensed, rather than saw, JJ enter behind him and move down the center hallway, and he knew Hotch was just behind her, heading to the right. The trio made quick work of searching the house.

"Clear!" It came through his earpiece as a whisper. There would be no shouting, not with the unsub presumably still holding a victim somewhere inside.

"Clear!" came again, as Reid continued his journey down the long hallway.

"Clear!" he whispered himself, as he scanned the last of the rooms in his wing of the house, and just before he came to a doorway at the end of the hall. He was at the stairs that led to the basement.

What would Morgan do? Would he wait for backup? Or would he go down there himself?

He knew the answer. Morgan would already have had the door opened, and been half-way down the stairs, in the same period of time that Reid was still thinking about it. So the young genius reached out for the door knob, and turned it as silently as it would turn.

Now that the possibilities had been narrowed, he knew it was highly likely he would encounter the unsub at the bottom of these stairs. The knowledge precipitated another internal debate.

Should I announce my presence, and hope to interrupt whatever he's doing to the victim? Or would that just make him hurry to complete the act? Should I go down in the dark, and step quietly? Do I take the shot when I get there, or do I wait for him to assume a threatening position? Should I…

'STOP! Pretty Boy, stop it!'

Reid froze. Am I dreaming? Paradoxically unaware that the answer was 'yes'.

Was that….. Did I just hear…. He remained immobile.

This is a hell of a time to start hallucinating, Spencer.

But there it was again. That most familiar voice.

"That's right, Kid. It's me. Well, not really. It's your dream. So it must be obvious by now. It's you. You've had this all along. You've known what to do. You've never needed me, not really. I'm not your protector. Not any more than you're mine, anyway. We're all in this alone. And we're all in it together. We're a team. We make ourselves whole, no matter how many of us there are, no matter who is there and who isn't. We make ourselves 'one', don't we? And that 'one' is the team.

"You don't need to be kicking down doors, Kid. You don't need to do things my way. Do them the way Spencer Reid does them. Hell, you think if it was you who was gone, that I could suddenly get my brain to do what yours does? No! So don't you be trying out to the next Derek Morgan. There's only one of me. Just like there's only one Spencer Reid. And I've always trusted him with my life. I couldn't possibly have left my team in better hands than Pretty Boy's."

The hands the dream-state Morgan referenced were now covered in filth. But they were also steady, and strong, and determined. And, no matter how repulsed he was, he was going to keep that one hand outstretched and untouched until the markings made in it had been photographed.

That's what I can bring to fill the hole. I've got a wealth of experience with standing up to bullies. And that's all Antonia Slade, and those like her, really are. They try to find our insecurities, and feed on them. For most of my youth, I wore mine out in the open. It's hard to hide being six years younger than your classmates, after all. And they were fed on, plenty. It even happened when I first came to the BAU. But I learned how to take care of myself. And then I learned how to cover. And, now, I'm expert at it. Antonia Slade saw only what I wanted her to see.

He'd allowed her that bit of insecurity in his features. His grief over the loss of Morgan's daily presence in his life. It hadn't been feigned. It had simply been unmasked, for the briefest of seconds. And, bully that she was, she'd gone after it.

Reid recalled a long ago conversation with Emily Prentiss. She'd thanked him for being himself, and he'd responded with, "I don't know how to be anybody else."

But that was then, and this was now. Now, he did know how to be whoever he needed to be, for the sake of the work they did. He'd grown into it. Sometimes, much to his regret. It was hard to lose innocence, even when it meant emerging into maturity. Because it might very well mean having to redefine yourself. Or, maybe, to rediscover yourself.

Once upon a time, that might have intimidated Spencer Reid. He'd been afraid of whom, or what, he might find inside. But he feared himself no longer. Maturity, and necessity, had brought him to a new place. From that place, he could stare down an unsub, direct his own contribution to a case, hold his own with an uncooperative LEO, decipher an encrypted message ... and hold steady a hand filled with an unsub's regurgitated contempt.

The Morgan of his dream had been right. There could be no filling of that particular, unique, honorable set of shoes. There was only a growing into one's own future. And that, Reid could do. With the team a man down, it was time for him to step up. Time to remember that he was as prepared to lead as to follow. Time to be something new to the team he'd once needed so badly, and who now needed him equally as much. He wasn't called to be Derek Morgan. He was called to be the fully realized Spencer Reid. It should have shaken him, but it didn't. Which could mean only one thing.

I'm ready.