Everything teaches transition, transference, metamorphosis: therein is human power, in transference, not in creation; and therein is human destiny, not in longevity but in removal. We dive and reappear in new places.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson



It's Saturday morning and Spencer is watching cartoons. He's watching a videotape of Rocky and Bullwinkle, which is one of his favorites. When the video ends he goes into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal. His mother is still asleep. His father is at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand, reading the newspaper.

Spencer walks over to the table and stands on his tiptoes. He pushes his glasses further up on his nose with one index finger. He's wondering if maybe his dad will watch cartoons with him the way Mom does sometimes. Before he has a chance to ask, his father sets the mug down. "Did you need something?"

Spencer almost says you but that makes him sound like a little kid. And he's not a little kid. He might only be six but he's in seventh grade; he's used to spending more time with grownups than children his own age. William flips the paper and Spencer notices he's reading the Business Section.

Reid sets his bowl and the box of Cheerios on the table. Maybe Dad will invite him to stay, to read the paper with him. He imagines his dad smiling, asking which section do you want, Spence?

On television, dads are always asking their kids do you want to play catch? Spencer hates sports. And after the time he got hit in the stomach with the baseball, he's pretty sure his dad's never going to ask him that. But sharing the newspaper would be okay. He reads with his mom all the time. Sometimes they read together; sometimes they just sit in silence. But it's a nice silence, warm and comfortable, like the blue afghan on the back of the couch. Not like this one. "Can I…can I r-read with you?" he asks. He doesn't mean to stutter, but he can't help it.

William nods toward the living room. "I'm busy right now. Why don't you go finish watching TV."

ooooo

Spencer can't stay after school, but he finds other ways to spend time with Mr. Boyd. Mr. Boyd teaches Honors Physics and even though Spencer's a senior now, he's still hoping he can go on the field trip again.

Mr. Boyd is one of the few teachers who treats Spencer like a regular high school student. He doesn't treat Reid like a genius or a freak. When Reid was a junior Mr. Boyd let him do as much extra credit as he wanted. He didn't get mad when Spencer said he couldn't attend the Science Fair; Spencer couldn't risk leaving his mom alone that long. Reid didn't officially participate in the Fair, but he left his project on Mr. Boyd's desk anyway.

Mr. Boyd jokes with him. Mr. Boyd smiles at him. Mr. Boyd's first name is Jim and sometimes—when Spencer's in bed and the sound of his mother's whispering drifts down the hall—Reid wonders what it would be like to have a father like Jim Boyd.

Spencer folds his hands behind his head and stares at the ceiling. He has maps of constellations tacked above him; he's looked at them so many times he can see the stars on the inside of his eyelids. Reid doesn't waste time wondering where his own father is anymore. He knows it's unlikely his mother will ever remarry. And he knows there isn't another father in his future, but going on the field trip with Mr. Boyd feels like…it feels like a victory. Like it matters. Spencer smiles and turns onto his side. When he sleeps he dreams about a father and son who stand in a field. They both have baseball mitts but they play catch with a telescope.

The next morning Spencer corners Mr. Boyd outside the library and gets through his request with a minimum of awkwardness. Mr. Boyd smiles and winks and says "Of course you can come along, Spencer. As a matter of fact," the teacher grins, "I bet you could do a better job with the tour than the actual guide." Mr. Boyd chuckles and so does Spencer. It's nice to be laughed with, and not at.

Six hours later Spencer's tied to a goal post. Reid doesn't cry, but he wants to, he wants to. He won't give his classmates the satisfaction. But his eyes burn and his throat is a hot needle and he doesn't understand why this is happening. The rope hurts his wrists and ankles and he can't tell which is worse: the mocking, the catcalls, or the laughter. It all sounds like glass in his ears. Reid spends fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour (forever) asking for help. No one lifts a finger.

And then Mr. Boyd emerges from the school. Spencer opens his mouth, ashamed to call on his teacher and desperate to get down. Mr. Boyd's name is right there on his tongue, all he has to do is open his mouth. His lips are dry and chapped; his skin is covered in gooseflesh. Spencer doesn't know if he believes in God, but he tries praying anyway. If not for help, at least for the ground to swallow him up.

Mr. Boyd stops as soon as he sees the group of kids (there are 27, 27 kids and Reid knows their names, he knows them all) clustered around the goal post. Reid waits for help. He'll take the humiliation if it will get him down, if it will get him away from here, if it will get him home. But nothing happens. Mr. Boyd blinks, rubs one arm, and turns on his heel. He heads back into the building.

"Pussy," a block-headed jock up front hisses. Reid thinks of a documentary he saw the other day where a lion chased a gazelle. Reid wants to be that gazelle, he wants to run so fast and so far no one will ever find him again. Reid's not exactly sure what pussy means. He hopes it means coward, because Spencer realizes, in the shadow of almost half his class, that's exactly what Jim Boyd is.

The jock (his name is Anthony Cobb and he's a quarterback and he's popular and he's never been in Honors Physics and the only thing he's ever said to Reid is what are you lookin' at, Freak Boy?) laughs, slides an arm around a cheerleader (her name is Lisa Stark and she's in Reid's homeroom, she was in his American History class, they did a project together as freshmen, he thought she was nice but he was wrong, he was wrong) and guides her away. In another ten minutes the group (audience) is gone and Reid is alone.

Mr. Boyd doesn't come back out.

Reid doesn't go on the field trip.

ooooo

Later, when Spencer knows more about schizophrenia than his mother's doctor, he discovers a label for the feelings he'd had for Mr. Boyd: transference. Reid understands every child wants a father (in a study of more than 450 American alcoholics, an absent father is a typical occurrence) and mother (one in four adults suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year). And if that child doesn't have a parental figure, he'll unconsciously shift his love onto someone else, someone available. Perhaps that child will transfer the love he had (has) for his father to a favorite teacher.

Despite what happened with Mr. Boyd, Reid likes most of his college professors. He feels more comfortable around them than his fellow students. The best teachers remind Spencer of his mother. He has a professor for Contemporary Psychology named Linda Dawson. She's in her forties with close-cropped blond hair. She smiles often; she wears tweed skirts and oversized sweaters. Reid looks forward to her class most, even though he has a better understand of the material than Professor Dawson does.

Spencer sits in her class and thinks of his mother. Diana is no longer teaching, but listening to Linda feels a little like spending time with his mom. He calls Diana after each class. Some days Reid listens to her rant about how the neighbors are watching her. He listens to her read aloud from a favorite book, or share a lesson plan for the nonexistent class she's teaching. Sometimes Reid just listens to her cry; he holds the phone in an iron grip and curls himself around the receiver as if he can somehow protect her from what's inside her head. He whispers It's going to be all right and It's okay, Mom. If she's weeping too hard to hear him, he says, very gently, Shh, shh.

At the end of the semester Professor Dawson calls Reid into her office. She stands against her desk with her arms folded and tells him his projects and papers are the best she's seen. She regards him thoughtfully and her smile hardens. "I'll give you an A because you've done the work and you've done it well. But I'll tell you this, Mr. Reid: You are the worst public speaker I've ever seen. You're lucky I don't put more emphasis on oral participation or your precious GPA would suffer, I can tell you that. I don't care what your IQ is, Spencer; if you expect to get anywhere, you're going to need to work harder."

Reid's mouth drops open in shock. He knows he stutters and stumbles over his words. Syllables fall from his mouth like stones; he tries to arrange them in the proper order, but more often than not, he trips over them instead. "I…I…" He trails off, unsure if he's supposed to say thank you for the criticism or apologize for his ineptitude. "T-thank you," he finally manages, and heat creeps up his neck, his ears burn. He swallows and nods, unable to look at her. The remains of a smile are still frozen on his face.

Spencer stands in her office and wishes he could transform himself into someone else, someone different better. He is always the caterpillar, never the butterfly. If he were really a genius, he would know the right thing to say; he'd know how to extricate himself from this situation. He'd know how to make the heavy brick of failure in his stomach go away.

Reid walks down the hall, books held against his chest like a shield. When Spencer was nine his mother told him It doesn't matter if your words take longer than your classmates, Spencer. What you have to say is worth waiting for, and if they're not willing to wait, then they're incompetent fools. Your words are going to change the world, Spencer. I firmly believe that. And I believe in you. Spencer wipes his eyes and he wonders which professor is right.

ooooo

Spencer has a new teacher now. He's been learning from Jason Gideon for over a year. He recalls John Blackwolf's words to Gideon You look like a college professor and to himself You look like a student. Reid knows Gideon has his own son; he isn't (really) jealous. Gideon is not his father, he's his co-worker (boss, friend, mentor). Gideon says what do you see? and how do you know that? and I'm proud of you.

Reid is excited to show (give) Gideon a glimpse of his past. They stand in the art gallery and Spencer is actually nervous because seeing Parker Dunley makes him feel like the awkward kid in Mr. Boyd's Honors Physics class all over again. There's a small crowd in the gallery and Reid glances around; he wonders if he'll be able to recognize Parker.

In the end it doesn't matter, because Parker recognizes him. The gallery owner strolls across the room and walks straight to Reid and Gideon. Parker smiles and his teeth are perfect. "Spencer! Spencer Reid! Dude! Look at you!" Parker reaches for Reid and envelopes him in a hug.

Reid's surprised by the gesture. He's not generally demonstrative, but part him breathes easier at the small act of friendship. Parker hadn't been in the football field that day. If he had, Reid wouldn't be here. So Spencer ducks his head awkwardly and pats Parker's back. He knows Parker is just putting on his plastic student council president persona, but it's a persona Reid remembers well. He can almost feel the tiled corridor beneath his feet; he can smell the tang of pencil shavings, dry erase markers.

"You look just the same," Parker chuckles, shaking his head. "Look at you, dude.
Nothing's changed. Spencer was the only twelve-year-old in our graduating
class," he tells Gideon. "Just the same."

Reid blinks. The same? Really? His smile turns wooden. "Thanks. This is Special Agent Jason Gideon. This is Parker Dunley. We went to high school together, as you can probably gather."

Gideon's eyes flick from a painting on the far wall to Parker. "How are you doing?"

Parker nods in greeting. "Hey."

"It's a beautiful gallery," Gideon says sincerely. Reid relaxes a little more, relieved Gideon is enjoying himself. He wishes he could see half of what Gideon does when he looks at art. Where Reid sees brush strokes and angles and composition, Jason sees hope or peace or strength.

Parker beams, clearly pleased at the compliment. "Well, thank you. Thank you."

"Jason's a big contemporary art enthusiast," Reid points out.

"Well, we're exhibiting four up-and-coming artists in this show," Parker says conspiratorially. "Everything's for sale, and I can definitely swing a nice discount for a friend."

A commotion near the entrance draws Reid's attention. An attractive blond woman and her dark-haired companion stand near the doorway. Parker smiles at the blond. "Lila. Hey." He turns to Reid and Gideon. "Guys, come on."

Parker gives Lila the same hug he gave Reid. Spencer tilts his head toward Gideon. "Do I look twelve years old to you?"

"Fourteen," Gideon says blandly.

Spencer blinks, surprised by the joke. He smiles and it feels good, there are no sharp edges, no plastic. He's glad he brought Gideon.

ooooo

Lila Archer is beautiful. She reminds Spencer (of her) of every high school and college girl who ignored him, who looked through him. Only Lila actually sees him, and that disconcerts Spencer more than most UnSubs. Reid finds himself playing a role he hasn't performed since (he put) his mother (away): protector.

Spencer might be naïve and have the social skills of a seven year old, but he's not blind. He sees the way Lila smiles at him. He doesn't mean to smile back, but his face (his entire body) seems to have ideas of its own.

Even after she kisses him--and he struggles to keep his mind on the job and not on her--he knows, deep down, he's not the kind of guy women like Lila go for. Reid tries to tell her, needs to tell her what she's (they're) doing isn't right, it isn't real. He can't let her kiss him—no matter how much he wants her too—when he's on the job. And when her manager is dead. He stands in her pool and his wet clothes cling to him like regret. He tells her the truth.

The look on her face--the betrayal, the loss--hurts worse than her words (don't touch me, don't touch me).

Reid is ashamed he kept Michael's death from her, despite Gideon's instructions. He stands in Lila's too-big house and listens to her cry. He's brilliant, he's a genius, but he has no idea what to say to make Lila feel better, to repair the broken trust between them. He wants to go back in time and change the last half hour into something better, safer, more honest. He needs to transform the last thirty minutes into something that doesn't make him feel like he needs to go back in the water, not to swim, but to rinse away the guilt.

Gideon touches Reid's shoulder in a small act of comfort; he takes the blame. Reid swallows and pushes thoughts of guilt and soft hair and softer lips out of his head. His gaze falls on the colorful collage on Lila's wall. He thinks back to the gallery and Lila's question: how does it make you feel?

Reid squints at the collage and the images aren't just blocks of color, they're patterns. They're pieces of a puzzle and he walks closer, assembling, rearranging, turning the images in his mind. This particular piece of art makes him feel a variety of emotions: curious, circumspect, apprehensive.

ooooo

Lila doesn't believe Maggie Lowe is the assassin until she sees the gun. Even then, Lila's face is incredulous; she doesn't want to believe.

Maggie glares at Reid, the gun in her hand too close to Lila, too close. "Why'd you have to bring these people here?" Her eyes flick to Reid's weapon. "Put down the gun."

Reid immediately lowers his gun. "Maggie," he says. Just her name. Open a dialogue. Communicate. Identify with her.

"Don't call me Maggie. You don't know me," Maggie says, her voice thick with scorn. "Come on, Lila. Let's go. We really got to go, baby," her voice softens, transforms with affection. "Come on."

"Maggie, don't hurt her," Reid pleads, hands up, calculating distance, Maggie's grip on the gun. "You don't need to hurt her."

The scorn is back. "You don't know anything," her words hard and bitter. She turns her attention back to Lila. "I would never do anything to hurt you." She smiles gently, eyes bright. "No. I created you."

Lila shakes her head, clearly shocked. "No, you didn't."

Maggie flinches, the change in her demeanor instantaneous. She uses the tone reserved for Reid. "Yes, I did. I know I did. God. You stupid, ungrateful--God! I can't believe that I loved you."

Reid keeps his eyes on Maggie, watching, looking. She said loved. Past tense. A bad sign.

Maggie steps back from Lila; she points the gun at her friend's head.

"Maggie," Reid says quickly, pulling Maggie's attention back to him. He knows what to do, how to shift the blame from Lila and transform it into hate for him. Hide the truth, reveal a lie, save a life. "She…uh, she loves me now." He looks at Maggie steadily; so many people associate truth with eye contact. So many people are wrong.

Maggie turns the gun on Reid, her face twisting with rage. "What?"

"She told me so," Reid says. There's no stuttering, no stumbling, he can't afford to. He flicks a gaze at Lila that says understand what I'm doing, follow my lead. "We were in the pool," he continues. "She kissed me. Now she loves me, okay?"

Maggie turns the gun back to Lila and Reid thinks Keep it on me, on me.

Maggie shakes her head. "No."

The gun swings back toward Reid. It's a pendulum.

"Tell her we kissed in the pool," he tells Lila. Tell her.

"No!' Maggie's eyes are wide; her voice is the sound of desperation. But the gun swings back to Lila and Maggie's hand is steady.

Lila looks to Reid and he nods slightly. It's okay. Tell her.

"Yes," Lila blurts, "we kissed."

"God!" Maggie cries. She pulls the gun from Lila and raises her hand as if to strike her.

Reid is ready. He grabs the gun and twists Maggie's arm, pushes her to the ground. Now the gun is in his hands and he points it at her, cocks it. "Don't move."

"Please," Maggie says, weeping.

Reid concentrates on staying calm. Everything is under control. "Okay—" he starts, but Maggie interrupts him.

"Please kill me," she begs, her voice wavering. "Come on. Shoot me, please. I'd be so much happier," she says. "Please. Please!" Her voice drops and she's pleading with him now, begging. "Come on."

The desolation in Maggie's face makes Reid feel ill. "We're gonna get you help," Reid promises gently. He releases the gun and lowers it.

"It's going to be all right," Reid says numbly. He's said this before.

Maggie cries harder; she rocks back and forth.

"Shh," Reid says gently. He's said this before too. "Shh," he whispers and reaches out to touch her hair.

ooooo

He's not going to call Lila. Reid made the decision as soon as he admitted he'd never had a normal day in his life. He doesn't know how to be normal. Doesn't know if he can (wants to) be, with a job at the BAU.

Morgan told Reid he was Lila's hero. He's not. If he'd been a real hero, he wouldn't have kissed her in the pool. If he was really a decent guy, he would have confessed to hiding more than her manager's death. His attempt to tell Lila about transference wasn't just to open her eyes to the truth—it was to open his own.

Reid shuts his desk drawer and gets up, grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. He folds it over his arm and pushes his chair neatly in place behind his desk. He knows JJ doesn't like him like that, and he's okay with it. Usually. Most of the time. He'd much rather have JJ's friendship than nothing at all. (Eighty-one percent of Human Resources professionals consider workplace romances dangerous because they lead to conflict within the organization. Seventy-four percent believe workplace romances present a legal liability.)

He heads toward the elevator and pauses. Had Gideon's office light been on? Reid backtracks through the darkened bull pen. A thread of light shines beneath Gideon's door. Reid bites his lip, checks his watch, considers. He'll just say goodnight, wish his boss a good weekend.

Spencer lifts his hand to knock when the door opens. Gideon peers out at him. "Reid," he says serenely, as if Gideon's been waiting for Reid to show up. Reid smiles faintly. Maybe Gideon has. Gideon pushes the door wide to reveal the chess board on his desk. "Come in. White or black?"

Nonplussed, Reid lowers himself into a chair. "Um. I—I just came by to…um. I wanted to say…" he trails off, studies the board. He rubs his neck with the palm of his hand. "I'll be w-white."

Gideon rubs his hands together in pleasure. He lifts an eyebrow at the board, not at Reid. "What did you come to say?"

Reid plays with a loose thread on his sleeve. "Do you really think I look fourteen?" It's not what he meant to say, but the question is out, there's no taking it back now. He reaches for a pawn, fidgets in the chair.

Gideon chuckles. "Eighteen, at least."

Reid tries to hide his smile and fails. Gideon is teasing him, but it's meant with affection. But affection is not something he's entirely sure how to deal with, so he asks another question.

"Why did you give me those Redskins tickets for my birthday?"

Gideon moves a black pawn and steeples his fingers. "I figured turning twenty-four—and looking eighteen—meant you were old enough to date."

Spencer rolls his eyes and ponders how to counter Gideon's move. He settles on the knight. "It didn't go very well," he admits hesitantly. "The date I mean." He keeps his gaze on the chess board.

"I imagine that's one reason it was so easy to like Lila." Gideon leans back in his chair. "That…and the fact she's a very pretty girl."

"I’m not going to call her," Reid blurts. He doesn't know why he's telling Gideon, except that it feels important Gideon knows. Maybe he wants Gideon to tell him he's made the right choice. Maybe he wants Gideon to talk him out of it.

Gideon does neither. "You have your whole life ahead of you, Spencer. You'll find someone."

"I know." Reid says it because that's what he's supposed to say. But he's not sure he believes it.

"By the way, you have plans tomorrow." Gideon replaces Reid's knight with his queen.

"Stop trying to distract me," Reid huffs. "You're already winning."

"I'm not trying to distract you," Gideon says reasonably. "I'm just telling you you're going to the Capitol Hill Arts Workshop. Films on the Hill is showing Harry Houdini's The Man from Beyond."

Reid promptly stops thinking about Chess. "I am?" He blinks. "With who?"

"Me." Gideon hands Reid a newspaper clipping of the Films on the Hill silent film schedule. "I love silent movies. Charlie Chaplin. Marion Davies. Douglas Fairbanks. I knew there were a few Houdini movies, but I've never seen one. You like magic, right? After the movie they're going to show footage from some of Houdini's famous escapes… like the metamorphosis."

Reid's hands find each other in his lap; he clasps them together. He stares at Gideon, stunned. He doesn't know what to say. Gideon is his boss, his mentor, his friend, but when he looks across the desk all Reid sees is a man sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. All he hears is do you want to play catch?

Reid clears his throat and locks the memory away. "Actually, while metamorphosis is most often associated with Houdini, that particular stage illusion was invented by John Nevil Maskelyne."

Gideon's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, he rubs his chin. "I don't think any one individual can claim to have invented that particular trick," Gideon says in that deceptively smooth tone he uses. "People have been changing since they learned how to walk upright. The only question is, are we changing for the better? Or worse?"

Reid moves his bishop, trapping Gideon's queen. "Working here has changed me." His voice is paper thin. "I hope for the better."

Gideon's queen retreats and a smile ghosts across his face. "It has Spencer. Believe me."

There's more Reid wants to say to his teacher, more questions he wants to ask. But he recognizes this moment is precious and fragile; he's not willing to lose it with an awkward word or misplaced syllable.

Jason Gideon is not his father. But the BAU is Reid's family, and that's enough.