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Philip doesn't notice them at first, the marks on his skin, and it's only when he climbs out of the shower and catches sight of something red on his back that he wipes the steam clear from the bathroom mirror and looks over his shoulder to read the worlds etched into his back with what looks like a thin bladed knife.
Very much like the one he used in Africa.
I murdered 21 men.
The words look like fresh wounds, but they don't cause any pain and they don't seem to be bleeding, so Philip dries off and gets dressed. He doesn't know what to make of the words -- they're the truth, he did murder twenty-one men in Africa all those years ago -- but he also knows enough to understand he isn't getting rid of them any time soon. If they truly have been carved into his back, they're going to scar, which is something he's come to understand he could have surgically removed in Darrow, but that involves revealing this secret to someone else. They don't feel as if they've been carved, though, his back doesn't hurt at all and that makes him think this is something else.
Something he clearly doesn't understand.
It takes him less than a block to realize something else is wrong. He had been intending on picking up some groceries and returning home to deal with this situation, but at the end of the block he pauses when the nearby whispering gets to be too much. He turns to glance over his shoulder at the women staring at him, but catches his reflection in a store window. It's not a perfect reflection, but it's enough for him to see the words burned into the back of his jacket.
I murdered 21 men.
"Christ," he mutters under his breath, wondering if all his clothes are like this. He turns back in the direction of his apartment, not bothering to take off his jacket as he does. Chances are his shirt is the same and then what? He can't strip down further, not with the marks on his back, so instead he just hurries home, not watching where he's going and bumping hard against none other than his favourite Agent Reid.
Of all the people in this goddamn city to see this, Reid is the very last Philip wants.
Very much like the one he used in Africa.
I murdered 21 men.
The words look like fresh wounds, but they don't cause any pain and they don't seem to be bleeding, so Philip dries off and gets dressed. He doesn't know what to make of the words -- they're the truth, he did murder twenty-one men in Africa all those years ago -- but he also knows enough to understand he isn't getting rid of them any time soon. If they truly have been carved into his back, they're going to scar, which is something he's come to understand he could have surgically removed in Darrow, but that involves revealing this secret to someone else. They don't feel as if they've been carved, though, his back doesn't hurt at all and that makes him think this is something else.
Something he clearly doesn't understand.
It takes him less than a block to realize something else is wrong. He had been intending on picking up some groceries and returning home to deal with this situation, but at the end of the block he pauses when the nearby whispering gets to be too much. He turns to glance over his shoulder at the women staring at him, but catches his reflection in a store window. It's not a perfect reflection, but it's enough for him to see the words burned into the back of his jacket.
I murdered 21 men.
"Christ," he mutters under his breath, wondering if all his clothes are like this. He turns back in the direction of his apartment, not bothering to take off his jacket as he does. Chances are his shirt is the same and then what? He can't strip down further, not with the marks on his back, so instead he just hurries home, not watching where he's going and bumping hard against none other than his favourite Agent Reid.
Of all the people in this goddamn city to see this, Reid is the very last Philip wants.
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He'd scrubbed his back until his skin had gone raw the second morning, when he'd realized the words hadn't gone away. He'd scrubbed until Luke had stopped him, had forced the washcloth out of his hands and held him until his panicked breathing had returned to something resembling normal.
Going to work is out of the question, Reid had called in sick right away because having a few of Luke's customer see what he is had been bad enough, he can't imagine having all his colleagues see it, too. What terrifies him the most, though, is how much this has affected him. He hasn't left the apartment in three days, and he's been somewhat functional in the sense that he's gone over case files and cleaned and gone down to help in the store once its closed, anything to keep his mind off the label on his back; but today, he'd opened the fridge to find they're in desperate need of groceries.
It's such a small thing, he thinks. Groceries, that can't be what gets him out of the apartment, and yet it is. Luke had promised he'd go after work, had told him he doesn't want Reid to have to do this with the words still on his back, especially not alone; but a bizarre sense of resolve had taken him over, and Reid had insisted he'd be fine. He wishes he hadn't. Thinking back on it now, he wonders if maybe he'd been trying to bargain in some way, if maybe he'd imagined if he were to face the world with this burden on his back, he'd be rewarded by having it removed.
No such luck, he'd quickly realized. The only comfort he has, which truly isn't much of a comfort at all and is really just very selfish, is that he isn't the only one with a secret revealed. He walks among others who hurry along the sidewalk, some avoiding eye contact with the people beside them and others challenging, but Reid isn't interested in talking to any of them. Not right now, at least. He has a lot of questions, but he's not sure he wants any of the answers. Who's responsible? How did they know? Why are they doing this?
No, he's not sure he wants any of the answers at all.
He gets four offers of contact numbers for dealers on his way in and out of the grocery store, and Reid refuses to acknowledge any of them. He should be memorizing the faces of the people who'd offered, he knows, he works for the police department, after all, but he can't find the energy. What he wants more than anything is just to get home, which is proven rather difficult when someone crashes into him the moment he turns the corner in the direction of the store.
Only one of his recyclable bags falls to the ground, and he glances up with wide eyes at none other than Philip Lombard as kneels to pick up his things. It nearly knocks him over, seeing that face, and Reid's breath catches in his throat before busying himself to gather the items that have rolled out of the bag. "Sorry," he mumbles, shifting his body in an attempt to keep his back from Lombard's sight, though he's sure it's a futile effort at this point. "Sorry, I didn't see you."
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As funny as it may be, it's also enough of an unfortunate situation, one Philip can't immediately con his way out of. If he brings up the writing on Reid's back, he may have to own up to his own, but it could be worth the risk. An exchange of information, really. Maybe he'll have to admit to what he is, but he'll know something about Reid in exchange, something he clearly doesn't want anyone to know, and that isn't the worst position to be in. Reid's secret could be exactly the sort of thing Philip wants to know.
Reaching up, Philip smooths down some of his hair, and he's pleased to find his hands are much steadier than he would have imagined them being. A small smirk curves the corner of his mouth and his eyebrows lift as he ducks to pick up a few of the items Reid lost from his bag. He stretches his hand out, holding a package of spaghetti noodles, offering them to Reid to take back, and there's a bit of a challenge in his expression. It would be easier if Reid were to show him willingly, he doesn't want to have to be drawn into forcing Reid to show him the words on his back, but he'll do it if he has to. There's an exchange he'll have to make, he's aware of that, but now it may just be worth it.
Provided Reid's secret it as interesting as Philip's.
"In a rush?" he asks. "Looking forward to getting home?"
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It's his position with the Darrow PD that does it, he's sure, but more than that, Reid knows far more about Lombard than Lombard knows about him. While the revelation that he's a recovering addict may not serve as anything Lombard could really use to blackmail him in the future, seeing as the people who need to know already do, it's still something that can be used to manipulate him. It's still a weakness, something for Lombard to tap into, and that might be dangerous.
The smile on Lombard's face tells Reid that the other man already suspects something is off, possibly even suspects there's something to see on Reid's back, which would mean either Lombard has something or knows of people who do. Either way, Reid chastises himself for not being more cautious of who might see him while he's out.
"I'm always looking forward to getting home," Reid answers as he straightens up, trying harder to keep his voice steady. Holding the groceries in his arms is a good excuse to practice holding still, and he tilts his head slightly, his confidence and curiosity slowly returning to him. "You seemed to be in a hurry yourself, Mr. Lombard. I hope you aren't having a rough day."
It's in that moment someone decides to be extremely uncharitable and pass Reid with an accidental shoulder-check. Having put a tighter grip on the groceries, nothing falls this time but before he can catch himself, his body shifts just enough to likely allow Lombard to see the message written on his back. DRUG ADDICT, it reads perfectly clear, and Reid has to wonder whether he'd been bumped into on purpose or by accident. He hadn't gotten an apology either way.
That doesn't matter much, though, not when Reid's gaze slowly returns to meet Lombard's, and he has to fight not shudder at the wolfish grin that's waiting for him.
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Drug addict is far more interesting than anything else Philip would have assigned Reid on his own.
"Come on," he says, gesturing in the direction he'd been going. From behind him he can feel someone approaching, the pause they make and then the wide berth they give him. What would have made him angry only moments before now causes a grin to twitch at the corners of his mouth, slight and dangerous. "I have a feeling you don't want to be out here right now. I can make you a cup of tea or whatever it is you're allowed to drink."
The last bit is said with another small twitch of a smile, meant to cut, but also meant as something of a joke. It's a secret that, strangely enough, makes Philip respect Reid just the slightest bit more. At least he has the guts to be interesting instead of simply pathetic. And as he speaks, he turns back in the direction of his apartment, his back completely on display for Reid to see.
I MURDERED 21 MEN.
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That Lombard considers this interesting simultaneously doesn't surprise Reid and makes him feel almost as sick as he had to realize the words had been written on his back in the first place. Lombard looks almost impressed, as if Reid is somehow worth something now that it's known he has a secret worth keeping, though it's really not much of a secret anymore.
In some ways, Reid supposes that makes sense, if only because in some small way, Lombard has something to gain out of learning about his addiction. With the label out in the open, it's not as if Lombard could blackmail him with the information but there are little things, things like saying whatever it is you're allowed to drink, that Reid knows he'll use to get under his skin.
He tries not to show it. In fact, he almost declines Lombard's offer because what he'd much rather do is go home with his groceries and talk to his boyfriend about why his heart is pounding in his chest under Lombard's gaze; but then the other man turns, almost as if with specific purpose, and Reid is met with the truth he'd already known.
Go home, that's what his mind is telling him. Just go home, this isn't an innocent invitation by any means, and Reid is so aware of this that the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up in warning; but the part of him that's the profiler, the one who studies killers like Lombard for a living, is the part that wins out and has him stepping forward to follow him without another word.
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A drug addict who's now willingly following a mass murderer home.
Philip walks in silence, trusting Reid to follow him, and the two of them together must make for an interesting picture. A few people give them a relatively wide berth and Philip continues to do his best to keep the words hidden from the world at large, but soon enough they've reached his building. It doesn't take them long to get into the elevator and as Philip presses the button for his door, all he can do is hope Fiona isn't home, that she doesn't choose this moment to come out into the hallway. Chances are she'll find out about him eventually, but he's looking to have a bit of fun before the inevitable happens, and this isn't how he wants her to find out.
"So tea then?" he asks once he's unlocked his apartment door. He leaves it open as he walks inside, letting Reid make his final choice. "Or coffee? I have both." And he has other options, too, but he has a feeling Reid isn't going to want anything out of his alcohol cabinet. Which is really a pity. Philip can't even begin to imagine what he might be capable of under the influence of drugs or alcohol, and he wishes he could have the chance to discover it.
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It's a psychosomatic reaction but when Reid steps into Lombard's apartment, he feels cold. He makes a conscious choice not to close himself off, actively forcing himself to keep his arms hanging casually at his side rather than cross them over his chest or slip his hands into his pockets, but it's difficult. This is hardly the first time he's been in such close quarters with a killer but somehow, this feels more dangerous because Reid knows Lombard hasn't brought him here to kill him, not even to hurt him.
No, Lombard wants to study him. They're studying each other, learning each other, figuring each other out, and Reid hates to admit how uncomfortably intimate it is. Ignoring the fact that Lombard is nearly identical to Luke, even with the accent, is impossible, and it does nothing to change how he feels about his boyfriend but it makes this all the more disturbing.
Following Lombard into the kitchen, though he'd considered staying behind to see what he could learn right off the bat from the man's living quarters, Reid clears his throat. "Was it all at once or one by one?" he asks, his expression betraying nothing. He knows the answer, knows Lombard isn't a serial killer by definition, but there's a distinct lack of remorse that Reid has only seen in the worst of the unsubs they've caught. They're the ones who chill him the most, those who kill and like it. Whether Lombard had taken actual pleasure in killing those twenty-one men (and more, Reid is sure), he doesn't know; but most certainly, there's no regret.
"Sorry if that's a little abrupt, but I wouldn't be me if I didn't ask."
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He had expected something similar, some question about the details of how it was done, and he turns back to look at Reid, a smirk lifting one corner of his mouth.
"Are you sure you want to know the gory details, Agent Reid?" he asks, relaxed casually against the counter as if the situation doesn't bother him at all. He would undo this if he could, but since he's fairly certain he can't, he's going to enjoy it as best he can. "What happens once you've heard them and can't forget them? You can't arrest me, can you? Can't throw me behind bars like I'm sure you'd love to."
He doesn't wait for an answer, though, but pushes off from the counter and goes to the refrigerator to take out the cream. He places this on the table with a bowl of sugar, then looks to Reid again. "All at once," he says. "They were in the way of something I needed in order to get a job done. It wasn't personal or sexual or even particularly enjoyable, like I imagine it is for most of your serial killers. It was work."
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That doesn't make Lombard any less of a psychopath, though. Not a sociopath, he doesn't fit the bill for that; but a psychopath, yes, Reid could fairly easily make an argument for that. There's no denying Lombard has the ability to be charming. Reid hasn't seen him interact with anyone romantically but with a handsome face like that, he doesn't suppose Lombard has much trouble. The man is intelligent, he sees things others might not, knows how to get under people's skin, and Reid knows this because even as aware as he is, it's still happened to him.
Lombard isn't afraid of Reid, he's interested, that's the word he'd chosen. That Reid works for the police may make Lombard think twice about certain things, but it doesn't visibly put him on edge or put a waver in his voice or a flicker of panic in his expression. It's the calm that really settles it, the same calm Reid suspects Lombard had displayed when he'd left twenty-one men to die for his own selfish reasons. And yet, there's nothing to be done in Darrow but make sure he doesn't kill again.
"My job is to know the gory details, Mister Lombard," Reid says, following the other man's every movement with his eyes. His expression is neutral, his voice steady, and he should probably exercise a bit more caution considering he's in Lombard's personal living space, but he's not afraid. Lombard won't kill him, it wouldn't be in his best interests because Reid currently stands in the way of nothing he wants. Besides that, if Lombard were ever to lay even a finger on him, Reid knows Luke would tear him apart. Maybe the thought shouldn't make him smile, but he does, lowering his head to hide it, though he doesn't care if Lombard sees.
"You're right, though, you're very different from most of the serial killers my team apprehended. A lot of them, in spite of the horrible things they did, expressed some kind of remorse. They suffered terribly at some point in their lives, some of them mistreated to the point of being driven insane, but you..." Reid shrugs a shoulder, and he's generalizing the unsubs the BAU has caught but that's not the point here, not really. "You talk about killing all those people like someone else might talk about what they had for breakfast. You're empty, Mister Lombard, driven purely by greed and a complete disregard for any consequences that might one day catch up with you. I can't put you in prison, not for what you've done, but I can tell you if you ever do anything like that here, I'll make sure I'm the one who catches you."
He gestures toward the mugs on the counter, the sugar and cream that had momentarily been left forgotten. "I'll take that coffee now, if you don't mind."
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"And why should I feel remorse?" he asks, genuinely interested in what Reid might say. "I was engaged to perform a duty, these men were trying to take what belonged to my employer. Had they stood aside, they would have had nothing to worry about." And then there's a flicker of a smile and he pours two mugs of coffee, then sets one down on the table for Reid to take. "Besides, they were Africans. They don't view life and death as Europeans do."
Usually he's careful with what he says, he's learned already that treatment based on race isn't so common here in Darrow, although he thinks the general population is far less understanding than they choose to pretend. He uses language carefully, does what he can to see how others speak before he says anything they might consider out of line, but he expects all bets are off with Reid in this situation. Things are very different here and will be when they meet again in the future.
He sits down then, settles into one of the chairs and studies Reid carefully. "And what was your drug of choice, Agent? Alcohol seems a little low brow for you. Cocaine? No, you don't look like you'd be particularly interested in that sort of high. An opiate then? Something to relax you, smooth out all the edges of working such a high stress job?" He grins then, quick and wolf like. "I'll bet that made you a hell of a fuck."
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"I'm not saying you should," he answers truthfully. "From a moral standpoint, maybe you should at least regret people had to pointlessly die just for a job but then again, your views are a little outdated here, which I'm sure you've realized. You're an intelligent man, Mr. Lombard, you've caught up. You can try to shock me with what you've done, what you have to say, but I've seen monsters far worse than you. They're the ones with absolutely nothing to lose. They're the ones who kill because they want to, the ones who enjoy the warmth of fresh blood between their fingers, they're the ones you wouldn't be able to manipulate out of getting to you. Vera was her name, wasn't it? Maybe Vera was one of those people, and you couldn't even see it. I hope I get to meet her one day."
In truth, Reid would much rather the Vera Claythorne keep her distance from this city because calling her unstable would be a bit of an understatement; but he watches Lombard as carefully as he's being watched, and he does his very best not to flinch when Lombard steers the topic of conversation to Reid's addiction, which isn't much of a surprise at all.
"Dilaudid," he answers steadily, ignoring the suggestion that the drugs had made him good in bed, except Reid can't ignore it because it makes him think of New Orleans. It makes him think of Ethan, of how he'd had enough scotch to convince himself that one night for old time's sake would be a good idea, and Reid remembers begging Ethan to fuck him harder just so he could feel again. The drugs had numbed him but knowing Ethan had seen through that so instantly had reminded him of why he needed help, why he wanted to be present and not just a shell of himself.
"It is an opiate, yes, an analgesic. I didn't take it by choice." Pausing, his eyes briefly flicker to the ground. "Not at first."
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Perhaps he's not a man who kills for pleasure, but killing for revenge sounds terribly fair to him. And if there's pleasure to be found on that, he doesn't imagine many people would be able to blame him. He could happily destroy that woman and he thinks he'd just as happily take her back to bed before doing so. Philip's self aware enough to realize his feelings surrounding Vera are complicated and generally unhealthy, but he feels recognizing that puts him above others in similar positions who seem to have no idea what they've gotten themselves into.
"Not at first," Philip echoes, though he can't say he's particularly surprised by that. Reid doesn't seem like the type of man to pick up a drug and start using just for the hell of it. Addiction happens easily enough, especially in those prone to it, but he finds himself wondering what that at first really entails. Why he started at all, what gave him that first push to take it by choice. "So someone forced it on you, then. Seems a touch cruel even by my standards. Addiction is always so much more interesting when you can trace the blame to your own weaknesses."
And it's far more fun to pick at that sort of scar than at the type Reid is describing. Maybe he had continued to take the drug, but if it hadn't been his choice in the first place, it's not quite as fair.
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Lombard may not be the benevolent type but he doesn't deserve to die, either. Not in the way he had in his world and not for any particularly violent reason here. He's let people die for his own gain, there's no denying that, not when it's written on the man's back for people to freely see; but even so, Reid thinks there's a better kind of justice for a man like Philip, for a narcissist who thrives on manipulating others. He's sure, if it ever comes down to it, he could easily think of something.
"Does that makes me a little less interesting?" Reid asks, finally allowing himself to take a seat across from Lombard as he takes a sip of his coffee. It's difficult, talking about this with someone who's going out of his way to be insensitive about it, but Reid can at least be grateful that there'd been nothing on his back about his fear of inheriting his mom's schizophrenia. That's still an open wound, one that will never fully close because there's always going to be a small part of him that remains afraid that someday, he'll start to show undeniable symptoms and Luke might have to put him away because his episodes get to be too much. At least he knows Luke would have the courage to do more than just write him every day.
"I was kidnapped, by one of the people my team was after, someone who suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder. His name was Tobias, but he also went by the Archangel Raphael and his father, Charles. His other personalities tortured me and when he was himself, he gave me Dilaudid for the pain. He was trying to help." He doesn't owe the explanation to Lombard, not in the slightest, but Reid wonders if this really would change what interest he'd had in the revelation of the addiction. As hard as it is to relive what had happened, even so many years later, he's willing to do it if it means he gets to learn a little bit more about the way the man sitting across from him operates.
"Anyway, when it came down to it, I had no choice but to kill him before he killed me. I shot him, and I took the last couple vials off his body before my team took me home."
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That will be his first goal once these words are gone, once he finds a way to be rid of them. There are places to find work as a private security supplier, he's sure of that, and once he manages to get such a job, he'll better be able to deal with men like Reid. Men who might want to take any opportunity to throw him in jail. Philip's illegal undertakings in the city have been covered up so far and he's no interest in changing that.
"On the contrary, you've given such an interesting tale that I can't help but like you despite myself," Philip answers, though it's clear in his tone and his smile that his approval isn't necessarily something Reid wants. There are those Philip genuinely likes in his way, those least likely to suffer for it, and then there are those who are just interesting. They may yet serve a purpose, but he has yet to decide what to do with them.
"So how many men have you killed, Agent Reid? Those who were... oh, how can we say this? Maybe in the way of your job?" He's no fool, he knows it isn't comparable at all, but it's easy enough to twist the words. Reid's job is to save people and Philip is sure he's killed men in order to do that.
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It's not a high number, and Reid has always been grateful for that. In the BAU's line of work, there's certainly an element of danger, especially it comes to working in the field; but at the start of his career, he'd spent a lot of time poring over records and studying files at headquarters after visiting crime scenes and interviewing anyone relevant to the case rather than out doing any actual footwork. As he'd grown to be trusted with handling his weapon, as he'd become a better agent all around, Reid had spent more and more time in the field but ultimately, the kills he's had to make have been necessary to keep his teammates alive. And himself, for that matter.
What Lombard is trying to imply doesn't hold much weight, and Reid thinks he must know it. Lombard may not have enjoyed letting those twenty-one men in Africa die, but he certainly hadn't regretted it, either. Killing Phillip Dowd had stuck with him for a long time, had haunted him and kept him awake at night until he'd finally come to terms with the fact that there hadn't been any other options. Studying the photos of the people he'd killed, reading their families' statements, Reid had realized that there's simply no way he could have risked letting that go on. Besides that, he couldn't have let Hotch get hurt, either.
Tobias's death had been a little different. He'd felt a sense of guilt for it but at the same time, what he'd been through had numbed that part of him that might have otherwise felt genuinely sorry. Tobias hadn't been able to exercise control over his illness, Reid knows that, and he's capable of keeping those three personalities separate in his mind; but a part of him is glad for Charles and Raphael's deaths. He'd grieved for only a third of a man's life, and he doesn't think anyone would necessarily blame him for that but even so, Reid still thinks about it. The consequences of his time with Tobias have followed him for so long that Reid doesn't think there will ever come a day that he cuts it out of his mind completely.
"It's not the same. I know you know that. You know that if you misstep, I'll catch it. That's not a threat, and I don't think you're afraid of me. I just want you to understand that I've spent years dealing with people who thought they'd mastered the art of manipulation, and I'm still standing. I don't plan on getting knocked down anytime soon."
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If he can manage it, he's going to make sure they don't cross paths again. Not until it's to Philip's benefit.
"Don't you think you're overestimating your importance just a little bit?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, relaxed and generally calm. "I don't plan on trying to knock you down, as you say. I have no interest in that. What good would it do me to get tangled up in something as scandalous as trying to hurt an FBI agent? Especially when that boyfriend of yours looked just about prepared to take off my head for daring to look at you. I have no interest in meeting my end at the hands of a man who looks like me, but could do with a bit of grooming."
He pauses, watching Reid, his hand still loose around his mug. "Are you going to tell him about this? About our meeting? About coming into my apartment when you already knew what I was?" He has a feeling that might be a point of contention between the two of them and although he thinks he has a fairly good read of Reid otherwise, he isn't sure what his answer to this question might be.
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To his father, to his teammates, to his mom, Reid has always taken a backseat to something else. In truth, whatever his father had deemed more appealing than being with his own family doesn't matter much to Reid. The rest, he can understand perfectly. His teammates, with their personal lives to attend to, hadn't owed him much of anything. That they'd been kind to him, treated him like the little brother (even though there'd been times he hadn't appreciated that), is more than he could have anticipated after being bullied through his years at school for so long.
As for his mother, the stability of her mental health had been much higher a priority, Reid had made sure of that, and there's no resentment there. If anything, there's guilt that he hadn't done more, that he hadn't worked harder to become the one who could treat her, and Reid knows he sets the bar too high for himself far too often. So no, he wouldn't say he overestimates his importance. The only person he knows with certainty he matters to most is Luke, and it doesn't hurt him to think he doesn't come first to other people. Certainly, nobody else comes first to him other than his boyfriend.
"If you ever do find a reason to get tangled up in something like that, be sure to let me know," Reid answers, a wry smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "As for my boyfriend, he may not like that I came in here knowing what you've done, but he'll respect my decision to do it. Like you said, hurting me doesn't benefit you in any way, I knew you'd be smarter than to try anything." In fact, Reid will tell Luke about this, though he can already picture the look on his boyfriend's face when he does. As if Luke doesn't have a long enough list of reasons to dislike Lombard, this won't do anything to sway his opinion, not that Reid wants to do that.
He might leave out the part about what Lombard had said about the drugs making Reid good in bed. Lombard would have more than just his head to worry about then.
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"Maybe you'll be pleased to know I've found the possibility of legitimate employment," he offers, although it's not the only thing he's doing. "Being unable to leave this city means that I do have to tread a little more carefully. Maybe I'll go straight, Agent Reid." His smile says that's not likely to happen, but he's telling the truth about the work anyway. The job working for that young, strange pop star will pay well and keep him from looking too much like he's delving into the darker side of Darrow's industry.
He isn't sure Reid is telling the truth about his boyfriend, but Philip lets that go for now. If he wants to believe that man will respect his decision to walk into the apartment of a mass murderer, then who is Philip to try and burst that little bubble? It just seems unlikely based on what little he knows of the bookstore owner, though he admittedly knows more than either of them might realize. He had been sent to watch him, after all, before they had all been kidnapped, so Philip knows there's something different about him.
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They both know the truth, they don't need to say anything more and besides, Lombard wouldn't voluntarily incriminate himself. The only reason he'd said anything at all about those twenty-one men is because it's written on his back, no escaping it, but Reid understands, too, that Lombard had identified his leverage. Making life difficult for a recovering drug addict wouldn't necessarily be a problem, especially not for as masterful a manipulator as Lombard.
Maybe he wouldn't do anything overt but even casual jabs at the wrong time in front of the wrong people can be hurtful, and Reid knows himself. He knows he has the potential to overreact when he's overly frustrated, he'd done just that after Luke had told him about the words on his own back. While he has every right to be upset by what's happened, as does everyone else in this city, including Lombard, he'd felt a little like he might tip over a very precarious edge. It's not that he would've gone to seek out narcotics, he wouldn't have simply fallen off the wagon; but without Luke there to calm him, Reid does worry he might still be dwelling on how painful it is to have to carry the reminder with him.
It doesn't help that sometimes, when the exceptionally irrational thoughts step in, he fears he might be a step closer to following in his mom's footsteps. He can at least be grateful that nothing about her had been written on his back.
"I should probably get back," he says, finishing off his coffee. "Luke will be wondering where I am, I should've been back with the groceries by now. I can clean this up then be on my way."
no subject
He really is going to have to watch them a little more closely. If only for his own curiosity and amusement.
"Feel free, of course, if it makes you feel better, but rest assured I can clean my own kitchen if you choose to simply leave the mug where it is." He grins again, a dangerous glint of teeth. "I promise I've been cleaning up my own messes for a very long time." And he really has no way of doing what he's just suggested, of lifting Reid's prints or using them in the future. He doesn't have that sort of equipment in his apartment, but it's amusing to him to have planted the idea anyway. Let Reid think he's capable of something like that.