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Emily isn't really sure what to make of her new team.
They're nice enough, she supposes, or at least most of them are. Hotchner doesn't seem to trust her very much, and Jason Gideon has only just started to warm up to her, but the rest are at least civil, and she can understand their initial standoffishness. Teams like these form tight bonds from travelling and essentially living together for long stretches, seeing awful things that only the other members of their team can truly understand.
She'd be a hypocrite if she faulted them for it, given how insular JTF-12 was. (And Jesus, that's a fresh wound. Just thinking about Clyde and Tsia and Sean and Jeremy makes her throat tight).
Still, it makes it a little awkward to hear she'll be spending at least twenty-four hours with the team without the pressure of finding a serial murderer looming over their heads to distract them from the new girl. She shudders at the thought of them asking her about her family. Maybe, if they get lucky, someone will start sending abandoned warehouses on fire or something else urgent but victimless, and the LVPD will ask them for assistance while they're here.
Or maybe she should consider getting therapy.
"So, we're leaving tomorrow?" Morgan asks.
Hotchner grimaces, looking down at his cell. "Hopefully. It could be even longer, depending on how long it takes them to repair the engine. It's a good thing it didn't become a problem until after we'd arrived, I suppose. You're all welcome to book a commercial flight home, if you'd like, but the Bureau won't cover the cost since they're already covering our extended hotel stay."
"Hmm, pay to fly home to Virginia or spend the night in Sin City financed by the federal government? I know what I'm choosing."
Hotchner sighs. "The bureau will not cover your bar tab, to be clear." It's really hard to tell when he's joking. "And you need to be ready to go by 9am tomorrow in case the jet is ready for us by then."
"Yes, Mom," Morgan says. It's a testament to how well the case went that neither Hotch nor Gideon send him as much as a disapproving look. "JJ?"
"You want to get your ass handed to you at darts again? Your funeral."
"Cocky. Prentiss? How about you?"
She tries to keep from grimacing. Morgan and JJ have been by far the kindest to her, which she appreciates, but that also means they're probably the most likely to ask her questions about herself, especially if they're both drinking. And she's really not sure how to answer those. "Uh, I'll pass."
(She can't say no forever. She reminds herself to come up with an answer to "So, what were you doing before you came here?" when she gets home).
"Ah, well, let me know if you change your mind and I'll send you the address of wherever we end up. Reid? You know all the good spots here, right?"
"Not the bars. There's a neat theatre in Summerlin that shows old silent films, though, it's—"
"Hotch, Gideon? Wanna lose the ties?"
Emily sends a sideways glance at Reid, but he doesn't seem offended at being cut off. He's even smiling a little, like maybe he'd been teeing Morgan up for the joke. They seem to have that kind of relationship. She's still getting used to all the dynamics here.
Hotchner and Gideon turn the offer down as well, but Morgan doesn't seem too bothered to be going out with just JJ, though he does ruffle Reid's hair on his way out the door and extends the same offer he'd given to Emily, though Reid looks even less likely to take it than she is.
Gideon says something about some remaining loose ends to tie up with the police chief, and Hotch goes off to check up on the jet, and then, suddenly, it's just the two of them.
She…really doesn't know Reid at all. He's been exceedingly neutral towards her—not mistrustful or standoffish like Hotchner, but not warm and welcoming like JJ, either. The others seem to respect him despite his age, and she can see why. Maybe she can get him to show her how he makes his geographical profiles so narrow.
(Tsia was good at that, too. Will she ever see them again? Will her chest ever stop aching when she thinks of them?)
"So, do you have any plans for tonight?"
Reid looks up. She cranes her neck to look at the book he's reading. Huh. Russian. "Not really. I'll probably just go back to the hotel and get a head start on paperwork."
He hardly needs a headstart, with how fast he works. Emily nods like it makes sense anyway. "What did Morgan mean when he said you 'know all the good spots?' I mean, I can tell you know a lot about a lot of random things, but I didn't think Las Vegas tourist traps would be on your radar."
"They aren't, generally." He bites his lip. "I, uh, grew up here, actually. I left for college when I was fourteen but I came back intermittently until I was eighteen."
"Ah." She waits for him to return the question to her and wonders how best to answer the question of where she grew up—should she answer with the cities or the countries?—and exhales when it never comes. She's never been so grateful for someone's social awkwardness. "I'm…pretty handy at poker if you want to join me at the Strip."
She needs to form connections with the team eventually. Who better to start with than the one who seems to have no concrete opinion of her?
He winces. "I'm…kind of banned from most of the casinos in Vegas. Card-counting. I can't help it."
"Naughty boy." Reid's head snaps up from where he's been scanning the book—slowly, he must not be fluent—huge eyes meeting hers as a flush leaps to his cheeks. She clears her throat. Jeremy would have laughed, but Reid isn't Jeremy, and the BAU isn't JTF-12. "Only most?"
Reid says nothing for a while, and then a slow smile spreads across his face, sharper and more confident than anything she's seen from him so far.
Alright. This might actually be fun.
Reid is apparently banned from the entire Strip. Which is frankly impressive. So they go to Summerlin, where Reid is apparently still somehow banned from several of its casinos, but not all of them, and certainly far less than in Vegas proper. It's quieter, at least.
It takes them thirty-eight minutes to get kicked out. Or, well, it takes Reid thirty-eight minutes to get kicked out and for Emily to follow him out.
"They said you could keep playing."
"Solidarity." She grabs his elbow, tugging him quickly down the sidewalk away from the pitboss still glaring daggers at them from just outside the entrance. "Are you banned from any restaurants?"
"Um, no?"
"Great, because I'm starving. Any suggestions, Doc?"
He tilts his head. "Do you like Italian food?"
"I lived there," she blurts out before she can stop herself.
Reid stops walking. "Really?"
"Yeah. Rome, specifically. I moved around a lot when I was a kid. It's probably easier to list the countries in Europe and the Middle East that I never lived in or at least visited."
"That's interesting. Do you speak multiple languages as well? I mean, I know you speak Arabic, but what about Italian?"
"Arabic, Italian, French, Spanish…Russian if I really focus. Bits and pieces of some other Eastern European languages."
"You have me beat." They start walking again, and Emily glances up at Reid to see he's smiling, startled and bright, like he's delighted not to be the best in something. She imagines it must get tiring. "Just, uh, English, ASL, and a little Russian myself. But I'm trying to learn Korean. You can learn Hangul in a day if you really try." He tilts his head again. A stray dog had made its way into their home when they'd lived in Romania, and she'd managed to keep it from her mother for three months during their year-long stay. The gesture makes him look not unlike it often did, innocently curious. "What made you move around so much?"
She cringes, but it's not a question she can dodge easily. She could say my mom worked a lot, but that would only prompt questions on what kind of work, and that question wasn't one she could dodge. And forcing it to be asked would only expose her more. "My mother is a US ambassador. We lived wherever she was stationed."
"Oh." His head tilts towards his opposite side. "Oh! Elizabeth Prentiss?"
She cringes again. "I take it you're familiar?"
Reid shrugs. "The State Department publishes a list of US ambassadors every month. I read it. Her name has been on there for longer than most of the others."
She stops walking. It's…almost better than if Reid had no idea who Elizabeth Prentiss was. She's not unique to him, not anyone to base his opinion of Emily on, just…one name in a list of many. She can live with being known as the daughter of an ambassador.
"Are you alright?"
She shakes her head and keeps walking, then realises how that looks. "Fine, I'm fine. Uh, despite living in Italy, I promise I'm not picky on restaurants. I won't kick up a fuss if they make the pizza wrong. And then after, if you're up for it…you mentioned some theatre? Silent films?"
Reid frowns. "You don't…have to pretend to be interested. I know it's not most peoples' thing. That's okay."
"I'm not pretending. It's actually nice to know someone else shares my weird interests." She smiles, watching him return it wobbly. "Most people I know would call me pretentious."
"You and me both. So uh, dinner and a movie then? I can pay."
She watches his face redden at his own phrasing and can't quite resist making it worse. "Such a gentleman. Your mother must be proud."
He ducks his head, the colour deepening as his half-amused smile fades. Huh. Maybe they have even more in common than she'd assumed.
Dinner is good, a little hole-in-the-wall place Reid has clearly been to before. He'd steered them away from the first casino she'd suggested they visit, so she has an inkling as to what he must have been doing here when he first visited. It's not like there's much other reason for him to visit Summerlin if he grew up in the city proper—surely there are niche theatres in Vegas, too. She has to wonder a little. Before tonight, he hadn't seemed like the type to gamble, much less count cards.
(Something tells her not to ask, so she doesn't.)
The theatre is showing the 1920 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which Reid tries his best to talk through. She has to shush him no less than four times, not out of lack of interest but because the couple in the row ahead of them keep shooting them death glares over their shoulders. She'd rather not get thrown out of two places tonight.
"That was cool," she says as they leave, smiling when he half-jogs forward to beat her to the door and hold it open. She won't repeat the gentleman comment seeing how it had gotten to him, but it's holding true.
"You think so?"
"Definitely." Privately, she wonders if there are any theatres in D.C. that might have showings of Solaris and if that might be Reid's thing. She's not sure how much overlap there is between fans of 1920s silent horror and weird Soviet science-fiction, but it feels like the best chance she's had at getting someone to join her in a long time.
Is there a difference between a kindred spirit and a friend? She thinks she might be crossing the line, if there is one. Not that she's upset about it.
They walk in silence down the street for some time—they'll probably go back to the hotel soon; the rows of shops outside the theatre are by now lit in oranges and yellows from the setting sun—but neither of them says it.
"What were you saying earlier, about the first transformation sequence?"
Reid stops walking and turns to face her, brows furrowed. "You asked me to stop talking about that."
"Only because we were in a movie theatre. I'm interested."
His brows furrow further, eyes narrowing as well like he's trying to suss out whether or not she's lying to him, and then drift over her shoulder, to some point behind her, and widen.
She frowns, turning around and trying to follow his gaze, but she can't figure out what he's looking at. There are still quite a lot of people milling about even at this late hour, though she supposes that's Vegas—or the outskirts of Vegas—for you, but nobody looks at all threatening. The most out-of-place person is a sharply-dressed man carrying a briefcase amongst all the people in going-out attire, but it's not like he's brandishing a weapon at them. "Reid, what—"
"Dad?"
The sharply-dressed man has stopped moving, too, so Emily suspects that's who he's speaking to. She starts to raise a hand to wave, then stops halfway. The man's hands are slack at his sides, his briefcase threatening to slip from his fingers. His face is pinched, brows furrowed, and eyes narrowed like he's scrutinising Reid, adding up his features. Maybe comparing them to the face of someone much younger.
Oh. Oh shit.
This is a reunion, and judging by the way Reid has frozen beside her, it is not a happy one.
Both men stay frozen in place for some time, the rest of the crowd stepping around them and occasionally throwing confused looks over their shoulders. Emily rocks on her feet at Spencer's side, caught halfway between the stasis of the Reid men and the movement of the strangers surrounding them.
Eventually, the elder of the pair comes forward in slow, hesitant steps like one might approach a wild animal. "…Spencer? Is that you?"
Reid's gentle face hardens. "Yes. Hello, William."
William looks to his feet, his lips twisting. "You don't look like me anymore," he says. "You used to. Everyone said so." His gaze travels over to Emily, the twist of his mouth turning to something of an amused smile, like he's inviting her to share in the joke.
Anymore. Emily wonders how long it's been since Reid has seen his father.
"They say some people look like their dogs, too," Reid says. "It's attributed to prolonged mutual exposure. Elderly couples, also. They unconsciously mimic the expressions of people they've been around their whole life. So, it kind of—kind of makes sense that I wouldn't really look like you. I haven't seen you in fifteen years."
Jesus. Yeah, she's not laughing.
William sighs. "Let's—we're blocking the sidewalk. Let's go over here." He reaches out to take Reid's arm, but he snatches it away, glowering as he follows William to the edge of the pavement under the awning of a liquor store.
(He throws a glance over his shoulder, widening his eyes at Emily like he's asking for help, but she's already following).
"What are you doing here?" Reid demands the moment they're out of the way.
William frowns. "I was just leaving work, Spencer."
"You came back to Vegas?" William looks down, silent, and Reid stares. "Did you never leave?"
"Spencer," William hisses. "People are staring, calm—"
"I will not calm down," Reid hisses back, his voice pitching up. "That whole time you were ten, fifteen minutes away, and you never did anything. You didn't check on us once."
"I'm sorry," William says. "After I left…I know it was weak, I—"
Emily hears Reid's sharp intake of air and rests her hand awkwardly on his back, feeling his shoulders flex. At his sides, his hands twitch into fists and then relax in increments, the movement stiff and forced.
She wonders how the hell she's going to explain it to Hotchner if Reid winds up swinging on his father, whom he apparently hasn't seen in over a decade. The way this conversation is going, she can't say she'd blame him, either.
"—I just couldn't bring myself to do it and see what I'd left behind." His face smooths out, his eyes flickering up to meet Reid's. A flicker of satisfaction lights in her chest at the realisation that he seems a little frightened at the realisation that his son now towers over him. "How…how is she doing now?"
Reid glances over at her, biting his lip like he's only just now realised she'd followed them under the awning and can hear every word. Should she leave to give him some privacy or stay as support? She hardly knows him, but it feels wrong to abandon him to this. Eventually, Reid seems to come to a decision himself regarding her continued presence and turns back to his father. "She's getting the care she needs now, no thanks to you." He wets his lips. "I spent my eighteenth birthday filling out paperwork in the visitor's room of her hospital. It would have been nice to have…someone there. Or at least covering some of the cost so I didn't have to get myself barred from every casino on the Strip."
"I can be there now," William says. Even standing off to the side, Emily can see Reid's eyes flash, but his father doesn't seem to notice. "I've wanted to check up on you before I just…I'm a coward, I suppose." He glances at Reid expectantly like he's waiting to be reassured and frowns when it never comes. "So, what are you doing for work these days? I always knew you were going to be something great."
Spencer scoffs. "You did like to say that, didn't you? Paraded me in front of your colleagues and had me read sections of the Constitution from memory like a party trick, and then the minute there was nobody around you could use me to impress you berated me for not being normal." He exhales hard through his nose. "You would know this if you'd so much as Googled me once in the past five years, but I'm an FBI agent with the Behavioural Analysis Unit in Quantico now."
William sighs. "You're frustrated."
Wow, you a profiler too? Emily wants to ask, but it isn't her place, so she bites her tongue.
"…And I understand why, but can you try to be civil with me? All I asked was where you work, there's no need to get sarcastic with me."
Reid glowers, reaching into his bag and taking out his wallet, holding it by one side so it flips open to show his badge. He says nothing.
William arches his brows. "I…see. They made some exceptions, then?" His lips curl.
"I carry a gun, if that's what you're asking," Reid says.
William doesn't react to what Emily, even hardly knowing Reid, can tell is nearly a threat. "I'm sorry, I just didn't think they'd want someone like you. But I'd be happy to have you over for dinner with my family, and you can tell me all about it."
"Your family?"
William nods. "I have two sons now. Fifteen and seven."
He doesn't include Reid amongst his children, Emily notices, wincing. Reid himself latches onto something else, laughing sharply.
"Wow, you didn't wait long, did you?" When no response comes from William, Reid tilts his head. "Or…is that why you left? It is, isn't it? Are your new children the perfect sons you always wanted?"
"As a matter of fact, they are," William says. "And I've never had to remind my wife what day of the week it is, or listen to my boys scream and cry because the light in the kitchen somehow hurts." His lips curl as the mask slips off, his eyes zeroing in on where Emily's hand has shifted from Reid's back to his upper arm, squeezing. "How you managed to get a woman like this to agree to date you is beyond me."
Reid looks at his feet. "We aren't dating."
Before she can think better of it, Emily blurts out, "We're engaged, actually." Both men freeze. "April wedding. You are not invited." Now that William has dragged her into this, she thinks it's become very much her place. "Come on, Spencer." She tugs on his arm, not hard—if he wants to stay and chew his "father" out, he's more than welcome, but she's getting a little worried this might come to blows.
He goes with her, though not without stumbling. He lets her hold onto him until they turn down the street and then pulls carefully away. "You—you didn't have to do that." His eyes are shiny. Emily wonders if he's the kind of person who cries when he's angry.
"I know," Emily says. "But I wanted to. He seems like an ass."
"He's always been."
"I can tell." She tucks her hands into her pockets as they walk. "And I…know a thing or two about deadbeat fathers. It felt good to see you give yours some shit." At Spencer's questioning look, she elaborates. "I never got to know mine. He left before I could remember him so…that was a bit vicarious for me." After a second's hesitation, she adds, "and I know a thing or two about complicated relationships with mothers, too, if you ever want to talk about that."
Spencer bristles. "I love my mother."
"I didn't say you didn't." It's clear he's still on edge, but his hackles lower at her words. "I love mine, too, I just…don't always like her."
Spencer sighs, rubbing at his eyes. "You…you are right that it's complicated. I might take you up on that talk one day. And, um, the same goes for you, Prentiss. For all the talking I do, I'm a decent listener."
"Emily."
"Sorry?"
"You can call me Emily." She hadn't meant to say that, but she may as well commit to it. "I just told your shitty dad we were engaged to be married. I think that entitles you to call me by my first name."
Spencer's lips twitch. "Okay. Yeah. You can call me Spencer, then, if you'd like."
She smiles. She's been calling him that in her head anyway, she realises. "Spencer it is, then. I had a nice time tonight."
"Even the…" He turns on his heel and gestures vaguely behind them. "That?"
"Especially that. Listen, if you want to go to that dinner and bring your fiancee along, I would not object. It's been a while since I've been able to properly chew out a shitty man."
Spencer smiles. "I don't think that offer still stands. And I wouldn't want to do that in front of his kids."
Even though there's nobody for her to pretend to anymore or a pitboss to pull him away from, Emily links her arm around Spencer's. "I think it's a good thing you weren't the kind of man he wanted you to be," she says carefully. "You turned out a hell of a lot better than him."
Spencer ducks his head, smiling as his cheeks and ears go pink. "Tha—thank you. I appreciate—thank you for saying that. And you, uh, you're pretty great, too."
She flashes him another smile, hailing a passing taxi. "Back to the hotel, doc?"
"Sure."
(When Morgan asks them the next morning, obviously hungover, what she and Spencer had wound up doing, she raises a finger to her lips. "Top secret," she says.
If it gets the both of them teased for the next week, it's a small price to pay for her kindred spirit's privacy.)