(backdated - may)

[number22]

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.

Comments

[youfeelluckypunk]

Nothing he does helps.

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."