#blue 1

Slowly, slowly, I am drifting.

"Have another one," she advised, pouring tequila into the little glass and pushing it toward him.

"You know I'm a recovering addict, right? I shouldn't be drinking at all."

She shrugged and tossed back her drink with a practiced flick of her wrist. "You deserve it, way I see it. It was a pretty shitty day."

"They're all shitty days," he muttered into his glass.

"Then why do you do it?"

He considered the question with all the gravitas of the very nearly drunk, though he was stone cold sober. "It matters," he finally decided. "I do good. I help people." He gave an ironic snort and raised his glass. "I save the world."

"Who ya talkin' to, Spence?" The sunny haired media liaison appeared at his elbow, and Reid started, spilling tequila in a sad little puddle on the bar's wooden surface.

"Um. I wasn't talking," he managed.

A delicate brow arched. "We're all over there," she said with a gesture toward the team's table. "You should join us."

"I'm not really in the mood for company," he mumbled.

JJ glanced over her shoulder; the others were watching them with anxious expressions. She gave a little shrug and hopped up onto the stool next to him. "I'm not in the mood for company, either."

He cut his eyes at her, but he said nothing.

She flagged down the bartender and ordered a beer. Sat sipping in silence. She could wait him out.

The quiet between them lengthened; stretched; echoed. He could feel the way it strained. He could feel her concern. He stared defiantly down at the little glass, now only three-quarters full, and kept his mouth shut.

Spencer Reid vastly underestimated the patience of Jennifer Jareau.

"I didn't drink it," he finally said. "I'm working the steps. I'm doing OK. I just wanted to smell it."

She watched him with a steady, penetrating gaze.

"It was a really bad day."

JJ cast another look over her shoulder, and Garcia read the signal loud and clear. She excused herself from the group and attempted to look casual as she hurried to join Reid and JJ at the bar.

"Hi, kittens," she said. "I was thirsty."

"You have a waitress, Garcia," Reid said.

"She's busy, and the bartender's cute."

The bartender was 80 if he were a day—wizened like a gnome, stooped, and with wisps of hair about a mile longing springing from each ear—but Reid let it go.

"Must be a good listener, too," Garcia continued. "You were talkin' his fuzzy little ear off a minute ago."

"I wasn't talking," he said, his head so low his nose nearly touched the sticky counter.

JJ and Garcia's eyes met over his head. A silent conversation, carried out only in barely-perceptible tightening of specific facial muscles, occurred between the two women, and though Reid could sense it was happening, he tried to ignore it.

"Hey, baby girl, where're those drinks?"

Reid let out a soft groan as Morgan ambled over to join them. He'd come to the bar to be alone, and as he'd sat contemplating the liquor selections (without any real intention of drinking anything stronger than water), they'd all filed in one by one and taken the table behind him. They'd watched him, and finally they'd sent JJ as an ambassador of annoyance. Now it looked like the rest of the crew were joining in.

"I couldn't decide what to order. I was asking Reid about the tequila. Is it any good?" The question was directed at the young doctor, but Garcia's eyes were locked with Morgan's.

Reid pushed the glass away. "I wouldn't know. I haven't tried it."

"He's just having a bad day," JJ said. She reached out to rub his back, but he flinched away. Her hand hung in the space between them for several long, forlorn beats before she let it drop back to her side.

"I'd really like to be alone. I know you guys mean well, but…." He trailed off, and as he raised his head, the look of quiet, lonely desperation tore at their hearts.

But Reid was Reid, and he dealt with his pain in his own way. As long as he wasn't drowning it or shooting it into his veins, it was probably safe to leave him be.

"Yeah, OK," Morgan finally said. "You know where we are if you need us."

Reid nodded, and they at last abandoned the field of battle and retreated to their table. He let out a relieved little sigh and tapped the tip of his finger against the glass just to hear the softping.

"They would've been there for you, too, if you'd let them," he said, careful to move his lips as little as possible, lest they see and start the interrogation again.

"You're one to talk," she said in that arrogant, defensive tone he knew so well. "You became a drug addict. Don't you think they would've helped you?"

He shrugged thin, restless shoulders; tried to make it look like a casual stretch. "They wouldn't've understood. How could they?"

"They couldn't, just like they couldn't understand what it was like for me, or why I did what I did." She pushed the tequila toward him. "Drink up, kiddo. You're alone in the world, and you had a shitty day. What better reason?"

He sighed. Watched his reflection in the little glass. "It's always easy to come up with reasons to drink or use. It's much harder coming up with reasons not to."

"Then don't try."

"Why are you here?" he asked, face contorting in a sudden, puzzled frown.

"I'm not. You're imagining me."

He dismissed that with a miniscule flick of his fingers. "I know that. But why you? Why now? And why are you trying so hard to get me drunk?"

She shifted uncomfortably; drew a pattern in the puddle of alcohol drying on the bar. "I always liked you. You were always nice to me. I thought we were alike in a lot of ways, you and I."

"How's that?"

She hitched a shoulder in a little shrug. "Did either of us really belong in the BAU? I mean, you're smart and all, but you were just a kid back then. And me…well, we all know what happened to me."

"What did happen to you, Elle?" he said, startling himself—and admitting a truth he'd been reluctant to acknowledge—by using her name for the first time. The first time in…even he couldn't remember how long.

She glanced behind her as though someone would be there, watching; waiting. "I should go. Drink or don't, it doesn't matter to me."

"Elle, wait, don't—" But she was gone, out the door and into the street and then just gone. It's how it always went: he would ask her purpose, press her for specifics, and she would spook and run. It was ridiculous to question his own hallucination (especially when the better idea was to check himself into St. Elizabeth's), but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

He had been seeing her for weeks now, but only in the past few days had they spoken. At first he'd had no idea he was hallucinating; he would catch a glimpse of her in a crowded room, or on a busy street, and he just thought it a funny coincidence to be suddenly seeing her everywhere after all these years. She'd come and gone so quickly, like moments illuminated in the flash of a strobe light, that he'd wondered if he were really seeing her at all.

He sighed; fished into his wallet and dropped a few dollars on the counter. Without even a glance at the team, he left the restaurant. They watched him go, and they all wondered.

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