High and Drowning

Chapter 2

normal: [nôrməl]

adjective

conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or standard. 

_________

It was 8:27 and Derek Morgan winced. He knew Hotch wasn't always the most understanding on why they showed up late. 

He grabbed his keys and ran out the door. He would just have to survive on the mercies of the kitchenette at the office. 

He made it in a record 14 minutes. 

JJ gave him a look. "Where were you?" she asked. 

He shrugged and sat down at his desk. "We have a case?"

She shook her head, "Nah, it's just paperwork for today. Should be normal." 

He groaned. Should have called in sick. At least he could have made breakfast properly. Slouching in his seat, he glanced over at the other desks. Emily was flipping through case files and writing, her head bobbing up and down. He glanced at the desk across from hers. Empty. 

He looked at JJ. "Is Reid still on leave?"

JJ glanced over at the desk. "He was supposed to come in today, but he could have called it in. I would have." 

He nodded, tapping a pen thoughtfully on the desk. 

Maybe he overslept. Or maybe JJ was right, and he needed more time. Maybe...he should actually work on his paperwork. 

The time ticked by, and there was a comfortable silence. 

Morgan glanced at the clock, shocked that it was already 10:30. Movement behind him caught his attention and he swiveled around to see what it was. 

Reid stood in the doorway, looking flushed. He glanced around quickly, his grip on his messenger bag tightening. 

Morgan let out a low whistle. The poor kid looked terrible. 

His eyes were bleary and dark circles looked almost unnatural against the paleness of his face. His clothes were buttoned all wrong and his tie hung outside of his sweater. His hair hung in his face, and he raised a trembling hand to push the hair away. 

Morgan wondered what kind of night provoked him to look like that. 

Reid wandered to his seat and sat down. Emily glanced up at him, then again as she took him in. 

"Reid?" There was a bigger question in her voice. "Hard night?" 

He nodded, rubbing his eyes and opening the stack of case files on his desk. "You have no idea." He muttered and looking around the room, offered a smile. 

Morgan pointed at his tie, and Reid glancing down at himself, blushed and quickly tucked it back in his sweater. 

Hotch stepped out and noticing him, sighed. "Reid, can you come see me for a minute?" There was no question in his voice, it was an order. 

Reid jumped, and Morgan noticed his hands drifted to his arms. 

Morgan watched him walk up to Hotch's office and shook his head. Poor kid, he thought, should really take off another week. 

_________

Reid sat in Hotch's office, listening to him drone about the responsibilities about showing up to work on time.

He felt the office walls grow smaller, and he swallowed. A thin line of sweat built it self up along his hairline and he ignored the impulse to wipe it away. 

He wanted to shoot up again. To get rid of the oppressive heat and nausea. He wanted to so badly ride that euphoria for as long as he could. 

But he couldn't so he had to wait and suffer through his "coming down" symptoms as best as he could. As normally as he could. 

He shivered, and winced as even that caused the nausea to climb higher. By some manner of strength he willed it down and pretended like he was listening. 

He had left the apartment that morning in a rush, panic guiding his movements. He had woken up from his drug-induced stupor, and realized that he was so very late for work. 

He may have been high, but he was still responsible. 

All the way to the office, the words, act normal, be normal,  had pounded in his head, it's all he heard, all he thought, all he strived to be. Normal. It had been a while. 

Somewhere along his train of thought, Hotch fixed him with an unreadable stare, and he slowly felt his eyes on him. He looked up. 

"Reid," his voice was softer, hesitant. "There is no shame with taking more time off."

Why did they all assume that he wasn't fine? He wanted to come back, he'd go crazy home alone, with nothing to do but remember and forget. 

He licked his lips, making a mental note that they were cracked, "No, I want to be back. I just-" 

You just what? Shot up some drugs this morning, got high, and decided to come into work high?

He rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache come on. "I didn't sleep well last night." That was true. "And I had a slow start this morning." Also technically true. Keep this up, and he'd be a professional. "It won't happen again." 

Hotch nodded, slowly, eyes scanning his face. "I understand." 

You really don't. 

"Make sure it doesn't happen again." His voice was quiet. Almost as if he were talking to himself. 

Reid nodded, his head screaming in pain. "I won't."

Ok. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. We all know it will. 

He stood up, slowly, careful to avoid getting lightheaded, and walked out. He felt eyes follow him as he made his way back to his desk. Why couldn't they just focus on their work? Emily glanced up at him noting the lines in face. 

"You got a headache?" She offered. She was trying to be friendly, he supposed, she had only been working for a few weeks, she was desperate for friends. Still, he felt irritated at the question. 

"No, I'm fine, thank you." A bit short, but really, they had more work to do then fine-read him down to every detail. It was only when she glanced back down, that he fumbled around for some Ibuprofen. His headache had grown in the past five minutes. 

It was going to be a long, long, day. 

It was almost 6:00, and Reid felt like he was hit by a car. His whole body was trembling, and he swore he was sweating from every pore. His head pulsed and he didn't eat the whole day for fear of throwing it back up. He gulped. He needed more, the side affects were killing him. 

There was no way that he could possibly avoid all the scrutiny if he showed up to work looking like the dead. 

The only thing that made that all go away....was more drugs. He ran a hand through his hair, and groaned, realizing the mess he had gotten himself into. He would have to shoot up more than once a day. 

No, he shook his head weakly and stood up. No, you promised yourself you would take this in stride, you would try to have some sort of control over this. 

Control, right. Was that the rational part of him, or the junkie that lied to him? Because right now every statistic, every last number on opiate addiction was running across his mind and he knew that control was the last he had in this situation. 

The scary thing, he reflected as he trudged home. The really scary thing was that he didn't care anymore.