Wildfire

The jet was eerily silent as it flew through the air, the members of the Behavioral Analysis Unit team either sleeping soundly or caught up in paperwork. Spencer Reid was lying down in one corner on the couch, a book propped up on his chest, but the words for once weren’t registering in his head. He couldn’t get the pictures of the mutilated children from the last case out of his head. Ever since the case when a young kid was shot in front of him, he was having trouble separating himself from child victims. He felt their pain in a way he never knew he could.

With a heavy sigh, Reid swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat up. The book tumbled from his lap and fell to the ground, so he snatched it from the carpet and closed the pages. He had given up hope that even with his eidetic memory he’d be able to remember any of the pages.

Morgan was sitting across from him, headphones stuck over his ears, head tilted back against the chair. At first glanced it looked like he was sleeping, but every once in a while he’d tap his fingers against the arm rest or bob his head to whatever music he was listening to. JJ was sitting with Rossi and Hotch, all of them seated at a table with papers strewn about. JJ and Hotch were trying to fill out some of the tedious paperwork, but Rossi kept distracting them, trying to goad both into a conversation. Emily was passed out in a chair; her head slumped over onto her shoulders, mumbling incoherently in her sleep.

Reid pulled his smart phone out of his pants pocket and after unlocking it idly flipped through his text messages. His finger ghosted over her name for a split second, contemplating sending her a message when he’d be back in Virginia, but dismissed it. Fighting a groan of annoyance he dropped his phone onto the cushion next to him and leaned back into the couch.

One hand reached up to scrub down his face and run through his slightly greasy, shaggy hair. It was getting long, almost down to his shoulders, but Reid couldn’t bring himself enough to care to go and get it cut.

Within an hour the plane was descending down to the private airstrip owned by the FBI, the sun having set long ago. They climbed off and rode back to the Quantico building that housed the BAU in black SUVs, all lost in their own thoughts.

Reid was more than happy to finally get to the parking garage; his own car and to his own home. But after putting his go bag in the trunk of his sensible hybrid and getting into the front seat, he didn’t start the car. He simply leaned against the steering wheel, eyes squeezed shut.

Thinking better of it, his hand drifted to his pants pocket and pulled his phone out again. His fingers tapped against the screen, heading straight toward her name and texted out a quick message, praying to god that she’d be home.

I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

Twisting the key in the ignition, Reid pulled out of the parking lot, wanting her touch to ease the ache in his chest, more than he wanted his next breath. He was barely on the street when his phone buzzed with a reply.

And I’ll be naked.