Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Consciousness comes to him slowly, unfolding itself in his reluctantly waking thoughts. Reality seeps through, swirling into place outside his stubbornly closed eyelids, banishing the last tendrils and remnants of his dreams from the cracks and corners of his mind. A rumbling groan builds in his throat as David Rossi throws in the towel and admits defeat. He opens his eyes.

Sunlight cheerfully streams in from the window, stretching out its reach across the whole room, painting the furniture and warming the bedroom. David gives himself a moment to blink back his senses, leisurely letting his thoughts float and settle into place, immensely enjoying the experience of waking up without a pressing matter weighing on him for once. He stretches under the covers of his bed, rolling onto his side and forlornly stretching out an arm across the regretfully empty expanse of pillows beside him. Before he can bully himself into leaving the warm cocoon of blankets in order to search for his wayward wife, soft footsteps pad against the floor outside the bedroom door, answering his half-formed questions.

Carolyn quietly peeks around the door, relaxing with a smile as she sees her husband watching her sleepily. She slips into the room, bare feet cushioned upon the plush carpet, and makes her way back over to the bed and the inviting pillows and occupant.

"Morning," she greets softly, climbing onto the bed and sliding up beside him. Willingly, David lets her cuddle against him, glad for the warmth and company. "It's not like you to sleep in," she teases. "Aren't you usually the one rushing off first thing with barely enough time for a coffee and a kiss?"

David scoffs, raising an eyebrow at her. "I have enough time for more than a kiss," he counters. "After all, I need more than a coffee to get me through the day. As for today, well, today's one of those rare days where it pays to travel so often for work." In demonstration, he sighs happily, purposely and pointedly making himself all the more comfortable next to his amused wife. " I knew there was a reason I worked late finishing up paperwork yesterday."

Carolyn laughs, leaning forward to prod him into a kiss. He complies easily, sneakily trying to draw it out longer and pulling her further into the bed. She swats him and pulls away, patting his cheek when he protests.

"If only we were all so lucky," she says wistfully before grinning, finding enjoyment in his frustrated grumbling. "Unfortunately, one of us, at least, has to go to work today. I won't be long. I just need to put in a few hours to put them off my tail – they're a bit unhappy with me taking so many personal days lately. I love our son, but I'll be glad to spend the day away from the house. Since you're home, I phoned the sitter and told her not to bother dropping by to watch him. If you have to run off and save some lives, you know where the number is." She takes the risk and pecks his cheek. "Will you manage?"

David puts a hand against his chest in mock offense, frowning at her mistrust. "You underestimate me," he laments. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after my son for the day, thank you. If the teenager down the street can handle it, so can I."

Carolyn wiggles her way off the bed, taking the chance to steal a look at the shiny watch on her wrist, her present from their last anniversary. "Anna has four younger siblings," she reminds David lightly, winking at him to prove she's still pulling his leg. "She's well versed in the art of wrangling small humans. You, however, have more experience watching serial killers than you do four-year-olds."

David sulks as he watches Carolyn trail around the room, scooping up a pair of heels from the walk-in closet and uncovering her handbag from the laundry-piled chair in the corner.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," she finally concedes, double-checking that she has everything she needs. "James will love having you all to himself for the day. He's missed you. If he does get to be a bit much, I can always stop by at lunch. Since you're so sure of yourself," she adds, seeing him snort in disbelief, "you won't have a problem with waking James up yourself. I warn you, he's far from a morning person. Wonder where he gets that from?"

David only gets a second to ponder the strange feeling of having walked into a trap before Carolyn disappears out the door, keys jingling in her hand as her footsteps fade away, heading for the stairs. A few moments later, the faint rumbling of a car engine signifies her departure.

Once silence envelopes the house yet again, broken only by the normal sighing and creaking of the structure, David lets himself sink back into the warmth of the bed. He so rarely gets to have a proper sleep in, even on weekends, so he chooses to cherish the few instances he can whenever possible. It isn't long before the phantoms of his discarded dreams start to rope him in again, thankfully pleasant in nature as he falls back asleep.

When he wakes up again, the sun's shining a little higher through the window, drawing shadows across the walls that hadn't been there when Carolyn had left. Feeling refreshingly well-rested, David rolls out of bed with a contented smile, angling his footsteps towards the ensuite. He runs through his normal routine at a laxer pace than usual, happily keeping his eyes averted from the small clock stationed on the counter, patterned with various stains of soap and smudges of Carolyn's make-up. Without looking, though, he already knows it's far later than he's usually up and about, around the time he's usually pacing the bullpen at work.

He finds some comfortable clothes in the walk-in closet, and he emerges within minutes fully dressed and ready to tackle the daunting task of waking his son.

CM

At the end of the hall, David pushes open the door to his son's room carefully, peeking his head inside without a peep. Organized chaos meets his gaze, toys strewn about the room in designated piles, leading up to the small bed situated in the far left corner. The blue blankets are ruffled and scrunched up around the tiny form of David's son, sprawled with his limbs flung out. One of his arms dangles over the side of the bed, and his unruly brown hair puts on an impressive impression of being a rat's nest.

David cautiously ventures in, picking his steps around the various toys and books, casualties of his son's wandering attention. He nudges aside an ugly teddy bear with his foot once he reaches the bed, sinking down to his knees so his face is closer to level with his son's sleep-deformed one. The small bedside table holds a rocket-shaped alarm clock declaring the time to be 9 am, which is rather later than David anticipated.

"James," he says softly, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Time to wake up, buddy."

Getting no response from his softly snoring son, David gently brushes a thumb against his cheek and taps a skinny shoulder. James snuffles a little, face scrunching as whatever dreams were floating in his head drain away. A single brown eye peeks open, squinting against the light to focus on David's looming face, before snapping closed again with a groan. James mumbles something incomprehensible into his blankets, attempting to turn and bury his face in the pillow.

Amusement swells in David's chest as he watches the boy try to studiously ignore his presence. "Ah-ah," David says, pulling at the sheets. "It's time to get up now."

James visibly considers for a moment, eyes stubbornly scrunched up, before sighing in defeat. His eyes slide open once more to glare fuzzily at David as the boy reluctantly pushes himself up into a sitting position. A huge yawn cracks his jaw as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, looking adorably disheveled. "Daddy," he whines, doing a good impression of a zombie. "Wanna sleep."

Feeling in particularly good humor, David shrugs. "Alright," he says easily, casually stepping away from the bed. Smartly, James squints at him suspiciously, unsure of how to react to his father's seeming agreeability. "You can keep on sleeping all morning, and I guess I'll just have to go to the park with some other little boy. I'm sure Anna won't mind coming over to watch you while I go have fun, hmm? The only problem is finding a little boy who likes the swings as much as I do… You wouldn't know anybody like that, would you, buddy?"

David doesn't turn to watch his son as he starts to move towards the door, steps deliberately slow as he lets his boy's thoughts calibrate. It takes a moment longer than expected, but inevitably James' brain kicks into gear and he gives a horrified gasp.

"No!" he cries in distress, immediately scrambling off the bed. "Take me, Daddy! I like the swings! I'll get up! Don't call Anna."

Suddenly, David finds a pleading, doe-eyed four-year-old clinging to his leg, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. He smiles down at his son indulgently, relishing in the rare opportunity for such relaxed teasing. "Okay, okay," he laughs, carefully untangling son from leg. "We'll go after we get you dressed and grab some breakfast, alright? Sound good?"

James thinks the deal over for a second, eyes roaming around his room and straying towards his closet, inside which hangs all the clothes he seems to disdain wearing. It's a source of endless amusement and exasperation on David and Carolyn's parts respectively that their son seems to prefer his birthday suit to more modest options, resulting in a daily battle of trying to wrangle him into something decent. Finally, James finishes weighing up the pros and cons.

"Sounds good," he agrees firmly.

David shoos him off to get started, and James zooms around the room in record speed. Within seconds, he stands before his father once more, victoriously holding out a bundle of clothes. David nods in permission and gestures for James to dress himself, wanting to see if the promise of the park will be enough to entice the boy to don the hated garments.

As it happens, it is.

James hops and wiggles his way into a pair of jeans, wrestles with a tiny Star Wars shirt that David eventually has to step in and help him with, and slips on a pair of socks. David is a little more than dubious at the apparent match James has decided on with his socks, but his son seems delighted with the one green sock to match the one blue one, and David eventually decides that he should take whatever he can get and count it as a victory.

Seeing David's approval and beaming at it, James lets himself be invigorated by the thought of their plans for the day. Slyly, he clasps his hands behind his back and puts on his best puppy-dog look. David is instantly on alert. "I'm dressed now, Daddy," James offers. "We can go to the park now and play."

David raises an eyebrow. "Oh, we can, can we?" he teases. James bobs his head eagerly. "Hm, are you sure about that? I think you may be forgetting something."

James hesitates. "Uh," he says. "No?"

But it's with reluctant resignation that James follows David down the hall and towards breakfast, putting up little fight once he realizes how much his tummy starts to growl at the promise of food. Still, just to make a point, he refuses to hold his daddy's hand as they travel down the hall, and then further refuses David's help when it comes to descending the stairs.

It isn't the first time James has braved the stairs, and his son is more than capable, but David is still cautious. Despite James being big enough now to be able to do a lot of things, the unavoidable truth is that David's son has less than stellar balance. He's lucky to make it across flat ground without tripping, really, so the stairs are always a bit daunting. However, James faces them fearlessly, remembering himself enough to grab onto the handrail as he climbs down each step. David hovers nearby, just in case.

They reach the bottom without incident, and James is more than proud of himself. He beams up at his father, disappointment over the delay in their plans forgotten, and David smiles back.

James is happily lead away from the stairs and towards the spacious kitchen, David herding him towards the table while he himself heads for the fridge. As James climbs up into his booster seat and peers his head over the table, David makes quick work of putting together two glasses of orange juice and pulling out a colourful, cartoon-adorned bowl.

"What kind of cereal do you want, buddy?" David asks cheerfully, reaching for the cupboard below the sink. It's James's designated storage, where he keeps his favourite snacks and food items. There's also a battered toy truck shoved in the back, but David and Carolyn have both long ago stopped questioning these things.

James sinks into deep thought, face scrunching in concentration, and David lets him think it out, patiently waiting. "Rice Kissbies," James finally decides with determination, nodding his head just to add to his certainty.

"Rice Kissbies it is," David announces, pulling out the proper cereal box from the cupboard with unnecessary flourish. He dumps some cereal in the bowl, splashes some milk on top, and grabs a small spoon for small hands on his way to the table. He makes a second trip for the orange juice, plunking down the glasses and taking a seat beside his son.

Happily, the boy digs in to his breakfast, earlier reluctance forgotten as he crunches away. David amuses himself by flicking stray cereal bits at his messy-eater. When David runs out of ammunition, James frowns and pauses, spoon piled with Rice Krispies and dripping milk halfway out of the bowl.

"Daddy, where's Mommy?" he finally thinks to ask in bewilderment, head swinging around as if hoping to spot her hiding behind the doorway.

David nudges James' orange juice closer to the boy before answering. "At work," he says lightly. "Why, am I not good enough for you?" He frowns unhappily, sniffing in mock offense, placing a dramatic hand over his heart.

James giggles at his theatrics, but doesn't let the subject drop in favour of silliness. "Is Mommy working like you?" he asks, suddenly anxious, face falling. "Is she coming home?"

David sobers quickly. "Don't worry," he assures quietly. His hand floats up to stroke James' hair without his conscious consent. "Mommy's coming home, buddy."

Thankfully, this is enough to satisfy James, at least for a few moments. He continues shoveling cereal in his mouth and gulping orange juice until most of both is gone. Then he seems to realize something, spoon hovering over the last bits of Rice Krispies.

"Why doesn't Daddy eat?' he demands suddenly, eyes narrowed and accusing. David quirks an eyebrow instead of answering. Determined, James piles his spoon with the last dregs of cereal and jabs it in his father's direction. "Eat," he orders. There is no arguing with his tone. "Daddy needs to eat. Has to be strong to beat bad guys."

Unable to refute that logic, and also too amused to say no, David takes the spoon from James and pops the cereal in his mouth. James smiles in victory, then looks down at his empty bowl. His butt starts to wriggle restlessly in his chair, and David knows now is the time for a distraction.

"All done?" he asks, whisking away the dishes once James nods. He swills the cup out with water and briefly scrubs at the bowl, knowing he should hurry unless he wants James to find some way to amuse himself. "It's still a bit early to go the park, so what do you want to do until then, buddy?"

James considers while David finishes cleaning up, drumming his little fingers on the tabletop. He's still thinking when David comes back to the table to lift him out of the chair, and only comes to a decision as David carries him into the living room.

"Legos?" James suggests timidly.

"Legos it is," David announces. James doesn't complain as David keeps hold of him up the stairs, too busy giggling at the funny faces David makes sure to keep making at him. They burst through the door to James's bedroom, and David tosses his son onto the bed, grinning at the surprised squeak he gets in response. "Where are they, buddy? Where'd you hide them?"

James scrambles off the bed only to crawl under it, feet kicking wildly as he reaches for something. David raises an eyebrow as James finally manages to drag out a small box of Legos from the depths of under his bed. James pops off the lid of the box and gestures impatiently for his daddy to join him crouching on the floor.

David does as ordered, ignoring the protesting from his knees as he drops to James's level and helps the boy dig through the box. James gathers together a specific pile of little blocks before rooting around the bottom of the box. His hand emerges clutching a sheet of crumpled paper, and he flattens it out before showing it to David. It's instructions for how to build a Lego spaceship, and it's obviously what James is hoping to accomplish today. It doesn't look too complicated, but David spares a moment wondering if he'll have a tantrum on his hands when James gets halfway through the project and gets stuck.

Nonetheless, he doesn't stop James from excitedly beginning the task. David dutifully hands over the correct pieces at the right times, and makes sure James is reading the instructions correctly. It doesn't take long for David's fears to quickly become unfounded, once he sees the ease with which James figures it out. It's with amazement that David watches his son easily piece together the spaceship with very little difficulty.

Within half an hour, they've completed the spaceship, the castle, and the boat. David is completely astounded. James carefully puts his new creations on a spare spot of his bookshelf, while David dumps the remaining Legos back into the box and slides it under the bed.

"Can we go to the park now, Daddy?" James asks anxiously, nearly vibrating from excitement.

David lets his gaze wonder to the clock. "I don't know," he teases. "Maybe we should wait for Mommy. She might say no…"

James gasps in horror at the thought, and almost before David realizes, he runs out of the room.

"Whoa!" David says, hurrying after the boy. "James, where are you going?"

He follows the little boy to David and Carolyn's room, where James has climbed onto their bed in order to reach the phone. It's grasped in his hands, thumbs hovering over the keys, with James frowning down at it.

"Buddy," David says in bemusement from the doorway. "What are you trying to do?"

"Calling Mommy," James answers, still frowning. "I wanna talk to Mommy about the park, and she's at work. When Daddy's at work, me and Mommy call you."

David walks over the bed, sits beside James, and gently takes the phone from his hands. James lets him, looking miserable. "You and Mommy only call me at work when I don't come home at night," David reminds him. "Mommy will be home in a few hours. You can talk to her then. I promise she won't mind about the park."

James brightens a little, but he still looks confused. "When you go to work and I'm sleeping, you wake me up to say bye-bye. You give me kisses and hugs before you go. Mommy didn't wake me."

David stays quiet for a moment, dropping the phone and pulling James close to his side. He wonders how on earth he's supposed to explain to his four-year-old that he wakes him up in case it's the last time he gets to. David doesn't know how to tell James that there might be a day where daddy doesn't come home.

"Well, Mommy will be home to kiss you goodnight," he finally says, leaving the matter for another day. "I'm sure she'll make up for it. In fact, she'll be home for dinner. While we wait for her, what do you say we finally go to the park and have some fun?"

James instantly perks up, easily forgetting the last few minutes as he grins in excitement. "Park!" he squeals, clambering to the side of the bed in order to slide off. "Park, park, park," he chants, gesturing impatiently for David to follow him as he darts out the room. David only hesitates for a moment before following, letting James' excited voice drown out any concerns that have popped up in the last few minutes.

David makes a detour to James' room before following the boy downstairs, where he finds him hopping at the front door. David holds out the sweater he'd thought to grab from his son's closet, waiting expectantly for James to catch on. "It's a little chilly outside, buddy. You need to put on your sweater before we can go to the park."

James sighs grievously but obediently takes the sweater and wrestles his way into it. He gasps when David swings him up into his arms, but doesn't struggle as he's carried outside and eventually taken to the car, once David's locked the front door behind them. David wrangles James into the backseat and buckles him up in the car seat, much to James' chagrin.

"Daddy," James whines, frowning grumpily. "I'm big now – I don't need a special seat! Even Mommy said I was getting big!"

David settles himself into the driver's seat and eyes his son skeptically through the rearview mirror. "Sorry, buddy, it's the law," he says, buckling his own seatbelt. "In a couple of years, you won't need it, but until then I'm afraid you're stuck with it. Suck it up."

James groans but admits defeat, slouching in his seat and frowning out the window as David starts up the car. He doesn't speak again as they head to the park, but David hears the faint sounds of James mumbling something to himself, and thinks it's probably nursery rhymes.

David sneaks glances at him through the mirror when he can, unable to hold back a soft smile. He doesn't get to spend as much time with James as he would like because of his job, which makes days like today all the more special to him. He loves his job, and he loves his family, and wouldn't dream of giving up either one, but sometimes he likes to forget all about serial killers and stalkers and just pretend he's always with James like this. Despite his weird hours and all the traveling he does for work, Carolyn's made sure that David's been able to see all the milestones in James' life through cameras and phone calls. He reads James a bedtime story every night when he's away at work, and makes sure to kiss him goodbye when he leaves.

David pulls into the parking lot of the community park, quickly undoing his seatbelt and getting out of the car before James can get too impatient. He opens the door to the backseat, but pauses when he sees James struggling with the child safety belt of his carseat.

"Need some help?" David asks mildly.

James shakes his head fervently, still fighting with the buckle. His tongue peaks out of his mouth in concentration.

"Buddy, those are kid-proofed. You're not going to be able to – "

The buckle pops open, and James is free. David blinks.

James smiles in victory and jumps out of the car, breaking David out of his astonishment. He grabs James' hand before he can run off, and guides him over to one of the benches overlooking the playground.

A teenage girl at the other side of the park waves to them, bundled down with a bag full of what looks like kid supplies, and it takes David a second too long to recognize her as Anna, James' babysitter. Two kids are running around her, older than James, so David assumes these are her brothers, the ones James' talks about playing with whenever she looks after him.

"Do you want to go see Anna?" David asks James, who strains to see her over the playground. To aid him, David lifts him up and places him on the bench, so he's almost level with his father's height. "You can play with her brothers – er, Dominic and…"

"Brandon," James supplies. "No, thank you. I play with them all the time. I never get to play with you," he says dramatically.

"Well, then what should we play today?" David is quick to ask, not eager to go down that particular road. "The slide's free, and there's only a little girl in the sandpit. You might make a friend."

James considers for a moment, scanning the playground as he tries to reach a decision. David waits patiently, keeping a discreet eye on the exhausted looking Anna and privately thinking that the girl must be glad she doesn't have to watch James today as well. He takes a moment to wrack his brain to remember if Anna has a little sister as well, but rather quickly figures the child in the sandpit must belong to the man on the opposite side of the playground.

He's brought back to focus when James gives a hefty sigh. "The swings," he says, pointing. "Please?"

David's quick to comply with his son's wishes, scooping James up off the bench and carrying him over to the swingset. He plops James into the basket seat, ignoring the boy's scowl; it's easy to melt away once David starts to push the swing. He starts slowly at first, not wanting it to get too high, but obviously James is more of a thrill-seeker than his father gives him credit for. James cries for him to push higher and higher, and David can't resist once James starts laughing in delight.

"If I push you any higher, you'll spin right around the top bar," David teases lightly.

"Nuh-uh," James denies, swinging his legs as he flies through the air and back again. "Not poss-i-ball."

"Sure it is," David says. "Want to try it out?"

Despite his claim of the impossibility, James' eyes widen and his grip on the chain of the swing tightens. "No!" he says. "Too high! I want to get down now, Daddy!"

David immediately catches hold of the swing and brings it to a halt, giving James an apologetic smile. He lifts the boy out of the basket and places him back on his feet, reaching down to keep hold of his hand. "Alright, kiddo," he says. "What do you want to do now?"

James hums as he looks over the park again. His hand floats up to point at something. David's gaze follows in that direction. "Daddy, what's that?" James asks, cocking his head to the side.

"That's a chess table," David supplies. "Would you like to go see?"

James nods enthusiastically, so off they go to examine this new thing. David helps his son up into one of the chairs, and then he takes the other one. James pokes at the pieces curiously, picking up a pawn and rolling it in his hand.

"Daddy, will you teach me to play?" he asks, eyes hopeful. David considers for a moment, being honest with himself as he assesses his own chess ability and his ability to teach. "Please?"

"Alright," David agrees. "Well, there's six different pieces – that one you've got there is a pawn." He begins pointing them all out, detailing their movements and places to an enraptured boy, somewhat dubious that James will manage to absorb it all. But his son surprises him by picking it up quickly, drinking it all in and being eager to play.

On their fifth game, James wins.

CM

Hours later, Carolyn gets home from work and finds both her boys in the kitchen. They're sitting at the table, both of them with a rainbow of crayons in front of them. James is scribbling some art work onto a sheet of paper, looking very determined, while David watches him with a contented smile, absently rolling crayons towards him.

Carolyn leaves her handbag and keys on the coffee table in the living room before leaning against the door frame to the kitchen. "Hello," she calls once she realizes that neither Rossi boy has noticed her.

David's the first to look up, giving her a smile that melts her a little bit inside, before he nudges James and gestures. Seeing his mother, James squeals happily and slides out of his chair, bounding towards her. Carolyn catches him in her arms and swings him up, planting a kiss on his hair and hugging him tight.

"Hey baby," she says, balancing James on her hip. "Did you have fun today with Daddy?"

James nods. "We played with my Legos and builded lots of cool things and we went to the park and played on the swings and we saw Anna and Dominic and Brandon and Daddy taught me chess – "

"Whoa, sounds like a busy day," Carolyn laughs as David joins them. "You two must be tired. You taught him chess?" she directs at her husband, eyebrow raised. "Isn't James a little young for that?"

James yawns, effectively letting his father off the hook, as Carolyn chooses to focus on a sleepy son instead. David takes the opportunity to start clearing off the table, putting away James' art supplies. Carolyn carries James upstairs, petting his hair as she takes him to his room, where she lays him down for a nap and tucks him in.

As James snuggles into his pillow, Carolyn takes care not to disturb as she slips out the room.

CM

Once James wakes from his nap and dinner is served, the boy takes the chance to cheerfully detail their father-son day to his mother, talking so eagerly that Carolyn has to lightly remind him to eat.

David and James team up to clear the table, and Carolyn brings James' art supplies back out, including the picture he'd been working on when she'd got home. David offers to 'supervise', sliding into the seat next to James and peering at his work. James hardly seems to notice, with his tongue sticking out and his brow furrowed in concentration as he gets each colour and line just so.

"What are you drawing?" David asks curiously. "May I see?"

James' head shoots up to stare at his father with huge eyes. His hands flatten to cover his paper so that David can't see what he's been working on. "Nuh-uh," James says. "Not till I'm done. Surprise for Mommy and Daddy."

David raises his hands helplessly in surrender, letting James return to his artwork. They remain in silence for a bit after that, David surreptitiously trying to get a glimpse of the secret project. He isn't very successful.

A while later, Carolyn appears by the entryway. "James," she calls. "Time for bed, baby." She holds out her hand, and though James grumbles, he obeys and slips away from the table. Throwing a suspicious look David's way, James takes the drawing with him.

CM

Fifteen minutes later finds Carolyn getting ready for bed herself and David comfortably reclined on the couch, fresh book in his hands and work pleasantly distant from his mind. He looks up when he hears the quiet pitter-patter of small feet, and spots James hesitating at the other end of the couch, clutching his ugly teddy bear to his chest. He's in his space pajamas, the two-piece set decorated with glow-in-the-dark planet and stars, and it makes him glow faintly green.

Seeing James shifting from foot to foot, David puts down the book and sits up. "What's wrong, kiddo? Why aren't you in bed?"

James fidgets with his bear. "Can you tell me a bedtime story?" he asks, inching closer to the couch.

Smiling, David pats the spot next to him. "Of course," he says. He helps James clamber up onto the couch, and his son cuddles up next to him. "Book or made-up story?"

"Make up a story," James decides, sneaking his thumb into his mouth and tightening his hold on his bear. David nods and wraps his arms around his son, searching his brain for a child-safe story to tell. It takes him a moment.

By the time David finishes telling his son the story of brave warriors fighting evil and rescuing peasant towns, James is fast asleep and attached to David's shirt. David's careful not to jostle him too much as he stands and carries him back upstairs, remembering to keep hold of the teddy bear as well. He meets Carolyn in the hallway, freshly dressed in her own pajamas, but she merely rolls her eyes at his sneaky passenger. She drops a kiss onto James' hair and her husband's cheek before disappearing off into their bedroom.

David stifles a yawn as he tucks his son into bed, pressing the bear to his boy's chest and squeezing his shoulder. He hovers in the doorway for a second as he goes to leave, the unease of having forgotten something tugging at him, but he dismisses the thought and carries on. He eases James' door shut behind him and makes to follow his wife.

It's a bit early for him to go to bed, but he has work in the morning and he's sure Carolyn can distract him long enough until a more suitable time for sleep.

Later, when it's dark outside and Carolyn is breathing softly beside him, David remembers that he hasn't checked the locks on the window of either bedrooms. Before the thought can fully form, he's sound asleep.

CM

He's woken the next morning by Carolyn, who shifts the bed as she stands. David's eyes reluctantly pry open to glare at the clock in disgust. It's not even five yet, and he had been planning on sleeping for at least another hour before getting ready for work. He turns his unhappy gaze on a sheepish Carolyn.

She smiles apologetically. "Sorry," she says. "Didn't mean to wake you. Just getting a glass of water. Go back to sleep. I don't work today, I'll deal with James if he's awake."

David says nothing, merely closes his eyes and sinks back into the pillows. He hears the soft footfalls of his wife as she leaves the room, and manages to lull himself into a half-conscious state, hoping to fall back asleep soon. He's almost managed it when a sharp, panicked cry wrenches him fully awake with an unpleasant abruptness.

He's bolted out of bed and halfway down the hall before the sounds even registers properly in his sleep-addled brain. He sprints to James' room and spots Carolyn immediately, standing outside the door and covering her face. He stumbles to a halt beside her, worry erupting violently within him when he sees her horrified, glassy eyes.

"David," she says in a trembling voice. She looks hollow and pale, so frail it seems like she might shatter. "He's gone. James is gone."

Hardly daring to breathe and starting to feel sick, David numbly turns to their son's room and steps inside. Broken toys are strewn across the floor, looking trampled on as if in a struggle. The pillow is ripped and on the floor, and James' ugly teddy bear is lying forlornly under the bed. There's no sign of James himself. David's eyes are drawn to the windowsill. The window's wide open, letting in a gentle breeze, and David immediately zeroes in on the stain of red on the wood. Blood, he thinks. Blood on the window of his son's room. The window he'd forgotten to lock last night.

Beside it flutters a stray bit of paper, trapped. David's isn't aware of the feeling of his legs giving out from under him, but he suddenly finds himself on the floor, leaning against the wall as he listens to his wife begin to cry. He can't tear his eyes away from the blood stain, even when Carolyn starts calling out for James.

He doesn't hear Carolyn call the police, nor does he notice when she breaks down in the hallway.

He just feels numb.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

The room is silent except for the rhythmic tapping of David's anxious foot against the wooden floor, tapping out a pattern that only he knows the significance of. A steady ticking of a clock sounds behind him, but it's muffled and too unimportant to get past the horrified haze that's been clouding his thoughts since he woke up to Carolyn's shriek and the sight of his son's ransacked room with the empty bed and open window –

David can hardly think clearly, fingers tight around the arms of the chair he finds himself in, eyes blank and staring, not seeing the smooth wall before him. He's thinking of James, their day at the park, his oversight in leaving the window unlocked. He's thinking of Carolyn's tears and rasping voice as the police arrive at their door, the gentle hands that guide him away from James' room. He doesn't remember the drive that must have taken him to Quantico. Doesn't remember entering the FBI building and blindly finding his way to the BAU office. Someone must have helped him, but he has no idea who.

Jason Gideon sits quietly across from him, letting him drown in his thoughts for a moment too long. Jason studies him quietly, face unreadable, and absently touches the wedding band around his finger.

"Dave," he finally says, voice calm and soothing enough to bring David back from the guilt and profiling his brain has become flooded with. "You know we have to do this," Jason adds, settling back in his chair. David blinks at him for a moment, unseeing, but his mouth tightens once he sees the hint of sympathy in his friend's eyes and he inclines his head in silent agreement.

Jason lets him stew for a moment longer, slowly seeing Dave come back to himself. He's pale and more tense than Jason can remember him being ever before, but he no longer looks adrift in his own nightmare, which is an improvement.

"What happened last night?" Jason asks, knowing full well the sort of reaction it may garner from Dave. But no sour look comes his way, and that only serves to worry Jason more. "Did anything seem out of place? Carolyn said you took James to the park – did someone pay a little too much attention to James while you were out? Is there anything you remember being out of place?"

David reaches into his pocket, untangling his vice-like grip on the chair arm, and draws out a crumpled piece of paper. Jason watches patiently and quietly as David delicately places the paper onto the table between them and smooths out the crinkles.

"I didn't see anything," he finally answers, staring at the paper with a strange look. "But this was trapped by James' window. It was caught in the breeze when we – when we couldn't find him. James drew it last night, but wouldn't let us see it. He said it wasn't finished yet."

"What is it?" Jason asks, peering up to see the picture he can just make out scrawled on the paper. "Is it something that will help us find your son?"

David turns suddenly, jerking in his chair. "Where's Carolyn?" he asks, fingers twitching protectively over the paper as his eyes roam listlessly around the room. Jason isn't sure if he really doesn't remember, or if he just wants a distraction.

Either way, Jason keeps his tone even as he answers. "She's with Agent Thomason in the next office. They're going over what happened last night, to see if Carolyn remembers anything; like we should be."

David settles, slumping in his chair. He looks so lost and forlorn that Jason hardly recognizes him as the agent he's known and worked with for years. This defeat isn't anything like the Rossi he knows, and Jason doesn't truly know how to proceed around this side of his friend. "He knew," David says quietly. "James knew and he didn't tell me. I didn't see it, but I should have, and if James had just –"

"Knew what, Dave?" Jason asks carefully. "What did James know?"

Silently, David reluctantly slides the piece of paper across the table, towards Jason.

Jason keeps a wary eye on the other man as he gently picks up the paper and examines it.

The drawing sprawled out across the paper is that typical of a four-year-old, Jason thinks. It has stick figure people standing around smiling under bubbly clouds and a scribbled sun that has sharp rays shooting across the page. It's simple, with four figures scattered around, three of them helpfully labelled. Daddy, Mommy, Me.

The fourth, however, is unidentified. It's off to the side, separate from the stick-figure family, and coloured differently. This one is drawn with a green crayon, whereas the others are detailed with a happier purple one. The green figure isn't smiling like the others, but almost seems to be leering at them, limited artistic skills trying to convey the idea of the green guy watching the purple family.

Jason furrows his brow as he studies the drawing. It could mean anything, really. Maybe it's an imaginary friend that James thought to add. Maybe it's his babysitter, who David had admitted was there at the park when he first stumbled into the bullpen. Maybe it's a friend James had seen. But maybe it's a hint that James had seen the man who took him, and he'd made enough of an impression to be added into the boy's art.

"If he knew him, it would be helpful if he could've labeled that one," James says absently, talking mostly to himself. David shifts in the edge of his vision, and Jason looks up sharply.

David's eyes flash as he glares at Jason with a sick look of disgust or fury.

"It's not up to my son to do our job," he hisses, bristling in anger. "He's four, Jason. You're telling me we can't do our job without a little kid's help? What kind of profilers are we? Maybe we shouldn't even deserve to call ourselves that if we need a little boy to help us find him!"

Jason doesn't allow David's words to insult him, more than used to the lashing out of grieving parents. It's a new experience for him, to be dealing with a grieving parent that's also a good friend, but he figures the principles are probably the same. "Dave," he says quietly instead. "This wasn't your fault."

David twitches, face going through a myriad of emotions before he shuts it all down and gives Jason an icy look. "I never said it was," he says hoarsely, eyes distant and uncertain, at odds with his tense demeanour.

"You don't have to," Jason says. "We've been in this room for half-an-hour, and for half of that you've been on edge and silent. You can't focus on the questions, even though you know they're important, and you keep trying to redirect the blame onto the BAU – or, more specifically, yourself. So I'll say it again: it wasn't your fault."

David clenches his jaw and snatches back the paper, crinkling the edges even as if his gaze softens. "I could've stopped it," he whispers, eyes locked on the picture. "I should have stopped it."

Jason starts to shake his head. "Dave, you couldn't have known -"

"You don't understand," David interrupts harshly, voice broken and filled with painful shards of regret. "I took him out to the park, Jason. If I hadn't, maybe the bastard that took him wouldn't have noticed him, wouldn't have followed us home. If I'd just paid some goddamn attention – I should've noticed someone was watching James at the park, or that we were tailed on the way home. I'm a goddamn FBI agent, Jason, I should know better than to let my guard down just because I'm off the clock. What if James had just shown me this sooner? Maybe I would've known that somebody…" David trails off with a hitched breath. "I didn't lock his bedroom window," he finishes hollowly, eyes frighteningly blank.

Jason hesitates, but forces himself to continue, albeit tentatively. "CSU confirmed there was no forced entry. The UnSub more than likely entered and left through James' window," he confirms reluctantly. David slumps and buries his face in his hands, but Jason is quick to draw him out before he can settle in his despair. "What's odd is that your son's room is on the second floor. How did the UnSub get up there? He can't have scaled the house, that'd be difficult on a regular time, let alone with a struggling four-year-old."

"He fought," David says, straightening in his chair. Somehow it doesn't make Jason feel any better. "The boy would have fought. There were broken toys on the floor and the bedding was thrown around the room; obvious signs of a struggle. The UnSub would have had to subdue –"

"Dave, stop," Jason says sharply. "You're talking like this is another little boy, a stranger. You're acting like a profiler, not a father. This isn't a case. This is your son."

"I know!" David snaps with an ignited fury that leaves his hands trembling. "I know this is my son we're talking about, that's why I'm purposefully distancing myself! If I want to successfully work the case, I need to be profiler more than I need to be a grieving father. Acting like this isn't James that we've lost lets me keep my head on the case. I know how to compartmentalize, Jason."

"But it was James," Jason persists. "You are a grieving father. You can't work this case when you're so emotionally involved, you know that won't allow you to make proper judgements."

"I don't care," David flares, shooting to his feet. "I have to work this case. I can't just sit around and twiddle my thumbs when I can help! I know how to help find my son, and I am going to!"

"You can help," Jason seizes the opportunity, "by answering the questions to the best of your knowledge. You and I both know that even the tiniest detail could help."

David works his jaw but slowly sinks back into his chair, propping his head up in his hands and staring blankly at the wall again. "Okay," he mutters dully. Jason sighs but shifts in his chair to better watch the other man.

"Where did you and James go yesterday?"

"The park, around noon. Before you ask, no, I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary at the park. It was sunny and there was a slight breeze, but there were only about four, five people in the park. Three of them were kids. All of them older than the vic - older than James. We saw Anna, James' usual babysitter, and her brothers, but other than them there was only a little girl and her father. We stayed for about half-an-hour before heading home, and during that time I didn't notice anyone watching us or acting oddly." David twitches, something clearly bothering him, and Jason stays quiet to let the man work through it.

"Anna's brothers were right there," David finally growls. "If the UnSub was so desperate to prey on a little boy, why didn't he go after one of them? Anna would have been easy to overpower, especially if one of the other kids were threatened. Why choose James, who would be far harder to abduct, when Anna was right there? Why James?"

Jason lets him fume. "You know you can't ask why," he says delicately. "The only one who can answer that is the UnSub. Asking yourself these questions… they won't help, Dave. I know you know that." David doesn't respond beyond squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw.

Jason bites his lip and rubs his eyes. "What about when James went to bed? Did he go by himself? Did Carolyn take him, or did you?" he eventually decides to continue, figuring waiting David out isn't going to get them anywhere.

"Carolyn tried," David intones. "But when she was in the shower he sneaked back downstairs to ask me for a bedtime story. I told him one, and by the time I finished he was fast asleep. I carried him upstairs, met Carolyn in the hall, and tucked him into bed. I didn't see anything out of place in his room, but I was tired and forgot to check the lock on his windows."

Jason nods. "Okay, good. So after that, you went to bed, right? Did you fall asleep straight away, or did you stay awake listening to the house? Did you hear anything? Smell anything?"

David leans back in his chair and runs his hand through his hair. "I fell asleep straight away," he admits. "I was tired."

"What about this morning? What happened?"

"Carolyn woke up first, and I woke up not long after. I stayed in bed while she went to James's room to wake him up. I almost fell back asleep, but then I heard a scream and jumped out of bed and ran down the hall. The police came and, well, here we are," David says bitterly.

Jason studies him for a second before extracting a small notebook from his pocket and scribbling in it. "Alright," he heaves heavily, snapping shut the notebook. "I'll see what else can be discovered at the crime scen - James' room."

Jason pushes himself to his feet and begins to walk to the door, only to stop when he notices that he is being followed. Jason spins around and pins David with an intense look. "You're not coming with me, Dave."

David narrows his eyes. "He's my son, and you're going to my house. I am quite capable of doing my job, Jason. I am coming."

Jason continues to stare at him. Then he exhales loudly and turns to the door sighing, "We'll see."

CM

Jason stands up from his crouched position beside James's bed, scanning the room as he makes his way over to Dave, who's staring at the windowsill. Jason paces up beside him and follows his gaze, eyes fixing on the bloodstain.

"They haven't determined whose it is yet," he says quietly. "It may not be his. We might even get lucky and get a hit on the UnSub."

David hums and leans over the windowsill, looking at something other than the red splotch. Jason quirks his eyebrow, eyes flitting to David's face before yet again tracing the lines of his eyesight. The outside portion of the window protrudes out of the wall, almost like a railing. The white paint is scratched and marked in two wide tracks, and Jason wracks his brain to think of what could have caused them.

"Rope ladder," Dave suggests. "UnSub hooks the rungs on the pane, and as he climbs it wears on the paint and scrapes it away. Explains how they reached the second floor without actually stepping inside."

"It's possible," Jason allows. "But how does he climb back out with a four-year-old?"

David hesitates. "James would've struggled," he finally says. "Even if it meant that the UnSub might drop him, he wouldn't have let a stranger take him without a fight. If James did know them, he would've been suspicious that they sneaked through his window."

"Maybe the UnSub never meant to kidnap him," Jason suddenly suggests, crossing his arms and resting his chin on his fist. "Maybe they just wanted to break into the house, steal a few things. Just didn't realize that James was in here. Maybe James woke up; startled the UnSub."

"Then why not just kill him?" David questions, hiding the quiver in his voice well - but not well enough to escape Jason's notice. He chooses to ignore it.

"Maybe they didn't have a weapon, and weren't strong enough to strangle or bl - " Jason, noticing David's expression despite his best efforts to cover it, wisely changes course, "so they just took him. Or maybe they didn't want to have to kill anybody. Was anything taken?"

David shakes his head, then pauses. "Not really. James's baby blanket is missing, but I assume he had it with him when…" He shakes his head again. "Why break in here to rob the place, only to run off with James?"

"Maybe they weren't wearing any disguise and were worried that James would be able to identify them if they took anything, so they took him to cover themselves. The fact that they didn't take anything else could mean that they changed their minds, but couldn't risk leaving him either way."

David shakes his head again. "Even if they did change their mind, the average robber would at least take something. Nothing's missing, from James's room or anywhere in the house other than that blanket, and it's not exactly valuable."

"So maybe James was the intended target after all." Jason sighs heavily, rubbing his forehead. "Basically, we're back to square one."

"In other words, we have absolutely nothing to go one," David drones, eyes firmly focussed on the wall above the small, barren bed. "James could be anywhere, with anyone."

________________________________________

Two Months Later

"Dave?" Jason calls as he enters the room. "The front door was unlocked," he says by way of answer when David spins around and stares at him. "You didn't come to work today, nor did you answer your phone."

"I was busy," he replies vaguely, turning back to the wall opposite the door.

"I see that," Jason notes, pulling out a chair from the desk and easing into it. "Quite the set-up you've got here." He looks around the room, taking in the various photos and notes taped to the walls. It's rather like the boards the BAU set up when on a case, but on a larger, full-room scale.

"You're still looking for him," Jason states quietly.

David clenches his jaw but doesn't turn away from the wall, keeping his back to Gideon. "Of course I am," he grounds out. "He's my son. I'm not giving up on him until I know what happened."

Jason eyes his friend. "Dave," he sighs reluctantly, "it's been two months. You know the chances for abducted children, I know you do. I hate to say it, I really do, but James is most likely - "

"I know," David interrupts sharply. "I know that children who are kidnapped are usually killed in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but he's my son, Jason. I have to believe he's alive, if I don't - " He pauses and takes a breath. "I'm going to act like he's alive; going to continue working his case, until I'm proven wrong, until it's proven that he's dead. I won't like it, not in the least, but I'll accept it. Until then - I hope it never happens, I hope I'll be able to get him back alive - I'm going work my ass off to find him."

Jason stays quiet for a moment, allowing David to study his notes and the photos of James's room. "Have you actually gone in James's room yet?" he asks. David stiffens and shakes his head woodenly. Jason's eyes are drawn to a framed picture on the desk. It's the drawing of stick-figures. "How's Carolyn?"

"Leaving."

"What?" Jason blinks in shock. "Leaving? Why?"

"She thinks he's dead. She's been trying to convince me to let the case go, to allow myself to grieve. She doesn't understand that I can't accept it without proof."

"Would you be able to handle proof?"

David hesitates. "I don't know. But I need proof. Carolyn doesn't get that. She insists that our boy is gone. At first, she believed me. She believed that he was alive as much as I did; she encouraged my looking for him. Then, two weeks ago, James's fifth birthday came about." He pauses. "That's when it changed for her. She… broke down. Cried for a week, wouldn't leave the house. Convinced herself that he was dead, that it was too late. After she discovered that I wouldn't believe it, she said she had to leave. That I was dredging up memories and not allowing them to be put to rest; wouldn't let myself or her have peace - wouldn't put my son to peace."

Jason considers him. "You know she doesn't want your son dead any more than you do. But she wants peace, Dave. Wants closure. I know," he raises a hand to stall David's protests, "that you can't get closure until you have your son back or know for sure that he's gone. But Carolyn has accepted that James may not be coming back. I think you need to do the same."

"Okay." Jason blinks in astonishment and narrows his eyes. "Let's say I do accept that. Then what? What changes? I'd still want to find the one who took him, so that he can be put behind bars - or, more likely, so I can exact my own justice. So I'd still be working the case, just without the extra motivation of hoping to find James alive. Who would that help?"

"The director got in touch," Jason says simply. David turns his head to face him. "He wants you to stop working this case. He suggested that you hand it off to someone else in the BAU. You know they're trying to get us to operate in teams now, right? He wants you to give it to one of the trial teams to work. Thinks you're too involved."

David snorts. "'Give it to one of the trial teams'?" he mocks. "Why? So they can test their abilities to work as a team on my son's case? You know as well as I do, Jason that the whole team thing won't work. It's more effective to work on your own."

"I don't know," Jason says mildly. "I think the whole team idea has merit. That way you can have different people with different skills give you their input. I think it'll help solve cases faster."

"Only if the people in the team have the right skills," David points out. "Otherwise it's completely pointless and the only thing it achieves is the guarantee of James's death."

"I'll take that as a 'no' to handing away the case." It's not a question, and David doesn't answer. "Have you at least considered the early retirement you were offered?"

"I'm too young to go into retirement," David deflects.

"That's why it's called 'early retirement'."

David pauses and finally faces Jason again. "I've thought about it. I've also thought about writing a book on profiling. But I can't do either until I know what happened to James."

"Right." Jason exhales. "Thought so." He pauses before broaching the next topic. "I actually came round for another reason," he proceeds cautiously. David immediately gives him his full attention. Jason keeps his eyes locked on the framed picture that James drew as he continues. "The lab finally gave back the results of the DNA test they did on the blood sample from the window."

David perks up instantly, clutching the notebook in his hand tightly. "And?" he asks eagerly. "What were the results? Was it - Was it James's?"

Jason shakes his head slowly, but quickly quashes the pitiful hope filling David's expression. "No. Inconclusive. They couldn't find a match."

"Two months for zilch?" David says bitterly. "They dragged it out for two months to say they didn't get a hit? Why'd it take them so damn long?"

Jason shrugs. "They were in the midst of staff changes. Besides, they were held up by trying to convert the system so that a good Technical Analyst will be able to identify samples quicker. Won't do any good if they aren't in the system, of course."

"Great," David mutters, rubbing his forehead. "Once again, we've got absolutely nothing."

"Dave," Jason starts up again, "I've already told you that the director wants you off the case. What I didn't tell you is that he anticipated your reaction. He's giving you two more months, only because he knows how important it is to you to be the one to close it."

"Two months?" David repeats. "Really?"

Jason's mouth twitches. "He had to pull some strings," he confesses. "But after two months you have to give it up to a trial team, Dave. You don't have a choice anymore." With that, Jason pushes himself out of the chair and saunters out the door.

David watches after him for a while, before turning around and studying the notes and photos once more.

________________________________________

A Year Later

David grits his teeth, yet somehow manages to keep the biting irritation that floods him from seeping into his voice or onto his features as he struggles to breathe out evenly. He achieves this remarkably well.

"I'm asking for one more look," he reasons. "That's it. Just one more look, just in case you - in case I missed anything the first time I looked it over."

Before the agent across from him is able to voice the poorly-veiled annoyance he clearly wishes to make known aloud, the two are interrupted by a third presence.

"Dave," the intruder greets, discreetly tapping the cornered agent on the shoulder as a signal to leave. The agent does so instantly, a look of utmost gratitude frank on his face as he makes his hurried escape.

David frowns at the retreating figure's back, eyes troubled. "That new agent is rather disrespectful," he notes mildly.

Jason raises an eyebrow and examines the man closely. "That 'new agent' has been here almost a year. He's part of one of the trial teams. Rather good, too. I'm sure he'd be more polite towards you if you showed up around here more often." Gideon shifts and eyes David critically. "You hardly come to work anymore, Dave, if ever. The last time had to be at least six months ago, and that was just to demand that the head of the trial team assigned to your son's case give you back authority over the investigation, or make you privy to every new development in the case."

David doesn't refute his claims, but he stands his ground. "I still work here. I'm still an agent of the BAU, and I have the right to help out with an investigation if I feel that the case is going nowhere."

"You do," Jason agrees. "But that's not why you came back here now. Maybe that's what you told yourself, but it's not the truth."

"So then what is the truth?" David challenges lightly, leaning back against an errant desk.

Jason contemplates his answer. "It's been a year," he says quietly. "Almost exactly a year since James was taken. I know it was his sixth birthday a couple weeks ago. Do you think maybe that's what caused this sudden desire to look over the case file again, even though the trial team has yet to have any success?"

David's silent for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek as he speculates. "I haven't read over the case in a few months," he replies carefully, minding every word. "I haven't lingered on it either. I think that if I looked over it again, it might be like giving it to fresh eyes - even though that approach didn't work last time." He sends a half-hearted glare at the man. "What could it hurt?"

Jason's eyes widen. "It could hurt you," he states matter-of-fact. "Bringing it up again."

"But?" David prompts.

"But," Jason drags out, "I suppose, if you're certain about this, I can't stop you. Even if I could, I probably wouldn't. Just wait here."

David nods and Jason leaves, apparently to track down a copy of the case file. David doubts that there will be anything new, but there is still a faint chance that something has been gathered since he had last hounded the trial team.

It only takes a few minutes for Jason to return with a copy of the case file. He passes it over to David and the man heads home, promising to inform Gideon straight away if he figures out something new - no matter how unlikely that scenario is.

CM

Over the course of two months, David studies the file but doesn't bother the actual active case. Jason keeps him well informed of any and all important leads, but those are few and far between. David tries to keep himself from delving completely into the case; tries to occupy his time with other things. He pays serious consideration to book writing, but his mind keeps straying back to his son and the case, and his concentration is easily ruined.

Something about the case - other than the obvious - irritates him. He feels like he is missing something, a key factor that will enable him to discover everything and find his boy - hopefully alive.

It's the blood sample, he decides. The inconclusive results. There should be a match. Just because the UnSub hadn't been in the system a year before, doesn't mean he isn't now. Mind made up, David travels to the BAU again, this time intent on finding different results.

CM

Jason isn't hard to find. It's harder to convince him to run the sample for DNA again.

"I know we got nothing when we tried it before," David tries to explain. "But what if the UnSub has committed another crime since James went missing, and was caught, then he'd have to be in the system. It's got to be worth a shot. Please, Jason."

Gideon reluctantly gives in, if only because of the memory he has of a giggling small boy who was oddly observant and logical for a boy his age. Before David leaves to go home and await the new results from the blood sample, Jason warns him that this very well might be a dead end, and if it wasn't then David wouldn't be able to go with them to arrest the UnSub.

David agrees, too excited and distracted by the prospect of finally discovering what happened the year before to think things through and let Jason's words sink in.

CM

It's one week later when Jason informs David that they got a match on the blood sample.

"Dave," he calls as the man instantly jumps up. "Dave, you can't come."

David whirls on him, eyes wide and unfocussed. "Dave, I told you when you requested we retry the blood sample. I warned you that you wouldn't be able to come with us to take Michaels down. You know I can't let you come."

David hesitates but finally sits back down. "At least tell me how he got James."

Jason pauses while he tries to organize his thoughts into a proper explanation. "We think the UnSub is a man named Gary Michaels. He lives in Las Vegas, but we've confirmed that he was, in fact, in Quantico at the time of James's disappearance. Last year he was released from prison early for good behaviour, and we believed he stayed with a friend in Quantico. He moved to Vegas a year after James was abducted."

Sensing that Jason is leaving something out, David leans forward and narrows his eyes. "What else? How come you didn't get a hit on him before, but did this time? What did he do to get himself registered?"

He sighs. "He's a registered pedophile. But," he quickly speaks over David outburst, "according to his prison record, he likes older children than James."

"Doesn't quite reassure me," David mutters wryly.

"We're about to head out to Vegas and pick him up. Though, I'll remind you that this technically is not a FBI case. We can't hold him without evidence."

David nods. "Going now?"

Jason stands as answer and bids his goodbye. "If he's there, Dave, alive, then we'll get him back to you. You should call Carolyn."

With that, he leaves.

CM

"Why am I here?" David asks, sinking into a chair and facing the other man as he enters in after him. "Did you get him? Do you have him in custody? I called Carolyn but she said she didn't want to hear anything unless… She didn't want me to get her hopes up."

Jason waits until he himself takes a seat, then turns his attention to the anxious agent across from him. "Gary Michaels is dead," he says bluntly. "Turns out his body was found a few days ago in the desert, across state lines, but it was unidentified at the time. When we got there - and by 'we', I mean I worked with a trial team - we discovered that he was dead before we searched his place of residence. We don't know how he died, and we decided not to look into it after - "

Jason breaks off and seems unwilling to continue. At David's questioning look, however, he takes a breath and presses on. "When we searched Michaels' house we found a hidden crawl space. After we managed to break the door open we found a body." Gideon meets David's eyes steadily as he continues. "We weren't able to get an identity from the body - no way to get a DNA match. But we were able to confirm that it was the body of a young boy, approximately five or six years of age."

David digests this information silently. Then, "But you don't know for sure?"

Jason sighs. "Dave, you know I wouldn't tell you like this unless I thought there was a good chance that it was James. The body may be unidentifiable, but it was found wrapped in this." He leans down and scoops up a plastic bag used for evidence and holds it out for the other man.

Eyes locked on the contents of the bag, David reaches out an unstable hand and takes it from Gideon. Jason stays quiet as David lowers the bag to his lap and grips it in his hands tightly.

The bag crinkles under his grip, and the fabric within mirrors the action without noise. Inside the plastic is a fluffy blue blanket, with a dark purple border. David recognizes it instantly; it has been fixture within his home since his son was born. He's sure there was many of these baby blankets sold, but his eyes instantly catch on upper left corner where an emerald green embroidered word lays.

James.

With his attention fixed solely on the single word, he doesn't notice when Jason leaves the room. Despite the inner turmoil of emotions within him, David Rossi manages at least one coherent thought: James Rossi is dead.

His little boy is gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

-

The world and all that exists within it is a confusing mess of people and things that merge together and threaten to tumble the societal order of organized chaos. For those of us that find ourselves living within this chaos, this is a concept that comes to us at an early age, once we reach the point in childhood where we start to question these confusing things. However, for a special few, the concept of universal disarray and unanswered questions, baffling clues that lead nowhere, is something that is a basic fact of existence from the moment they’re able to conceive the nature of questions.

Spencer Reid is one of these special people.

He’s a mere six-years-old, still being pointed towards simple toys and patronized, yet he already finds his mind puzzling on the complex matter of the confusing truth of the world, and his own vague, misshapen ghosts of memories that linger in the corners of his mind.

One of these fragmented memories concerns the house he lives in, the building he’s supposed to call home. There are pictures of his parents and himself as a wrinkly little thing in this very house, yet it never feels right to Spencer. It doesn’t feel like home. He feels uncomfortable and wrong in this house, like there’s something whispering in his ear, telling him he doesn’t belong.

Sadly, this is something he’s come to accept, even at such a young age, as being something he can’t change. He tries to dismiss the thought whenever it creeps up on him that he needs to be somewhere else. However, there are other things that try to capture his attention, and none of them make any particular sense. Even his own name fits wrong over his skin, too big and itchy, like the clothes his mother keeps tucking away in his closet. It’s utterly ridiculous, and Spencer knows it’s silly, but he has a strong feeling that his name isn’t right. It doesn’t feel like him.

It's a daily trial for him to sit in the quiet of his room trying vainly to distract himself with Dickens or Chaucer or even Seuss if he’s that desperate, only to find himself pondering upon all the names he comes across in his literary travels and wondering if any of them fit him better. As he reads, eyes trailing over the pages and careful lines, his attention is always snagged by a handful of letters. Three in particular flash like a beacon in his thoughts, drawing attention whenever he sees them.

J, D, R, C.

These letters plague him wherever he goes with whatever he reads, and for the life of him Spencer doesn’t know why. He never can stand a mystery, especially when it concerns his own thoughts and feelings, which are enough of a challenge to understand as it is.

As usual, Spencer’s thoughts are stuck on this issue this very morning, an array of books spread across his bed in a futile distraction. He flips through the pages of the book in front of him in frustration, hating the way the letters on the page are mocking him.

“Spencer, baby,” a woman’s voice floats through the door, soft and raspy. “Come read with me.”

Spencer immediately perks up, forgetting the piles of books around him. He hesitates for a moment, gnawing on his lip and considering the faded wooden door of his bedroom with indecision, waiting to see if the woman will grow impatient and call for him again. She doesn’t.

Finally, he slips off the bed and pads out into the hallway in mismatched socks, trailing his fingers along the wall. The hall isn’t long, and he can tell the woman’s voice is waiting for him in the master bedroom, where the door is cracked open and a yellow flood of light is peeking through the doorway.

He peers around the door, scoping out the large and comfortable bedroom until he finds the woman curled on the bed, long blonde hair unkempt and dirty, but with a gentle smile that makes it all better. There’s books scattered on her bed, just like Spencer’s own, but these are all bigger and older, the kind Mother loves.

Spencer has never felt entirely comfortable calling her Mother. He’s adjusted and pushed it to the side for now, because little boys are supposed to love their mothers and call them ‘Mommy’ and not feel a squirm of discomfort in their belly every time they do. But it still feels strange on his tongue and in his thoughts, as if it’s a title she doesn’t deserve.

She smiles at him now and holds out her hand, inviting him to crawl into bed beside her. She’s cleared a space for him, shoved the books away so he can curl in beside her, so he can’t say no. Besides, as strange as she makes him feel, he loves when she reads to him. So he clambers up next to her, carefully traversing the litter of books, and obediently picks out Canterbury Tales when she asks what he wants to read. She’s never disappointed with his choice, even when it’s the same one over and over, and he appreciates that. Her voice is soothing as she fills his ears with the stories of medieval chivalry, and Spencer lets his mind wander.

Already, Spencer knows he has a good memory; one that’s better than most. He remembers almost every word of every book he and Mother read together; he can recite the poems and songs she loves; and he can duplicate the sheet music they have hidden around the house. He drinks in information like it’s water in the desert, and he loves to learn everything he can and never let it go. However, despite this, Spencer has trouble remembering anything beyond a year ago. He can remember several months ago no problem, but the first real, proper memory he has is of waking up in an unfamiliar bedroom with a smiling blonde woman beside him.

Other than that, he gets odd flashes at random intervals. He can only assume these are broken memories, fragments of a whole picture, but he struggles to piece them together. They confuse and frustrate him, and he doesn’t know why he can’t just remember.

Then there’s the feelings. The hunches and intuitions that tell him something is wrong, like his name or even Mother. Certain objects or words make his brain twinge with a warning, like when Mother takes him to the park and sees the chess tables, or when he finds the box of Legos in his room.

None of it makes any sense, and Spencer often spends nights awake, trying to solve the mystery of his own mind. He may not know how or why, but he does know that nothing is what it appears to be in his young life. Something is wrong, and he wants to know what. Until then, he knows he must resign himself to playing along with the charade – because something has to change sometime. It can’t be a mystery forever.

CM

When he’s home alone, Spencer likes to watch the news on TV.

Mom doesn’t let him watch it when she’s around, turning sad and teary as she tells him it makes her too sad; that she doesn’t want to think of all the bad in the world when instead she can focus on him and their happy life. He doesn’t really agree, but he hates to upset her, so he always obediently switches off the television.

When she’s not around, Spencer can only sneak some news time when Dad’s not there. Usually Dad ignores Spencer except when he tries to get him into sports, or when he looks at Spencer with this funny look on his face that looks a little like anger. When Mom’s there, he tries to make more of an effort to make her happy, but their interaction always seems forced and unpleasant for everyone involved.

Spencer’s figured out by now that Dad will let him watch the news if it’s quiet, and only if Spencer doesn’t say anything about how tense and uncomfortable Dad gets about it. As soon as any Amber Alerts or reports on children come up, though, Dad draws the line and makes Spencer leave the room. It’s a weird thing, but Spencer thinks maybe Dad doesn’t like the thought of missing children, probably because he’s a parent.

This time, however, Dad’s at work and Mom’s in bed for a nap. There’s no one to stop Spencer watching the news, and no one to make him leave when the latest report comes on.

They found a body yesterday. A young boy, around six-years-old, only a bit away from Spencer’s own street. It makes Spencer feel squirmy and weird, the thought that the boy might have lived so close by. Did he know him? The news-reporter-lady says they can’t identify the body, but apparently, the FBI has been following a lead on the case for a while, and they’re fairly sure they know who it is.

Spencer doesn’t really know why he’s so interested in the report. Maybe it’s because Dad never lets him watch things on children. Maybe it’s because Mom’s in the next room and the rebellion is exciting. Maybe, just maybe, it’s another one of Spencer’s intuitions. Either, he finds himself enthralled in the news segment, nearly holding his breath in fear of missing something.

“Insider FBI sources have confirmed the agents working the case strong suspect the body is of one James David Rossi. Rossi, age four at the time, disappeared from his home in Quantico two years ago…”

Spencer’s heart is pounding in his ears, adrenaline flooding his system. He doesn’t know why he’s so agitated by the report, but it feels like the answers he wants are at the tips of his fingers, ready to be grasped. But he doesn’t know how to grab them, doesn’t know why the report is so vital.

James David Rossi, he thinks. It sounds whole, somehow. Complete. It sounds so right, so warm, so much better fitting than Spencer.

Spencer’s keeping half his attention on the television in front of him, and the rest is busy spinning the report over and over in his head. He’s drawn back to the TV when the reporter starts detailing the investigation, and the agents in charge, something inside him whispering for him to listen.

“The deceased boy’s father is none other than Special Agent David Rossi, a prominent figure of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Sources say Agent Rossi was taken off his son’s case a little over a year ago, but has been allowed to keep up with the ongoing investigation.”

The screen cuts away from the news station to footage of two men outside a plain building, most likely a police station if the cars out front are anything to go by. Spencer can’t help but study the man on the right, the one who, per the reporter’s voice over, is Agent Rossi himself. Spencer’s breath hitches for a moment, and he doesn’t think it’s just in sympathy.

At the sight of the man with a grave, tired face, talking quietly with his stony companion, Spencer feels his thoughts tug and pull at him, whispers of memories seeping through.

“Alright, kiddo, bed-time. Pack it up; we can finish the puzzle tomorrow.”

On the screen, Agent Rossi seems to finally notice the camera, pulling his face into a scowl and pointedly turning to the side, hiding his face rom view. His companion flicks his gaze over to the camera, a tiny frown appearing for a fraction of a second.

“This piece moves in a L shape… There you go! You’re a natural, kid…”

The screen switches back to the reporter lady, who drones a few hollow condolences and downcast looks in memory of the deceased boy, before suddenly flicking a switch and flashing her pearly whites as she gets ready to delve into the juicy story of a celebrity divorce turning nasty.

Spencer turns off the TV, not even remotely interested in the Who Cheated On Set scandal. Instead, he sits in silence for a while, turning things over in his thoughts. The whispering of possible memories have never been more than that before – just ghosts, something he can blame on the innate imagination supposedly possessed by children his age. However, now he doesn’t know what to think.

It’s probably nothing, though. It’s silly to think it means anything. He’s never even heard the name Rossi before.

… So then why does it feel like he’s lying?

CM

By the time Spencer crawls into bed that night, he’s still thinking it all over. The more he thinks, and the sleepier he gets, the more he manages to almost convince himself that all this is possible. Maybe he does know FBI agent David Rossi… somehow. As for the boy, James, there’s something there that itches at him too. It’s almost familiar in a way – not just the name, which Spencer has already accepted as one of those weird things in his life, but also just the concept of the boy himself, separate from his name and Agent Rossi. It’s odd, because why would Spencer feel anything like familiarity with a kidnapped and murdered boy?

Regardless, Spencer’s instincts are screaming at him that James is wrong for the boy’s name.

Spencer, on a bit of a detour, quite likes the name James. In his opinion, it’s better than Spencer. It almost feels like it… suits him, maybe?

Too tired and frustrated for this level of introspection this late, Spencer shakes his head sharply and buries his face in his pillow. He’s so done with all this; it’s so many levels of confusion and delusion.

He is Spencer Reid, son of William and Diana Reid, not James Rossi, deceased son of an FBI agent. So, why exactly is this so hard for him to accept?

CM

Even though Spencer happens to enjoy curling up with his mom and listening to her read to him, sometimes he prefers reading on his own. He’s snitched some of Mom’s books before, and he’s pretty sure she’s noticed, but she’s never asked for them back. He has a large bookshelf in his room, and for as long as he can remember – which is, granted, only about two years – the bottom shelf has been filled with the works of Dickens.

He loves those books, not because of their stories, but because they’re the first books he remembers curling up to read on his own, without his mother’s voice in his ears. He’s cracked the spine of them all, pored over the pages and read to himself. He falls back on reading them whenever he finishes Mom’s latest book.

Reading all that he can, Spencer starts to build a library in his head. Every time he finishes a new book, he takes a moment or two to carefully store away the information, quickly running through the book in his head to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything. He rarely does.

Spencer’s currently trying to add to his library, but is having little success. He’s cross legged on his bed, book resting on his lap, but he’s given up on reading it for now. His mind is half present and trying vainly to make sense of the book, and half lost in the vault of his half-memories. Over the past few months, he’s been trying to understand some of the ghosts that hide in his memories, the whispers and fragments that have frustrated him for the past two years. He hasn’t met much success.

True to pattern, all Spencer can really decipher are distorted flashes of images and feelings, pulsing in his brain and wringing out his thoughts.

Cold concrete scratching at his bare skin, rough and gritty, hard and unyielding…

Rattling of an old, dirty window as the wind batters against the walls of the small room, harsh and startling, howling in his ears…

Painful scraping of the heavy door screeching against the floor, setting his teeth on edge and eating at his brain…

He’s cold and lonely and scared, lost and confused. He wants to go home, to feel the love of his Mom and Dad, instead of the fake, cold attention of the scary man that stomps into the room every other day…

He doesn’t know what day it is, doesn’t know how long he’s been down here, but at some point the door is wrenched open and a small bundle is shoved harshly into the room. The new addition, all pale face and bright, tear-streaked eyes, looks around wildly, terrified and on the verge of sobbing…

Light straggles through the cracks in the wall, but he knows better than to think it’s sunlight. There is no sun down here; he can’t even say for sure that there has ever been sun anywhere…

Grains of dirt are stuck between his toes, gritty and painful as they rub against his blisters and cuts. The other little boy, huddled in the corner, lets out a quiet, hoarse wail before sniffling and falling silent with a hiccup…

“Hi,” a rasping whisper breaks the silence. The newcomer has never spoken before now, too caught up in shock and fear. “How… How long have you been here?” No answer graces him, and a rough, strangled cry escapes…

He sucks on his lip, swollen and tingling, making his nose wrinkle with the metallic taste of blood…

His cheek is painful and puffy. He touches it gingerly, but it still stings, throbbing quietly and persistently. The other boy is crying again, curling his injured wrist to his chest. “Mama,” the boy sniffles, face filthy and streaked…

“I don’t know your name,” the boy hiccups, scrubbing roughly at his eyes. He’d been so quiet for so long… it had been almost like he’d gone, just like the last one. “Please. I-I’m Spencer Reid.”

“James Rossi,” is the first thing he chooses to say in a long time…

Spencer wrestles to pull away from the memories (dreams? fiction? fact?), finding himself crying quietly and breathing heavily. The book, previously on his lap, is face down on the floor, pages folded and crinkled. Shakily, he picks it up, just trying to distract himself with movement.

He doesn’t want to think about the ghost of memories he’s just experienced, doesn’t want to deal with how shaky and paranoid they’ve made him. But… why, in the memories, does Spencer remember calling himself James Rossi? Why did the other boy in the memory, the small pale thing, say his name was Spencer Reid? It must be the other way around, he must remember wrong… except, he’s never remembered something wrong before.

He doesn’t like thinking like this. He makes him nervous and it should be too silly to even consider.

For one with such a good memory, Spencer’s uneasily foggy on his past, with only two years worth of memories, which makes it easier for him to fall into the trap of this whole thing with the dead boy and his apparent memories.

No. It can’t mean anything; he can’t have known James Rossi, and he certainly can’t be James Rossi. There’s no proof of otherwise, and Spencer refuses to delude himself. These strange fragments of memories must be the result of an overactive imagination.

Spencer has to forget these memories, these intuitions. They don’t mean anything.

--

Spencer’s older now, almost eight.

He’s gotten to the point where he’s finished all the books in the house, and has started trekking to the local library to scope out some new reading material. It’s a long walk, but at least he gets some exercise.

At the moment, Spencer wishes he had access to some of the new books he’d brought back from the library just yesterday. He set them aside last night, stacking them neatly on his bedside table before heading off to read with his mom for a bit before bed. Now he just regrets not bringing them with him.

Spencer has never been particularly afraid of confined spaces. He’s not a huge fan, sure, but he’s never been scared of them. However, with his current predicament, he finds his dislike of confined places steadily growing.

Tentatively, Spencer tries to twist the doorknob and push the closet door open. It doesn’t budge. He sighs and slides slowly down the wall, resting his head on his knees. He’s locked in, which doesn’t really come as a surprise; it certainly isn’t the first time, and he doubts it’ll be the last.

He’ll be stuck here until Dad get home, and even then who knows how long it’ll take before he notices that Mom has trapped him in here again. He has hours either way, so he might as well get comfortable.

It isn’t really Mom’s fault. She just isn’t feeling well again, and Spencer knew that last night when he curled up in bed with her. Really, if anything, it’s Spencer’s fault for startling her. He should have been more careful; should have anticipated her paranoia. It was just self-preservation.

it’s okay, Spencer’s already finished all his homework, and he’s not missing anything important, really. His library books can wait for now, it’s not like they’ll go anywhere. The only thing to worry about is if Mom decides to take them for herself, because then Spencer will have to try and convince her to give them back up so he can return them.

You know, Spencer might not find being stuck in a closet all that bad if only he had a light. As it is, the closet is completely dark; almost suffocating. Which is a ridiculous thought, because who ever heard of being suffocated by the dark? Still, despite logic, Spencer dislikes the feeling of darkness skittering up his spine and seeping into his clothes. He knows, logically, that darkness isn’t substantial, but it still feels heavy and ominous.

Spencer tries to calm his breathing, knowing that having a panic attack will only make matters worse. He’s not afraid of the dark! Really, he’s not! He’s not a baby, okay?

He attempts to still the trembling of his hands, ignoring the goosebumps that are springing up on his arms. His throat feels tight and his breathing his laboured, making him feel out of control and lost. He pulls his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and ducking his head. His eyes are wide open, but it’s so dark that it doesn’t matter; there’s no light for him to see anything. His feet are cold and his toes are curled up in his socks, muscles tight and strained.

His toes are cold, but so is everything else. He tries to huddle into an even tighter ball, hoping to warm himself and ward against the cold.

He wishes he has a watch or some way to tell time so that he can at least guess how much longer his father might take to get home. If he’s lucky, his mom might start to feel better before Dad gets home and let Spencer out.

Spencer leans his head against the wall, glad that his eyes have started to adjust to the dim closet lighting. Now he can at least see the vague outline of the sparse objects in the closet – mostly bundles of clothes, but also a few old and forgotten books scattered on the floor as well. Sadly, there really isn’t anything to entertain himself with.

He dozes a bit, time falling away as he sinks into his head. He’s startled awake by sharp rapping on the closet door. He takes a moment to clear his foggy thoughts before lurching forward to tap back on his side of the door, not sure if he’ll be able to speak loud enough to be heard through the door.

The doorknob jiggles a little bit before the door gets jerked open, flooding Spencer and the small space with the sudden harsh light. He’s sure he hears an exasperated sigh before a large hand settles on his shoulder and gently guides him to his feet. Spencer wobbles unsteadily, squinting up at his father.

“Your mother’s in bed,” the man says quietly, waving his hand at the hallway. “It’s late. You should go to your room, Spencer.”

Whenever he says Spencer’s name, he always sounds so hesitant, and never meets Spencer’s eyes. Spencer gets the feeling he should know why this is, but he pushes the thought away and ignores it. He nods at his dad’s words, moving out from under the man’s hand and heading to his room.

He closes the door quietly behind him, doing a visual sweep of his room. The library books are still stacked neatly on his side table, right where he left them, and he sighs in relief. Suddenly finding himself exhausted, he crawls into bed, not bothering to wiggle out of his jeans and find some pajamas.

He keeps his bedside lamp on, just to ward off the shadows.

CM

Time passes. Whether or not you want it to or not, it passes. Slowly or quickly, days morph into weeks and weeks will turn into months. For one David Rossi, it passes painfully slowly, while for Spencer Reid it moves by smoothly and irrelevantly.

Eventually, the flashes that inject themselves into Spencer's mind fade and he is able to almost forget about the dead boy and odd memories that make no sense. He still gets strange feelings that seem to be something akin to familiarity, but he's getting pretty good at ignoring them and moving on.

He forgets.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

It’s twelve long years after the abduction of his son when David Rossi grudgingly accepts the bureau’s gracious offer of early retirement. Even he has to admit that his heart isn’t with the job anymore, even though catching the scumbags they chase is the only reason he keeps getting out of bed in the morning. He can catch all the psychopaths and arsonists he wants, but it doesn’t help with the gaping hole that’s been torn in his life, and getting up for work every day just keeps feeling more and more like a sham.

Instead, he writes. It’s an idea he’s been toying with for years but never really took seriously until now. Now, he has nothing better to do to fill his days, so he might as well unload all his years of knowledge of serial killers onto the blank pages before him. At first, he doesn’t think anything will come of it. Sure, Carolyn used to tease him about how he could be the next best seller, but those days are gone, and he’d thought all chance of that happening had gone right out the door with her. But when he finishes his first book, a rough mess of words and stories, blunt and horrific tales of murder, a friend suggests sending it to an editor. From there, it just sort of snowballs. Soon enough he’s travelling the country on book tours and signings, negotiating contracts and drawing up ideas for future books in the spare moments he can grab between requested lectures at universities.

Really, it’s an odd coping mechanism. Hiding from the thoughts of his son’s murder, using his books as a barrier between him and the dozens of murder scenes he’s walked through. He knows it’s not exactly healthy, but he’s never been all that invested in the healthy living crap and besides, it helps, doesn’t it? Isn’t that the whole point?

Whenever he falters, finding it too painful to continue pulling the words of psychopaths out from his memories, David turns to the two things that never fail to remind him of why he’s doing this, why he’s putting himself through it all over again. Pinned up on the wall near his computer screen are the two things most precious to him, in a strange, vengeful way.

The first is a worn bit of a paper, thin and creased, ripped at the edges, yet preserved with care. David never really knows how to feel about this paper. It’s a bittersweet reminder of James, the picture he’d drawn the night of his disappearance, the clue that might have prevented it all… yet it’s also the last thing his boy ever drew. David can’t bear to part with it, not after all these years, though he doesn’t like to think of himself as particularly sentimental.

Beside the paper hangs a delicate golden bracelet with a tiny chain and a fragile clasp. Three hearts hang suspended, each with a name cleanly stamped upon it. Connie, Georgie, Alicia. David took on the case of their parents’ murder only a handful of years after James’s death, while he was trying to force himself into moving on. He’d thrown himself into it, desperate to prove himself worthy of the profiler title, desperate to prove to himself that he could save someone. His plan had backfired spectacularly when the case went cold, sinking him even further into guilt and despair. He keeps the bracelet as a reminder as why he does the job, why it’s important he keeps writing these words, even if it’s with his own blood.

Somehow, as irrational as it is, some part of David believes that losing James has hindered his ability as a profiler. The thoughts have been simmering in his brain for years, gaining more power with every lost case, every escaped UnSub. It’s one of the last pushes that gets him to accept the retirement, just before the trial teams of the BAU become a sure thing and the unit starts to operate in teams. Personally, David has his doubts that such a dynamic will work, perhaps unfairly recalling the failed attempts of the team in charge of his son’s case, but whenever Jason contacts him, which becomes fewer and fewer over the years, he assures him that it’s going well. It’s the new revolutionary system of the BAU.

CM

Six years into his retirement, as David is settling down into his new comfortable life, profiting off his books and still stirring with more tales of murder and UnSubs for his next release, Gideon contacts him after a long period of radio silence. He enthuses about a new addition to the team, speaking only praise for the young man, telling David that he’d like the new agent, once he got to know him. David remains dubious, not sure how much to trust his friend’s word, especially with any new team of Jason’s. However, David can’t exactly deny that he’s interested in the apparent boy genius, youngest agent of the BAU.

He tunes out most of Jason’s praise, but he picks up on just enough about his friend’s team to form some hazy idea of how the system works. He remembers Aaron Hotchner, a promising young agent when he’d left, but now apparently the Unit Chief of the BAU. There’s a Technical Analyst, some quirky woman who whizzes through computer files to whip up information on their cases, and David can’t help but like the sound of her when he hears how off-put Jason is about her techie junk. There’s others, as well – Agent Morgan with the history of bomb squad and police work; the PR agent who handles the press; and then there’s the boy genius.

Spencer Reid. Some sort of wonder agent, from the way Jason speaks about him. Graduated at some prepubescent age, whizzed through university, got some PhDs under his belt and rocketed through the ranks of the FBI. With all the praise Jason gives the boy, he also admits how strange and socially inept he is, awkward and off-put around civilians and UnSubs alike. David doesn’t think the poor boy will last.

David had mentioned this to Jason the last time they’d spoke, but his concerns had been waved off. According to Jason, Agent Reid was stronger than you might think.

They drop out of touch again, and David doesn’t blame him. He’s busy with his books, arguing with his editors and cancelling book signings on a whim, and Jason has all those sick bastards to catch. They don’t work together anymore; they have different lives. They can’t stay friends forever.

By the time Jason Gideon leaves the BAU for good, disappearing into thin air if you believe the rumours, David’s become modestly famous for his works. It’s roughly eight years after he tackles retirement when he gets wind of Jason leaving, and a nasty little idea forms in his head. Almost on a whim, thinking of the golden bracelet still hanging on his wall, David calls up Erin Strauss and starts to hound her for his old job back. David keeps hassling her over the ensuing months, bracelet in mind, and only gets more persistent as Christmas comes and goes without any answer on the other side of the phone when David makes his annual call. He wears Strauss down eventually, and just like that, he’s part of the BAU, part of the team he’d heard so much about from Jason.

It comes in handy, having heard the stories already, since they don’t even get the time to be properly introduced before the team’s thrown into a case, off to catch a killer. All he gets is a hasty introduction from Hotch in the office bullpen, everyone high on adrenaline and ready to go, not in the mood for a conversation about anything except the UnSub. Finally, David gets to put the faces to the names, head nearly spinning as he tries to match them all to Jason’s stories. Then David sees him – Spencer Reid. Jason’s own prodigy.

He’s just a kid, David thinks. Still in his twenties, with the sort of face that screams innocence and makes you wonder who the hell let him in a place like this? He looks like he belongs in a university library somewhere, not in an FBI office looking through the files of gruesome murders. David can’t help but think the kid’s eyes, a sort of chestnut-brown, are too young and guileless for this work; but then he gets caught them, trapped because a cord of recognition is struck within him. Whatever it is, his age, his eyes, his open naivety; Agent Spencer Reid reminds David painfully of his son. And that hurts. And when David hurts, he gets defensive. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be on this team with this kid, how he’s supposed to handle the sudden onslaught of memories of the son he’d thought he’d long since buried.

Then the kid starts talking, spewing words at him in a rapid-fire pace, erupting with question after question, getting more and more excited with the more he thinks to ask and David can’t handle it. So it’s just as well when Hotch cuts the agent off, reprimanding him gently and making the kid flush guiltily. If Agent Morgan’s chuckle is anything to go by, this is a regular occurrence, this rambling and ferocious curiosity. David doesn’t know how he’s going to deal with that if it means he constantly has to fend off the questions.

David can’t help but be grateful when they focus back on the case, giving him an excuse to forget about Agent Reid and all the tumultuous thoughts David has just by being around the man. They head up to the briefing room, no longer interested in the team greeting, focussed solely on the task ahead of them.

But, well, Reid’s walking in front of him, talking with Agent Morgan, and David can’t help but pause when the kid’s pant legs hitch up, an inch too short on his long, gangly legs, and reveals odd socks retreating into his shoes. And David’s first thought is shit. What kind of cruel twist of fate would have him working with an agent that has more in common with his late son than is really warranted?

This would be when David starts to reconsider leaving retirement.

CM

To David’s shameful surprise, Reid isn’t half bad once he gets to know him. Sure, he talks too much and will ramble off your ear if given half the chance; yes, his endless facts and statistics grate on your nerves even at the best of times; and okay, the kid drinks far too much caffeine and acts like he’s always on a damn sugar high; but even those quirks of his are tolerable, even helpful on cases. Even Reid’s uncanny, painful similarities to James don’t unsettle David as much as he first thought they would. In fact, they might even be the tiniest bit comforting. Screw emotional setbacks and unhealthy coping mechanisms – at least this one’s better than passive aggressively spewing past cases onto the pages of his novels in order to escape the thoughts of his failures.

Although, David can probably do without the kid’s constant attraction of danger. He’s not on the team long before he learns Reid’s a trouble-magnet, attracting danger and psychopaths to him like moths to a flame. Maybe David should be a little concerned with how much this bothers him, but he puts it down to the fact that Reid’s the youngest on the team, still with that youthful aura of innocence, and has been known to bring out the protective instincts in everybody. Even Hotch doesn’t seem completely immune, and Morgan doesn’t even try to hide it. The women of the team are a whole other matter, nearly coddling the poor boy.

Despite David’s initial doubts on a team dynamic, he has to admit his experiences have been mostly good ones. The team even helps him put to rest one of his burdens, something he can’t be sure he’d have been able to do on his own. With Morgan and Prentiss’s help, David finally closes the case of Connie, Georgie, and Alicia, giving them closure for their parents’ murder. It’s an immense relief to look the three grown children in the eye and tell them his work is finally done… but at the same time, it’s somewhat bittersweet. In all these years, there have been two cases that have really haunted him, and now he can finally put one to bed. But the other still plagues him, and he knows there’s no hope of fixing this one, even with his team.

David often finds himself dwelling on his son’s killer. Since joining the BAU, these times have become fewer and farther between, but there are still days where he can’t let it go. Jason, all those years ago, hadn’t gone into detail about the death of Gary Michaels, only saying his body had been found shortly before they’d found James. Then again, David can’t say he knows much about his own son’s death either. Jason hadn’t wanted to tell him too much, not wanting to put the case on the same level as all the others David had blindly gone out and solved. From what little he does know, David figures it’s a safe bet that Michaels was murdered. He almost wants to know who by.

He toys with the idea of enlisting the help of his team, just to reach some sort of closure, but the notion is quickly discarded. There are serial killers to catch and victims to save; there’s no time to waste on long-dead pedophiles. So David deals with his musings alone, quietly brooding and remembering on the bad days.

CM

Over the following years, the BAU undergoes some serious and tumultuous changes. Emily Prentiss is lost to them, her death hitting them hard and heavy; something about it smells off, but David writes it off, not wanting to upset the team more than they already are. As upset and grief-stricken as they about her death, it’s somehow worse when she comes back, revealing herself as alive and outing two of their team as secret-keeping manipulators.

It’s easy to see how much it rocks the team, questioning their trust in their leader, battling with betrayal and simple joy at having their friend back. Personally, David thinks a perfect example of this heartbreaking internal struggle is Reid, who fights the conflicting feelings of ecstatic relief at having Emily back and the crushing betrayal of JJ’s secrets.

Though David can’t say he agrees with the genius’s method of coping with his anger, he also can’t say he’s completely surprised. His hostility towards JJ is harsh, but this is the kid who’s never lost someone before Emily, who put all his faith and trust in the person that betrayed him worst of all. Reid has a hard enough time trusting as it is – David can’t really blame him for his actions.

Even though David’s coerced into the idea by Hotch, he has to admit to a feeling of pride when his compulsory cooking lesson for the team helps to put JJ and Reid in the right direction towards forgiveness. They all know it’ll be a long, hard road, but for the first time, it looks possible.

And then JJ leaves.

David takes her replacement, Ashley Seaver, under his wing, knowing how hard it is to be a new agent, let alone a new agent with a past like hers. Surprisingly, Reid isn’t reluctant to welcome her, despite how affected he and the others are over JJ’s absence. David can’t help but be relieved, having been worried that Reid would snub the new girl because of some misplaced sense of loyalty. Of course, David berates himself for thinking that of Reid later.

Seaver doesn’t last too long. She leaves to pursue her own future, and JJ comes back from the Pentagon, reuniting the team. After all the changes, David wonders if anyone else’s head is spinning. But the changes don’t stop there; Prentiss leaves the BAU again, heading to England, though this time she leaves with a better farewell.

Alex Blake takes her place, probably one of the best fits for the position, especially seeing how Reid takes to her like a duck to water, perhaps because he knows her already, has given guest lectures with her. She fits in nicely with the team, and things start to settle down.

At some point, David starts to see the team as an odd, dysfunctional family. They’re not quite normal, perhaps, but they care for each other and have each other’s backs; it’s the sense of comradery that David’s been missing since Carolyn left. He misses the feeling of having a family, and being part of the team soothes the ache a little bit.

As much as he cares for them, the team still don’t know about James, and David intends to keep it that way. Bringing it up will raise too many questions, ones he doesn’t feel prepared to answer. They know about Carolyn, and that’s enough for him – they were there for him, offering their support, when she took her own life, and David will forever be grateful for that. It’s affected him more than even they probably know, because not only did he lose his first wife, the love of his life, but also the last remnant of his true family; his last connection to James.

Perhaps that’s why David relies on the team to be his family; to fill the void in his life that he’s been searching to fill with writing and money. It’s… nice.

“Damn, that can’t be good for you,” Morgan says in disgust, looming over Reid’s desk. “Four cups, kid? Really? It’s not even ten in the morning yet! At least hold off till noon, pretty boy.”

Reid peers up at him from the rim of his current coffee supply, eyes narrowed in a frown. Hovering discreetly a few feet away, casually eavesdropping on them, David finds himself privately agreeing with Morgan, sweeping his gaze over the paper cups dotted around the young agent’s desk.

“I don’t drink that much,” Reid protests indignantly, cradling his cup safely to his chest. “This is only my second one today. Those two are from last night; I forgot to clear them away before leaving. I had to have something to keep me awake, what with all that extra paperwork that magically appeared in my inbox.” He raises his eyebrow accusingly, making Morgan sputter.

Morgan throws up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! Maybe I chose to lighten my workload a little; but only because I know you breeze through those things. C’mon, Reid, you like paperwork. Help a brother out.”

Reid rolls his eyes, muttering down into his coffee. “I prefer paperwork over profiling psychopaths while on a clock. There’s no pressure.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Morgan dismisses. “We all know you’re in it for the paperwork. And the cheap coffee, of course.”

About to retort, Reid looks up from his caffeine fix, mouth open to start a war of words between them. At the last second, JJ pops her head over the railing of the walkway above them and interrupts their banter. “Guys,” she calls. “We have a case.”

The atmosphere of the room changes immediately, putting a damper on their teasing. Morgan straightens, amusement dropping away as he spins on his heel and heads up to the round table room, Reid a step behind him after sweeping his arm across his desk, sending all the old coffee cups into the bin. David tags along behind Reid without a word.

CM

“We have an icky one,” Garcia warns them as they take their seats. “And I mean ickier than the usual icky, which, if you think about it, is pretty icky.” Catching Hotch’s look over his tablet, Garcia quickly turns to the screen behind her. “The Las Vegas Police Department has recently connected eleven murders spanning the last twenty-five years. They think, based on the MO, that they were all murdered by the same guy.”

David stays silent and tight-lipped as he looks over the case files, the intuition he’s developed after years of this work screaming at him to be on alert. Something’s different about this case.

“Eleven killings in twenty-five years?” Hotch repeats. “So he’s patient.”

“Oh yeah,” Garcia jumps in, clicking on her remote to make two windows pop up on screen, screenshots of two newspaper articles. “All the murders appear to have occurred on roughly the same date, with the number of years in between each murder varying. The bodies were all discovered by chance, hidden in construction sites and out of the way dump sites.”

“What date were they killed on?” Morgan asks, scrolling through his tablet. “It doesn’t say.”

“That, my cupcake, is because most of it is speculation,” Garcia says, flicking through her notes. “However, the UnSub left video recordings of the murder with his later victims, and all the clips were dated May 5th. Based on the rate of decomposition, it looks like most of the earlier victims were killed around then too, with the exception of the first. And, guys, here’s the real kicker: all the victims were registered pedophiles.”

David jolts, adrenaline rushing down his spine. He flicks his gaze upward, hoping nobody’s noticed his involuntary reaction. Morgan’s glaring at the tablet in his grasp, Blake’s studying the screen behind Garcia, JJ squinting at her tablet, and Reid’s chewing on his lip, speed-reading his way through the information. Hotch, however, is studying David with an intensity that makes David shift uncomfortably, hurriedly pretending to focus on the case file in front of him.

“Who was the first victim?” Reid asks, taking a drag of his coffee.

Garcia hits another button and a picture appears on screen, dominating the article clippings. “It’s not known for sure, but local police believe the earliest known victim is one Gary Michaels, whose body was found in a postponed construction site around twenty-five years ago.”

David’s jaw clenches with an audible click as he goes rigid. He can practically feel Hotch’s eyes boring into his back, but he ignores it and forces himself to look up at the picture on screen.

“The bodies were all found with similar injuries: severe bruising on the face and chest, cuts and scrapes consistent with defensive injuries, cracked ribs, and broken bones,” Garcia continues, bringing up pictures of the victims’ dead bodies and coroners’ reports.

“They were beaten to death?” JJ clarifies.

Garcia looks vaguely sick as she continues. “Yes, Jayje, that would appear to be the case. Some died of their injuries later, some from bleeding out, but the earlier victims especially were killed by blunt force trauma to the head. A bloodied baseball bat was found at the home of the fifth victim, but there weren’t any prints or anything to lead the police to the UnSub.

“Eleven murders of registered pedophiles,” Morgan says, leaning back in his chair. “We could be looking at a justice killer. Doesn’t think the law’s doing enough, so they take matters into their own hands.”

“Either way, we’re looking a serial killer,” Hotch says. “Grab your go-bags. Wheels up in twenty.” As everyone stands and moves to gather their things, Hotch turns to the agent next to him. “Dave,” he says, inclining his head towards the door. “A word.”

David suppresses a sigh and follows the other man out the door, ignoring the curious stares from the rest of the team.

CM

“What’s wrong?” Hotch asks as soon as they reach privacy, not bothering to wait for David to take a seat in his office. “Back there in the briefing, you reacted. Why?”

"We're dealing with eleven murders and haven't been called in sooner. I'd have thought everyone reacted," David replies mildly.

Hotch doesn't respond, just stares at him disbelievingly.

David debates for a moment whether to give in and tell the truth or not, but with Hotch still studying him with his usual unnerving intensity, he eventually figures the game is up. “We’re working a case with eleven registered pedophiles for victims, all killed on May 5th,” he says slowly. Looking up to meet Hotch’s gaze, he finishes: “May 5th is two months before the anniversary of my son’s abduction.”

Aaron leans back in shock, eyes shuttered and calculating. “I… thought you said you didn’t have any children from your former marriages,” he says finally.

“I don’t,” David answers quietly. “Not anymore.”

Hotch takes a breath, understanding flooding his expression. "Oh," is all he says.

Seeing the question in his friend’s eyes, David reluctantly begins to explain, feeling strange and oddly defensive over sharing that part of his life, his son, with Hotch. He’s kept it to himself for so long, it feels weird to tell someone about his wonderful boy again. “You know my first wife was Carolyn. We had a son, James, born in 1983… God, he’d be nearly thirty by now. When James was four, he was taken straight from his bedroom, right under our noses. We didn’t even know he was gone until the next morning. When we did, the FBI got involved immediately because of my position in the BAU. Back then, us profilers worked independently, without a team. Gideon was the lead assigned to James’s case. We didn’t find any sign of him for two years.” David pauses to take a breath, overcome with memories. “When we finally got a match on some DNA left behind… it came up as belonging to a registered pedophile.”

Teetering on the edge of telling Hotch the UnSub who took his son was their first victim Gary Michaels, he decides against it at the last second. He doesn’t really know why, but he doesn’t feel ready to share that information.

“Jason wouldn’t let me join the team to bring the guy in. When they got back a few days later, Jason told me the guy was dead – there was no justice left to be served. They also found–” David’s breath stutters and he chokes off. “They found James. They couldn’t identify the body with DNA, but… there was enough evidence to suggest it was James.”

Hotch is silent for a respectful moment, digesting everything. “I’m so sorry, Dave,” he says gently. “You know, you don’t have to work this case with us, not if it’s too hard for you. You’ve more than earned enough vacation days.”

David shakes his head. “It was a long time ago,” he tells Aaron, sucking in a fortifying breath. “It’s fine. I can work the case. Wheels up in twenty, you said? We better hurry, before the jet leaves without us.”

He stands and heads to the door, opening it and waiting for Hotch to join him. He gives David a meaningful, scrutinizing look, and in response David plasters on a big, fake smile. Hotch frowns but doesn’t say anything.

“You can pull yourself out any time,” he reminds him. “Just say the word.”

David nods, but they both know it’s more of a dismissal than agreement.

The pair of them grab their go-bags and head out to the airstrip, where the team is already waiting. Morgan grins as they board the plane, stretching luxuriously in his chair.

“Let’s go to Vegas!” he crows.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

On the plane, David only half-listens to the playful banter between the younger agents, too occupied in his own thoughts to pay much attention to Morgan’s teasing of a pouting Reid. He overhears enough to know that Morgan is once more ribbing Reid about the coffee, and is aware enough to notice Hotch chipping into the conversation in a rare moment of joviality, but David doesn’t offer his own two cents like he might otherwise.

He only draws himself out of his own head when Garcia flickers onto the screen, drawing their attention with a polite cough and a subtle shake of her shimmery hair bow.

“What have you got for us, Momma?” Morgan asks loudly, giving Reid a temporary reprieve.

Garcia winks suggestively, twirling a pen between her fingers. “For you, sugar, anything; just say the word. For the rest of you, though I love you, I have only some links to a few of the videos found with the murder victims. I’ve sent them to your tablet, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you land to see all of them. LVPD won’t release more than three of them to me without your glorious physical presence at their station.”

She gives them a minute to find the links on their tablets, scrolling down the screen. “So, as we already know, this creep only started to film his little hobby after the first few victims. For all the murders he filmed, the date stamp said May 5th every time, and with the help of coroners’ reports and good old fashioned assumptions, we can bet the first two victims, Gary Michaels and Kristopher Gulls, were probably killed around that date too.

“In the case of our not-so-innocent first victim, Gary Michaels was last seen alive in front of his own home in a little suburban Vegas neighbourhood. As you can see, he was caught on a security camera stationed on a nearby lamppost, and after he went inside he was never seen again. Since our UnSub never left a video with Michaels’ body, this footage is the last known recording of Michaels. I managed to pull it out of LVPD’s system and send it to your tablets.”

“There’s no footage of someone entering the house?” Reid asks, squinting at the grainy footage on JJ’s tablet. “It looks like the camera’s facing his front door. The UnSub would’ve had a hard time sneaking past it.”

“Yeah, see that’s the thing,” Garcia says, jabbing a pen in Reid’s direction. “At around midnight, the footage cuts out. Poof, gone. No one is caught entering or leaving Michaels’ house beforehand.”

Blake leans back in her seat contemplatively, threading her fingers together. “So does this mean our UnSub’s good with technology?” she asks mildly. “Educated in the area?”

“No,” Garcia answers promptly. “From what I could find in files a quarter century old, it looks like the wires were cut. You’d have to be clever to dodge the view of the camera while approaching it, but no special training.”

“And what about the second victim?” Hotch asks, skipping through the video links displayed on his tablet. “Where was he last seen?”

Garcia hums and haws a little bit as she taps at her keyboard, bringing up the relevant information with a few magical swipes of her fingers. “Looks like Gulls was last seen in a public park near his home, walking his dog. The video’s poor quality, but he looks alone and healthy. Surprise, surprise, the footage is dated May 5th, 1990.”

JJ wrinkles her forehead in thought. “That’s a whole year after the first murder,” she says. “I understand if the UnSub is trying to keep pattern with the May 5th connection, but that’s quite the patience for someone who enjoys bashing someone’s head in. Usually with that sort of rage, there’s little control.”

Reid shifts in his seat next to her, clasping his hands on the table in front of them. “The kills indicate rage in the UnSub, rage consistent with someone close to him having been involved with pedophiles in some way. The fact that he’s able to restrain himself enough to potentially go years without a kill is remarkable, and probably indicates that whoever it was in his life affected by pedophiles, they’re not around anymore. There’s nothing new to trigger him.”

“Ah, but how do we know it’s a man?” Blake asks. “How do we know it isn’t an angry mother or sister?”

“Typically, females choose to exact revenge in other ways, less violent and messy,” Reid says. “There’d be signs leading up to the attack, small incidents that lead up to the main event: missing items, vandalism, threatening letters.”

"How do we know none of that happened?" Blake objects mildly. “Maybe none of it was reported.”

Hotch shakes his head. “All the victims lived in tight-knit communities where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Someone would have noticed if the victims were being harassed,” he theorizes. “Reid’s right. The UnSub is most likely male. Hopefully we’ll know more once we get a chance to see the most recent crime scene. Garcia, what can you tell us about the latest victim?”

Garcia perks up in her swivel chair and picks away at her keyboard again. “Jaxon Ranche, body found last week when the local park was torn up to make room for a new apartment complex. Looks like he was found about a month ago, after… Oh.” She falls quiet, fingers stilling. Before anyone can ask her any questions, she blinks back to herself and frowns. “Ranche was last seen on May 5th, a week after the disappearance of a young girl in the neighbourhood. Cassidy Monroe, eight years old, was found just a few days ago, her body hidden in one of Ranche’s sheds.”

JJ sighs, dropping her tablet to her lap. “So maybe somebody knew who took Cassidy and decided to bypass the police and take matters into their own hands,” she says.

“How does the UnSub know where these guys live? How could he know Ranche was the one who took Cassidy?” Blake questions, cupping her cheek in her hand.

“All the victims were registered pedophiles and sex offenders,” Reid offers. “Meaning they were all listed in police files and records. Nowadays, it’s fairly simple to look up the records and see who’s in your neighbourhood. The UnSub probably uses the records to find his next victim and injects himself into some part of their lives, normalizing their presence to avoid suspicions. The abduction of Cassidy Monroe is probably what set them off.”

“Wait,” Morgan interrupts, shaking his head. “If Ranche was killed a month ago, why are we only being called in now? They must have known it was all connected before this.”

“Cassidy’s body was only found a few days ago,” JJ offers. “Looks like it was all the prompting they needed. My guess is that LVPD didn’t really care about the deaths of our victims enough to bother with the case beforehand.”

They fall into silence as they delve into the files, Garcia bidding them farewell with a cheerful wave and a flick of her fingers. Only David, having stayed quiet throughout the debriefing, keeps his head out of the case file. Instead, he watches the world beneath them, deep in thought. He’s only pulled from his reverie when he hears someone sliding into the seat across from him, quiet and patient as he pulls his attention away from his own head.

David looks up to see Reid across from him, picking at his fingers and smiling shyly.

“Done reading?” David says for lack of anything better, brain taking its sweet time processing. He nods at the discarded files lying neatly closed in front of Reid’s vacated seat.

“I finished before we came on the jet,” Reid answers sheepishly, ducking his head. “I noticed you’ve been pretty quiet since we got the case. Is everything… okay?” he asks quietly.

David raises his eyebrows and leans back, feeling his own expression start to close off. “Why wouldn’t it be?” he counters mildly, knowing that his posture is far from inviting to further discussion. He knows it works when Reid shrugs and lets the matter drop, quietly leaving David to his thoughts.

It’s only when they begin their descent that Hotch breaks the silence by calling Garcia up on the screen. “Garcia, I want you to run checks on all the victims. Focus on the most recent offences prior to their murder. There has to be something to set the UnSub off.”

Garcia bobs her head eagerly. “Sure thing, Bossman!” she says obligingly before signing off.

“Blake, JJ,” Hotch continues. “I want you to talk to Cassidy Monroe’s family, see if they know anyone who might stoop to murder. Rossi, you and Reid can set up at the station when we land. Morgan and I will check out the latest crime scene, see if we can find anything important.”

The team nod in agreement, clear with their orders, and Hotch settles back into his set and straps in as the plane noticeably starts to dip for landing.

CM

At the station, Reid and David work together to set up the evidence board, tacking up pictures of their victims. David has a Sharpie in hand and is in charge of writing out the names of their victims under the pictures, while Reid supplies him with their date of death to add underneath.

For the most part, they work in silence, Reid not bringing up their abandoned conversation on the plane, and for that David is grateful. He can tell the younger agent is trying to subtly sneak glances his way, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. The sooner Reid accepts the fact that David isn’t going to share what’s bothering him, the better.

David just wishes Hotch would get the same message.

CM

“I don’t understand,” Lisa Monroe says brokenly, looking pale and shrunken in the middle of her own living room. “We’ve already spoken to the police. We told them we didn’t know who it was that took Cassidy until after the police told us.”

JJ and Blake sit across from the woman, beside each other on the loveseat.

Mrs. Monroe, we know how hard this is for you and your husband,” JJ consoles, leaning forward. “But anything you might remember could help us solve this case.”

“What case?” Adam Monroe cuts across sharply, putting his hand firmly on his wife’s shoulder. “Our daughter is already dead,” he says harshly, ignoring his wife’s strangled sob, “and the man who did it is long gone. There is no case that concerns us. Why are you even bothering? He was a sick bastard who liked little girls. Good riddance. I only wish he’d got what was coming to him before he could take Cass.”

"Mr. Monroe, we believe that the death of Jaxon Ranche was only the latest in a string of murders in this area. There's a serial killer on the loose, and it's our job to catch them," JJ explains gently, lifting a hand placatingly.

"But the son of a bitch Ranche was a killer too," Adam argues, "why wasn't it your job to catch him? Are sick psychos more important than my little girl?"

“No,” JJ assures quickly. “Of course not. We are truly sorry about your daughter, and we wish this could have been prevented, but unfortunately, we weren’t called in for her case. We’re here to stop a serial killer, Mr. Monroe. Please, is there anything you can tell us about the time after Cassidy’s disappearance? Did anyone approach you, ask odd questions, show too much interest?”

Adam shakes his head and scoffs, pacing away from the sofa and clasping his hands behind his neck, but Lisa sighs and dries her eyes with the tissue clutched in her hand. "Everyone in the neighborhood is very close," she tells them. "All very helpful and supportive, as well as kind."

"Did anyone stick out?" JJ asks softly, directing her attention completely on the distraught mother.

Lisa's answer is cut off by a shrill cry from upstairs. She begins to stand, but Adam brushes his hand on her shoulder as he walks past. "I'll get him," he whispers, disappearing from the room.

"My son," Lisa tells JJ and Blake, as if they are demanding an answer. "Daymen's only three. He misses his sister – keeps crying all the time. Cassidy used to play with his toys with him, helping him name them. She was always trying to teach him things, even though he's really too little to – to understand." She takes a breath and covers her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry," she sighs in a trembling voice. "I'm sorry I can't be of any help. Excuse me."

She stands up quickly and hurries out of the room, unable to hold back a sob before she slips through the door. JJ purses her lips and climbs to her feet with Blake, slowly making their way to the front door.

"I don't know why Hotch sent us here," Blake voices when they slip back into the police-supplied SUV. "Like they would want to help us find justice for their daughter's killer."

"It was worth a shot," JJ says weakly. "But I really don't think they know anything that might help us, and even if they did, I don't think they're in any position to be able to tell us. They did just lose their only daughter and oldest child."

"Well I suppose we should head to the station," Blake sighs. "See if Hotch and Morgan have been able to find anything.”

CM

“Looks like he used a baseball bat on this victim,” Morgan says, climbing back into the car with Hotch. “Just like the one found at the fifth victim’s crime scene. Beating someone to death like that? That takes some serious rage.”

Hotch looks pensive, about to respond, but his cellphone starts to ring shrilly before he gets the chance. Hotch quickly fishes it out of his pocket, putting the car back in park. “Garcia,” he greets.

"Sir," Garcia says quickly, "am I on speakerphone? I really don't think I should be on speakerphone, because I'm not sure if you want the others knowing this and if you don't then I don't want to give it away, so if I am on speakerphone I really think you should take me off of it -"

"Garcia," Hotch interrupts her loudly, "slow down. You're not on speakerphone. What is you have to tell me?"

Morgan slides his eyes over to him curiously, but Hotch shakes his head.

"Well, I did what you said and looked up the other victims, searching for something that could've set the UnSub off. For Kristopher Gulls, it turns out that a little boy made an allegation against him that he had tried to lure him into his house – the police made a report, but didn't really look into it. But, sir, for Gary Michaels . . . apparently his body was found when the FBI started looking for him, roughly twenty-four years ago."

"Okay, and?" Hotch prompts when Garcia pauses.

"Well, the FBI were looking for him because he was the main suspect in the kidnapping and murder of a little boy. The boy was kidnapped when he was four, killed when he was six." Penelope takes a break, breathing in and exhaling in a gust. "Sir, that boy was named James Rossi."

Hotch clenches his hand on the wheel, his knuckles going white. Morgan looks surprised and glances at him in concern, but Hotch ignores him. "What?" he chokes out.

"I know, I know," Garcia says quickly, "I couldn't believe it either. Do . . . Do you think there's any connection between this boy and Rossi? I mean, I'm sure there's plenty of people with that name, but the boy was kidnapped from his home on the outskirts of Quantico, and it's a hefty coincidence, right? What do you think?"

"I think I need to talk to Dave," Hotch sighs, mostly to himself. "Garcia, I need you to keep this between us, okay? You can't tell the rest of the team. Not yet."

"Okay, but why?"

"I can't tell you that right now, but you cannot tell anyone else, understood? That's an order, Garcia."

Before she agrees, Hotch hangs up and slips his phone back into his pocket. He remains tense, keeping his hands tight on the wheel.

"What was that about?" Morgan finally asks. "What can't Babygirl tell us?"

"Nothing you should know until I speak to Dave," Hotch grounds out.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

“Unsurprisingly, we got nothing from Cassidy’s parents,” Blake sighs as she settles into a chair at the makeshift round table room in the LVPD station. JJ is right behind her, pulling up a seat next to Reid. “The father wasn’t very cooperative, and the mother was too distraught to think of anything suspicious.”

“That’s to be expected,” David acknowledges from the other side of the table. Both he and Reid have files scattered in front of them. “After all, this is all fresh for them. They probably haven’t been able to come to terms with it yet. Besides, we didn’t really think we were going to get much from them anyway.”

“It was worth a try,” Reid pitches in, frowning at the file currently under his scrutiny. “Where are Hotch and Morgan?” he asks JJ, doing a quick sweep of the room with his gaze, as if making sure he hadn’t missed their entrance.

“Oh, they were right behind us,” JJ says, gesturing towards the door. “We pulled into the parking lot together.”

“Here,” Hotch says shortly as he and Morgan stride into the room. “Dave,” he adds, hovering in the doorway. He inclines his head towards the hallway, making his intent evident. David quirks his eyebrow in surprise, but obediently gets to his feet and follows Hotch out into the hall.

The others watch their retreating backs curiously, but Hotch firmly shuts the door behind them, concealing them from view. Ignoring David’s questions, he leads them towards an empty office, granted to them by the police captain. He closes the door of the office behind them as well, but he doesn’t speak straight away, letting David stew.

"What's this about?" David asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Gary Michaels," Hotch says simply. David pauses, eyes hard and stance defensive. "Was there something you didn't tell me earlier?" Aaron probes, hand lingering on the doorknob. "About your connection to this case?"

"What about it?"

Hotch finally gets short tempered and narrows his eyes. "Garcia found the records, Dave. I know the FBI was searching for Michaels because he was a suspect for the kidnapping and murder of a boy – more specifically, James Rossi. There's no point in denying it; I know it isn't just a coincidence. I just want you to tell me the truth."

There's a moment of silent, defiant staring between them where a battle of wills commences. Finally, Rossi sighs and closes his eyes tiredly, slumping into a nearby chair. All irritation drains from Hotch’s face as he gets a glimpse of a version of David he never knew existed: the grieving father. Only now does he recognize it as the hint of the expression he had seen right after Carolyn killed herself; only then, Hotch hadn't been able to give it a name.

"Do the others -"

"They don't know," Hotch answers quietly. "I told Garcia to tell no one but me."

David nods vaguely as if he isn't entirely paying attention, pinching the bridge of his nose before raising his head to face the other man. "What I told you before," he starts, "it was all true. I just didn't tell you everything. It took a long time for the FBI to even get a suspect for James's kidnapping – the results from the little blood there was at the scene were inconclusive. It took a year before I convinced the lab to run it again. That time, we got a hit. Gary Michaels: registered pedophile, recently released from jail. I wasn't allowed to go with them to go get him – too 'emotionally involved'. I was on pins and needles the whole time until they came back. Then Gideon told me that Michaels was dead and the body of a little boy was found. James."

Hotch stands, blocking the path to the door, and studies David inscrutably. “Is that everything?” he finally presses, a frown marring his face. “You’re not leaving anything else out?”

David shakes his head.

With a sigh, Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It took me by surprise.”

Regretfully, David grimaces. “I should have mentioned it,” he chooses to concede. “But I didn’t see the point. My connection to the first victim doesn’t really affect the case. Personal bias isn’t an issue here, not with me; you know that.”

Hotch hesitates, lines of his face growing deeper as he keeps quiet on whatever’s going through his head. David studies him critically for a moment, unsure of what has is friend so uncomfortable. When it hits him, he reels back, anger rising to the surface.

"I didn't do this, Aaron," he says sharply.

"Of course not," Hotch replies smoothly, his patented poker face firmly in place. "No one's pegging you as a serial killer, Dave. It stands against everything we work for. However," he draws out, "there was a stretch between the death of Michaels and the death of Gulls. An unusual amount of time to hold out patience for a killer."

David narrows his eyes. "You're suggesting that Michaels wasn't murdered by the serial killer. That it was a singular killing, one that a budding serial killer latched onto and copied. That's why there was a stretch, so the copy-cat could perfect his technique." He pauses, considering his words with a sour look. "Are you saying you think I could've killed Gary Michaels?"

"Is it just me, or are they getting louder in there?" Morgan whispers, gaze flicking to the others. His brow tilts up in his innate curiosity, yet a somewhat hesitant frown pulls at his lips.

"Maybe that's just because you have your ear practically glued to the door," Spencer suggests nervously, eyes fixed on said door. He hovers by the entrance to their make-shift round-table room hesitantly, a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. "Of course it's going to get louder. Now move away from there!"

JJ laughs quietly, peering over her shoulder to get a better look at him. "What's the matter, Spence? Afraid you're going to get caught?"

Spencer frowns but doesn't deny it, instead opting to sigh and dart wary looks at the closed door as he carefully unlocks his fingers from the wood of the doorframe and slowly steps closer to the huddle of agents across the hall from him.

"I think they're arguing," Morgan says, eyes narrowed as he strains to hear. "I can't tell what they're saying, but they sound… not quite angry, but getting there."

Blake crosses her arms and paces away from him and JJ in favor of moving closer to Spencer. "Maybe someone should go in and make sure everything's okay," she suggests, "and the rest of us will go back. We don't want them knowing we were eavesdropping."

Morgan and JJ look over to her and seem to catch onto her idea, because Morgan gains a worrying grin and JJ slides her gaze over to Spencer.

"What?"

The unwilling look comes back into Hotch's eye, but he straightens his back to counteract it. "I didn't say that," he says evenly. "Why don't you tell me? Did you kill him? It would be understandable; he did take your son, after all. Maybe it wasn't planned. Maybe you just saw James and lost it; like I said, it would be understandable. Wrong, but understandable."

"Aaron, listen to me," David grinds out. "I didn't kill Gary Michaels. Sure, I'd like to know who did, maybe shake their hand." His face twists. "But you know I didn't kill him. Think about it; why would I go to the trouble of making Jason and a trial team track him down and come back to tell me something I already knew?"

Hotch relaxes easily, tense stance fleeing happily. "I didn't think you killed him," he admits. "But I had to make sure."

"Accusing me of murder," David states flatly. "I'm not under interrogation, Aaron. You can't use those tactics on me. Why would you even do that? It's clear I didn't kill him."

"What was I supposed to think?" Hotch cuts across loudly. "You lied to me, Dave. You held back information on the case! Why would you do that unless you had something to hide?"

"Maybe because it was something I didn't want the team or you to know!"

"Uh, guys?" a nervous, quiet voice interrupts them. "Is everything okay? You got kind of loud in here."

They both whirl around to see Reid, peering around the door he has only opened a crack, apparently worried about getting in trouble for intruding. Hotch and Rossi fight to rein their emotions back in, frustrated that they have gotten so carried away in their argument that they forgot to regulate the sounds of their voices.

"Everything's fine," David takes the liberty to answer, getting to his feet and not sparing Hotch a glance as he strides to the door. "Sorry to disturb you. We just had a disagreement."

Reid looks dubious, but seemingly knows better than to ask; he holds the door open for David, then shoots Hotch a curious, wide-eyed look before slipping out after him.

CM

"So," Blake starts awkwardly once they are all seated in their set-up room once more. She glances between Hotch and David, but Reid catches her eye and shakes his head furiously. Eyebrow quirked up, she turns to Morgan to address the question, "Find anything helpful at the morgue?"

"Hmm?" he hums, caught unaware. "Oh, yeah; there were no defensive wounds on the body, so our UnSub must have caught them by surprise. Used a baseball bat again, but he was killed by two hits around the head. The first one, the coroner reckoned, incapacitated him, and the second one killed him."

"Must have struck him from behind," Reid muses, studiously avoiding looking at either Hotch or Rossi. "There was a video with this victim, too, right?”

"Yes," Hotch answers this time, picking up the remote and aiming it at the small, portable TV at the other end of the room. "It's much the same as the others, but we have noticed something of a pattern."

The team watches the video with divided attention; half of their mind captured by the 'gift' left by the UnSub, and the other half listening to Hotch as he continues. "Out of all the victims, four of them had been unduly beaten. More so than it would take to kill them, indicating a particular rage towards these four. Garcia called as we pulled up to the station, which is why we were delayed behind JJ and Blake, to tell us the location of the victims' residences."

Reid instantly slips from his chair and strides to the board with his customary map, plucking a red pen from the table as he does so. He patiently awaits Hotch's list of addresses, scratching a circle and name around each location. When done, he steps away and glances over it, brows climbing in surprise.

"They all lived in the same immediate area," he observes, then raises the pen back up to the map. "Where did all the other victims live?" After only a second or two of scrambling to find the correct information, Spencer has all the addresses of the victims circled in pen on the map.

"So the victims who faced the brunt of the UnSub’s rage lived close to each other," David observes. "Yet every victim lived in the same general area. So the UnSub killed those in nearby neighbourhoods with the most force and anger. The only question is, why?”

Reid shakes his head, looking mildly distant and confused. "But we already had an idea for that," he reminds them. "Gulls and Michaels were in jail together; so the UnSub must've had similar feelings towards them. As for the others, Garcia wasn't able to find any connections between them, other than their addresses."

A considering look gracing her features, JJ leans back in her seat. "Maybe the connection between Gulls and Michaels wasn't the focus," she offers. "Maybe the UnSub only cared where they lived. Wouldn't it be difficult for him to discover which of them went to jail together?"

"But not impossible," David points out. "However, it seems more likely that location is key. The victims killed with the most rage all lived close together, right? So it would stand to reason that the UnSub would live somewhere in that area, and expands his killing zone."

"But why decrease it again?" Blake inquires. "The UnSub killed the first few victims in a close cluster, but then he branched out and murdered Tomas Mitchell on the furthest end of the geographical profile before returning to the inner circle and killing Jean Locke. Why the jump if he was working his way outwards?"

Reid goes back to his seat but keeps his eyes on the map even as he thumbs through the papers in his file. He isn't looking for a specific one, as far as David can tell, but rather fingering the papers as if to bring forth the information that he has undoubtedly stored away in his mind. Using the papers as a sort of anchor, if you will, that helps keep him tied to whatever it is he's searching for. "What if he isn't working outwards," he says slowly, as if still organizing his thoughts into coherent streams.

"What are you thinking, kid?" Morgan asks, leaning forward in anticipation.

"Well, if Rossi is right, which I think he probably is, then the UnSub most likely lives in the middle of the more 'personal' murders. That doesn't leave a lot of room – barely two main-stream streets. There are unofficial and uncharted roads of course, mostly for the people that want to live off the radar – understandable considering this is Vegas – but based on what meager profile we've managed to scrape together so far, the UnSub probably lives in one of the more public streets. So, the four victims that were killed closely together and with the same amount of overkill: Kristopher Gulls, Gary Michaels, Jaxon Ranche, and Jean Locke.

"Both Gulls and Michaels lived on Jackson Valley Ct, while Ranche lived closer to Iron Crossing Avenue. Locke's residence was just off Brent Lane – all of them were stationed very close together. Unusually so. Even the other victims were scattered from Rocky Ravine Ave to Saddle Valley Street. Basically, all the victims were clustered in a group. It's odd that such a number of pedophiles lived in the same area, but not unheard of. However, the odds for such a thing occurring is about 11.56 -"

Morgan raises a hand and swiftly cuts him off. "Can't you just call it an enormously rare coincidence? We don't need, or particularly want, the exact numbers, Reid. Just, I don't know, dumb it down a bit. Unlike some people, we don't require every statistic – besides, even if you told us, we wouldn't remember it. In one ear and out the other."

Spencer obediently keeps his mouth shut from rambling about odds and statistics, even managing to look a bit bashful; but David knows something is amiss. Yes, sometimes Reid rambles on for what seems to be the hell of it, but it can occasionally be used to help on the case – even if it seems like showing off at the time. Recently, though, Reid has gotten (a little) better at restraining himself from boring them all silly (not that he means to – David thinks, anyway) and usually only drags out such knowledge when nervous, bored, tired, caffeine-deprived, or when he is trying to hide something. Since David cannot see any reason for Reid to be nervous, bored, or tired (David knows for a fact that the damn kid hardly ever sleeps, what with his coffee consumption; he must be a freaking insomniac) that leaves caffeine-deprived and hiding something.

It cannot possibly be coffee withdrawal when David had seen him practically gulp down a full cup of joe without pause less than an hour ago, so there is only one logical conclusion. Spencer Reid is purposely not telling the team something – something important if Spencer's frown is anything to go by.

David inwardly calculates all this within the space of a few heartbeats while the others continue to debate and discuss the new location problem; but Spencer stays silent of further input, staring at the map with a frustrated expression.

Maybe David should stop profiling his fellow teammate. It is, after all, a team rule; one that is constantly broken, true, but a rule nonetheless. Besides, it's probably not that big of a deal. If it is something really important, Reid will tell Hotch, at least. He knows better than to keep potentially helpful information to himself. Then again, by the way Spencer's hands are continually twitching, and the way his eyes dart to Hotch almost anxiously, it is equally possible that Reid will do the same thing David did – not tell anyone anything; or, at least not everything.

Is it odd that David can decipher all this in a matter of seconds? Why is it he seems to be the only one that has noticed Spencer's clearly shifty attitude? Yeah, he has got to stop profiling Reid – it's getting strange how easily he can read him.

The fact that Rossi can obviously see how restless and twitchy he is only succeeds in making Spencer even more twitchy and restless. However, Spencer keeps his eyes firmly locked on the map and board in front of him, finally clasping his hands together in his lap to stop them from drumming on the table-top; no doubt that will attract unwanted attention from the others; even if it is just for a second, just long enough for them to tell him to 'knock it off'. Not that Spencer minds these instances; he actually finds them helpful since sometimes he doesn't notice that he is doing it. The team knows this, so they let him know in their own ways – but Morgan always seems to be the first to pick up on it, and always seems to have a smart-ass method of bringing it to his attention. It's annoying sometimes, but amusing other times.

Eyes still trained on the map, Spencer briefly loses any sense of the room around him, sinking into the depths of his own mind for a time. He doesn't let himself do this too often at work, since it's all too easy for him to lose track of time and end up staring at a dull wall for about half-an-hour until someone is finally kind enough to wake him from it. This time, however, he is apparently unable to stop himself.

Unfortunately, this time is no different from others because he suddenly finds himself being roughly shaken by the shoulder, though not unkindly. Snapping out of it, Spencer's eyes fly open and narrow instantly as they struggle to focus once more.

"You gotta learn the proper time and place to zone out, Reid," Morgan chuckles, releasing his shoulder and sinking into the vacated chair next to him. In fact, Reid notices in astonishment, the whole room is now empty, save for him and Morgan.

Seemingly noticing his dazed look, Morgan grins. "Yeah," he says, sounding highly amused. "You were out of it for a while. Ten or fifteen minutes, at least. The others are getting some coffee." Spencer perks up hopefully, but Morgan shakes his head and dashes his dreams. "Sorry, Hotch ordered me to stay here and keep you from mauling them to get some coffee. Okay, so they weren't his exact words, but I’m paraphrasing.”

Spencer frowns in disappointment but his focus is again caught by the map and it shifts into a scowl; one that doesn't go unnoticed by his companion.

"Hey, what's wrong? Don't tell me nothing, Reid, 'cause we both know that isn't true. So, come on, tell me; what's up?"

After only a second's hesitation, Spencer sighs and hangs his head, allowing his hair to fall in his eyes and block the map from view. "Jackson Valley Ct.," he mumbles. "Where the first two victims lived."

"Okay," Morgan says carefully. "What about it?"

Spencer chews on his lip and twiddles with the pen to avoid looking at him; then he pauses and peers up at Morgan with a strange, cautious look in his eye. "It's where I lived as a child. It's the place I grew up."

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

After the team leaves their makeshift conference room for some coffee, David lingers by the door, choosing not to follow. He can’t justify it to himself, but something in him is keeping his feet glued to the floor. He’s sure it’s partly curiosity, wanting to know why Reid zoned out in there, when David had been so sure Reid was on the ball with the case. David tries not to think too hard on how to rationalize this as any of his business.

Internally arguing with himself, David is just about to give up and head to the kitchen after the others, already coming up with an excuse, when the two agents left in the room start to speak. Even though he feels bad for eavesdropping, David doesn’t leave. He listens, quashing his guilt, and keeps an ear out for the return of the others. He almost turns around and walks away when Morgan starts ribbing the younger agent for zoning out, but stays when Morgan’s tone changes.

"Hey, what's up? Don't tell me nothing, Reid, 'cause we both know that isn't true. So, come on, tell me; what's up?"

David straightens up a bit once this travels through the doorway, training all his hearing onto the habitants in the room.

"Jackson Valley Ct., where the first two victims lived."

David holds his breath, leaning closer to the door. Has Reid found a connection between Michaels and Gulls? If so, David is desperate to hear it.

"Okay. What about it?"

"It's where I lived as a child. It's the place I grew up."

David stops. He hesitates by the door, unsure of whether to leave or slip into the room himself. He finally decides that it might be best if Morgan and Reid go unaware of his eavesdropping, yet his curiosity is still not sated. He moves so that his stance can be passed off as casual by any who pass by him, so no one will suspect his real motives.

"You lived in the same area as the first two victims?" Morgan's voice asks quietly. "Did they live there while you did?"

The rustling of papers echoes into the slight crack in the door and into the hall. It takes a moment for Reid to find whatever he's looking for, which is strange in itself, but he manages it quicker than the others could have.

"Um, yeah. Gary Michaels moved there when I would have been around four or five, and Kristopher Gulls moved shortly after Michaels went missing. Why?"

David's mind is whirling almost too much for him to catch what is being said by Morgan. This is new. At the time of his son's abduction, David hadn't really bothered to nit-pick all the fine details – he had only been able to handle one thing at a time, and James's absence had been more than enough. So he hadn't known where exactly in Vegas Michaels had lived – or for how long – until they took the case.

So, not only had Reid grown up in the same immediate area as two – and more in the surrounding area – pedophiles, he had also lived a stone throw's away from where James had been kept. Why had Michaels stayed in one place for such a long time? It must have been dangerous; Michaels had to have known that the FBI was looking for him. It would have been insanely risky to remain in the same street – same house! – for, what? Two, three years? Possibly more, since he could've flown out to Quantico with the sole purpose of kidnapping a child, though it seems unlikely. Flying out from Vegas, just in an attempt to snatch a boy? There had to have been plenty of children he could've taken closer to home – why, even Spencer Reid had been merely a few rows over.

There had to have been something that kept him tethered to Vegas, to the street he'd lived on. Another victim, perhaps? One that the authorities never knew about? Maybe Reid will know of any children that had gone missing when he was young – perhaps one of them could be traced back to Michaels, and give them a lead.

However, David is still wrapping his mind around this new connection between Spencer and James. They had been so close to each other. Was it possible that they had maybe interacted, for even a brief stint in time? Michaels couldn't have kept James cooped up in his prison-house for two years straight, not without raising suspicion. He had to have let him out every now and then, right? It's a long-shot, but Reid might have at least seen him when he was young.

Although, David thinks as his heart sinks, it's not like he can ask him, not unless he wants to tell Reid about James. Maybe he should tell the whole team, make sure it doesn't come up and bite him in the ass later if they find out on their own. Not yet, though. He can't do it now.

"You gonna tell Hotch?"

Morgan’s voice jolts David out of his thoughts, brining his attention back to the agents he’s currently eavesdropping on. He’s shame and guilt of this fact has all but evaporated. He doesn’t hear any answer from Reid to Morgan’s question, though he doesn’t know if he’s just missed it or if Reid didn’t choose to answer. However, he does hear the squeak of a chair across the floor as someone gets to their feet. At the same time, the thrum of footsteps come from the opposite end of the hall, signaling the return of the others. Trapped, David hurriedly moves closer to the sound of the team’s voices, spinning on his heel and facing the other way as he does.

When Hotch rounds the corner, with the others rounded up behind him, his eyebrows climb when he sees David slowly trudging back to the conference room.

"Dave," he calls, and only then does David notice an extra coffee cup in his hand. "Here," Hotch says, handing it over. "Thought you might want a cup. Where were you?"

David waves his hand dismissively. "Just looking around," he offers lamely. "You know, it's probably cruel, somehow, all of us drinking coffee in front of Reid when you didn’t give the kid a chance to grab some himself. You wouldn't do that on purpose, would you?"

Hotch sighs, and behind him a smile tugs at JJ's lips. "No," she answers for him. "Hotch wouldn't – but we would. Spence'll be fine. He's the one who's always saying how he isn't totally dependent on coffee; maybe it's time he proved it."

David quirks a brow, but raises no further complaint as he gratefully takes the extra cup off Hotch's hands. They push open the door and enter the room, David feeling a little apprehensive at what they will find. Luckily, it appears that Morgan and Reid are finished their small conversation. Morgan is leaning against the table, apparently studying the evidence board, and Reid is still sitting exactly where everyone left him. Morgan throws a glance their way when he hears them enter, then grins gratefully at JJ when she passes over a cup of coffee. Reid pouts and eyes them moodily, so Blake plops into a chair beside him.

"Don't worry," she says. "Next time we’ll take you with us.”

"Told you it was cruel," David murmurs to JJ, indicating the agent with a tilt of his head. JJ purses her lips together, but her sparkling eyes give away her inner laughter. "This isn’t some attempt at a coffee ban, is it?” he asks worriedly.

"Why? Don't want a volatile Reid to deal with?"

David shakes his head, allowing her to interpret it anyway she wishes. He takes a gulp of his beverage, carefully keeping his eyes from straying to Reid so as to avoid the look of betrayal and longing that's bound to be painted on his face. Before he can feel too guilty about all of them drinking coffee, the phone placed directly in the middle of the table starts to ring.

As it can clearly only be one person, Hotch immediately clicks it onto speakerphone. "Garcia," he says in greeting. "What have you got?"

"I did what you wanted, sir, and tried to find any missing children reports from around the time of death for each victim," she responds, "and you are so good. In the case of every victim, at least one child went missing about a week before their deaths. I looked into it, and every child lived close to, or had intercepting paths with, the victim that was murdered in that time frame.

Okay, so for Kristopher Gulls, a girl named Ella Norton disappeared four days before his body was found, about two days before his murder."

Reid scrambles up from his chair and hastily paces over to the evidence board, while Morgan slips into his vacated seat. Reid uncaps the marker and begins scribbling down the facts that Garcia is dutifully giving out beside the names of their victims.

"She was nine years old and lived three houses down from him, plus she did the paper route; he would have seen her every day. Before you ask, yes, I've already checked her background for possible suspects. Her mother wasn't in the picture and, from what I can gather, her father didn't care much for her and her brother. Her brother, however, Charlie, disappeared three years after her disappearance. I mean, like, literally disappeared – no credit card trails, no internet life, no nothing. I don't even know if he's still alive."

Hotch briefly glances up at Reid, who shrugs and marks down the name on the suspect list anyway. It’s a pretty empty list. His marker remains poised over the list for a moment's pause, but then he gives a tiny jerk of the head and lowers it. David narrows his eyes at this, but stays silent.

"The third victim was Tomas Mitchell, and I discovered that just over a week before his murder, a seven-year-old girl's body showed up, matching the description of one Courtney Smith. She didn't live anywhere near him, but her after-school care was a block down. He had ample opportunity to kidnap her without anyone noticing."

"Any potential suspects?" JJ asks, beating Reid to the punch; he closes his mouth and turns back to the board, lofting the marker up in preparation.

"Ah, no. Family's all deceased, and there doesn't appear to be any vengeful seeming neighbors."

Reid lowers the marker again, looking disappointed. "What about the fourth victim?" he inquires, then barely pauses before adding, "Jean Locke?"

"Oh, boy. Let's see… yeah, here it is. Jean Locke's body was found two weeks after the disappearance of an eleven-year-old boy named Danny Luke. Again, no potential suspects, but I can tell you that so far, all the missing/murdered children went to the same school. As far as I can tell, they didn't know each other except maybe seeing one another in the playground or something."

"What school was it?" Blake asks, resting her elbow on the table and then propping her head up on her hand.

"Shadow Ridge," comes the reply – but it isn't from Garcia.

"Um, yeah; what he said. How did you know that, Boy Wonder?" she says from the phone, managing to mute her tone of surprise.

The team glances up at Reid in question, but only Morgan and David have a look of dawning realization; and neither are too happy at the connection. Reid flushes, looking flustered. He scratches the back of his neck and diverts his eyes.

"That was the, uh, local elementary in the area," he flounders. "It was changed to a high-school in 1992."

"How do you know that?" JJ asks in an amused manner.

Reid flits his gaze over to Morgan, looking panicked, and Morgan seems to be debating mentally. David understands his dilemma – tell Reid he needs to tell the team about his connection to this case, or help a friend out of a sticky situation? Just as Morgan appears to come to a decision, Garcia frees Reid from his awkward position.

"Oh, come on Jayje! Our genius knows everything – time to accept it and move on to the next topic. Which would be the fifth victim; Kelly Gordon, killed three days after the body of Cal Williams was found. Cal Williams was eight, and wouldn't you know it; he went to Shadow Ridge too.

"Then, there's Bobby Morris; he was murdered when a ten-year-old girl named Katie Jessal accused him of trying to lure her into his house. Nothing was proven, but the police didn't make much of an effort after the guy was found dead. Katie didn't go to Shadow Ridge, but she had a sister that did.

"Chris Nunner's body has not yet been found, but there's clear evidence pointing to his death. He disappeared when one Molly Porter, aged thirteen, was found unconscious in his house."

"Wait," Blake says slowly. "What about Gary Michaels? Any disappearances around his time of murder?"

David and Hotch both tense, sharing a similar worried look. Garcia stays silent for a beat too long, and the others start to grow cautiously suspicious expressions.

"Oh, I, uh, couldn't find anything substantial for missing children during that time," Garcia finally improvises. "I'll . . . keep working on it.

"As for the others, I'm still working on it. It's surprisingly difficult to find anything substantial on Daniel Teel, Tommy Foal, and Greg Jordan. Seriously, it's like someone just erased any motive for their murders. The files are there, they're just buried under useless codes and junk. Don't you worry, however, because PG is on the case. I'll call you when I have more, crime fighters!"

With her usual bid of goodbye, Garcia hangs up. The room lapses into silence, the only sound being the squeak of the marker on the board as Reid adds the last bits of information to what little they have. Once done, he steps back and observes the work he's detailed.

"Only one suspect so far," Blake says. "Charlie Norton."

"It's possible he's the UnSub, but it's highly unlikely," Reid says absently. "From what Garcia's said, it looks like he just disappeared. Best bet is that he's dead. Or hiding out somewhere. The reason he disappeared was to get away from society, erase himself from existence. He wouldn't want to draw attention to himself by implicating himself with murders. No, it's doubtful that Charlie Norton is actually the UnSub."

"Either way, it's worth checking out," Hotch says. "Hopefully, Garcia will be able to find something substantial on him, so we can go talk to him."

"Until then, I guess we'll have to take a look at past crime scenes," JJ sighs. "It's really all we have to go on for now; at least until Garcia either finds something pinning down Norton, or she gets through those videos from the UnSub for clues. I doubt she'll be done any time soon – she's the best at what she does, but you have to admit this is difficult, even for her."

"JJ's right," Hotch agrees. "However, we'll have to start with only three of the crime scenes for now – the others are a few hours' drive; a day at least. We can wait until we know for sure there are no other clues to glean from the others to go there. Blake, Reid, you two can check out Gary Michael's site of death, as well as his former residence. Rossi and Morgan, you take a look at Gulls' murder site and residence; JJ and I will go investigate Locke's sites."

The team nods, but at least two of their number look more than a bit apprehensive; Reid tries to hide it, but does a poor job at concealing his worried frown, while David is openly displeased. Though grateful to Hotch for not making him search Michaels' place of residence, he can't help but feel a faint throb of annoyance – he had, in a small way, wanted to see the place for himself; had wanted to see the final living space of his son. However, he acknowledges the fact that it would probably not have been the best idea to do so while in company of another team member – even Hotch, though he now knows all about James.

None of this, however, manages to assuage his feelings whatsoever.

As the team pushes away from the table and begins filtering out the door to do as ordered, David hangs back, hoping that his plan will work.

Luckily it comes through and succeeds, as Reid is also among the last of the line to leave. He hovers by the table a moment longer than the others, packing up his satchel with books and crime pictures before hefting it onto his shoulder and turning to leave. By this time, the others have already vacated the room, so David has ample opportunity to reach out and snag his arm.

Reid stills and spins back around, a puzzled look on his face.

"Rossi?" he says in question. "What's wrong?"

David eyes him. "I could ask you the same," he says. "I saw how hesitant you were when Garcia was on the phone, especially when she brought up the school." No need to tell him about his eavesdropping escapade. "When you were listing the facts onto the board, you looked as if you wanted to say something. What was it?"

Reid bites his lip, looking reluctant.

"If you know anything that can help the case, Reid, you have to tell me," David urges.

The younger agent blows out a breath through his teeth in a whoosh, apparently deciding that something in David's eye makes him trustworthy with whatever information he's about to share.

"It could be nothing," he warns. "It might've just been my imagination. I was a kid, and my mom said that he was a figment of my imagination, that he wasn't real, but it's just -" Spencer stops, sounding frustrated. David stays silent, but encourages him to continue with a tiny nod. "When I was a kid, about five or six, I had this 'imaginary' friend; at least, that's what my mother told me he was. Riley Jenkins. He was a year or so older than me, and played on my little league team. One day, Riley disappeared. I discovered later that he had been killed and found behind the dryer in his basement. I don't know what happened to him, the case went unsolved, but I – his path crossed with Gary Michaels', the first victim, a lot. It's possible that he had something to do with Riley's death – if he was ever real, that is."

David frowns. "If he wasn't real," he says, piecing it together, "then how would there be a case to go unsolved?"

Reid sucks on his lip nervously. "Well," he ventures, "I never actually saw the case files, or any proof of their existence. I was told about them by a… friend," he says, though he sounds unsure to David's ears.

"What kind of friend?" David queries.

Reid wrinkles his brow. "I-I don't remember," he stutters uncertainly, obviously unsettled by this revelation.

Despite the fact that this stuns David – isn't Reid supposed to remember everything? – he doesn't let it show; the agent's clearly panicked enough as it is.

"Don't worry about it," he assures. "It probably doesn't matter who told you. Just relax; even your memory isn't infallible, Reid. Go on, best catch up to Blake – she's bound to be waiting for you, if she hasn't decided it a lost cause and left without you."

Spencer nods, still shaken by his memory loss, and scampers from the room, leaving the elder agent to contemplate in solitude. He knows Morgan is awaiting him, so he hastily pulls his phone from his pocket and punches in the correct number for speed-dial.

"Rossi?"

"Garcia," he says. "I have a favor to ask you."

"Oh, um, okay sir. I'm a little swamped with the videos and tracking down Charlie Norton, so is it something quick, or another little project? I wouldn't mind if it was something big, of course, it would just take longer and slow down the case work, and I don't -"

"It isn't anything big," David assures, a little suspicious as to why Garcia is spewing words at him nervously. Then he remembers; Hotch had asked her to search Michaels, and she had been the one to tell him about James. No wonder she's a bit of a mess with him right now.

"Oh, well, okay then. What can I do for you?"

"I need everything you can find on one Riley Jenkins."

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

“Jackson Ct. is a few minutes’ drive from here,” Blake says from behind the wheel of their freshly acquired SUV. “Should take us around fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Reid nods absently from the passenger seat, staring out the window with a faintly troubled look, before he straightens in his seat. “Can we make a stop?” he asks suddenly, expression suspiciously blank. “A quick one.”

Confused but curious, Blake agrees and lets Reid feed her directions. She’s a little surprised by the destination they end up at, but she supposes she shouldn’t be. So she doesn’t say anything as Reid climbs out the vehicle and marches towards the coffee shop, clearly on a mission. She also doesn’t do anything except wave curtly at the identical SUV that passes by, slowing down tentatively at the sight of her. When her phone starts to ring, she isn’t surprised.

“What’s up?” Morgan asks on the other end. “Something wrong?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Blake says, smiling into the phone. “I guess Reid just really needed his fix. Hotch did prevent him from grabbing a cup with the rest of us earlier.”

Morgan snorts and takes a moment to relay the information to Rossi, the one driving. “It was bound to happen sometime, I guess,” Morgan says wryly. “Good on the kid. But I ain’t gonna be the one telling Hotch.”

Blake laughs and hangs up as Reid appears in the parking lot, clutching a small coffee securely in his hand. He ambles his way back over to the SUV, ignoring Blake’s raised eyebrow. She refrains from saying anything as she starts up the engine and pulls back out onto the road, waiting until they’re well on their way again.

"So," she says conversationally. “Just that desperate for a caffeine boost?”

Reid hesitates for a bit, picking at the label on his coffee. “I’m tired of everyone treating me as a baby,” he says finally. “Like I can’t be trusted to make my own decisions. I know they don’t mean any harm, and it’s been happening since I joined the team, so I’m pretty much used to it, but sometimes it gets to the point where I feel like I need to remind them I’m an adult. Hotch is my boss but he can’t dictate my caffeine intake, just like nobody else can.”

Nodding in understanding, Blake keeps her eyes carefully on the road as she answers. “You know that’s not what Hotch was trying to do, right? He didn’t put a ban on you to control you. It was just the once, and only because you’d zoned out pretty hard and we all know you’d already had a cup or two beforehand.”

Sighing, Reid takes a gulp of his coffee and pulls a face. “Yeah,” he says. “I just don’t like feeling coddled. I can make my own decisions and take care of myself.”

“Of course you can,” Blake agrees. “Speaking of… About the zoning out earlier. Something’s bothering you. It’s not obvious, but you’re working with a team of professional profilers – we can tell when something’s up. Do you want to talk about it?”

Spencer shakes his head, and she lets the matter rest.

CM

"Reid's been acting oddly," David says after a long moment of silence between him and Morgan. He mostly does it to start conversation, but he also does it in hopes of maybe learning more on the situation; more than he’s already heard from Reid himself, and from his impromptu eavesdropping, that is.

The other agent presses his lips together and nods stiffly. David arches a brow, somewhat impressed by Morgan's determination to let nothing that was privately shared between he and Reid slip. Unfortunately for him, (or luckily, depending on how you look at it) David already knows everything that had been said between them in that office.

Morgan appears to want to spend the rest of the ride in silence, possibly to avoid spilling anything Reid wouldn’t want him to, so David decides to try and let him off the hook.

"Reid told me about his connection to the first victim," he says carefully, not wanting to reveal anything else. "He said he had a friend who crossed paths with him," David adds helpfully at Morgan's disbelieving look.

Morgan creases his brow, but doesn't comment as he returns his eyes back to the road.

David follows his example, done with the gentle questioning that feels like pulling teeth. He isn't sure how much time passes before Morgan finally deigns to speak, but it's certainly been a while, long enough for David to become distracted.

David's eyes linger on the others' SUV ahead of them as they branch off a different way, heading towards Michaels' former residence. He can only see a small portion of the house from their route, and his limited sight grows smaller and smaller as Morgan and he keep driving forward. When it leaves his sight fully, it doesn't take much longer to reach Gulls' place. It isn't until Morgan slams his door when David snaps out of his thoughts.

"Rossi? You okay?"

He glances up at Morgan, who's looking at him with a mix of concern and curiosity. "Yeah," he says, "fine."

Yet he can't seem to stop thinking about the house just down the block; the one with the identical SUV parked outside.

CM

Spencer's grateful for Blake's silence for the rest of the drive. He knows he hasn't been himself since they got the case, he hadn't needed her to him that, but he’d hopped it hadn’t been so obvious. He can't lie; he's a little ashamed of himself. However, he's been preoccupied since they were assigned this case, and none of it makes enough sense to speak about it to others. Since the introduction of the case, he has been plagued with odd nagging feelings in the back of his mind, seemingly persistent that there is something he needs to know.

For the life of him, though, he can't figure it out. It had just been that, just an uncomfortable feeling, until Garcia had briefed them on the other victims. Then the feeling had intensified and morphed into vague, short lived flashes that make no sense. Spencer faintly remembers the same thing happening to him as a child, but this helps nothing.

"Here we are," Blake says as she pulls the vehicle into the driveway of an old house. "Garcia said no one's lived here in years. It certainly looks it."

She's right; the house is clearly rundown, the roof dipping in the middle and the windows broken into useless shards, scattered on the dead grass. Though the paint is faded and scratched, and the entire place looks remarkably indistinguishable from a rubbish heap, Spencer has no problem picturing it in its past appearance. In fact, he can picture it with startling clarity, so much so that it takes a minute for him to process Blake's words and form a reply.

"Ah," he struggles to get out. "Yes."

Blake raises her eyebrows in surprise, fixing a worried look on him, but Reid shrugs it off. He climbs out, patiently waiting for her to follow him. "His body was found a few miles from here," he says to direct the conversation away from himself. "After we check this place out we can head there; it's only a ten minute drive."

Blake nods. She clearly sees right through him, but doesn't push the issue. She overtakes him to the front steps, and is jiggling the spare key they were given by the head of the police department in the lock before he's even clear of the SUV.

She doesn't take long to open the door, stepping inside immediately, leaving the door open for Spencer. He doesn't make a move to enter the house right away, gaze caught on the small window near the ground, tiny and rectangular in shape, the glass smashed. Spencer's eyes narrow and he takes a step closer unconsciously, not seeing the actual thing but, instead, the window as it would have been years ago, fully intact. Except he pictures it from the other side – which, of course, is odd since he can't possibly know what the inside looks like. Yet the picture he creates is crystal clear.

The light filtering in through the window is dim, but it's been so long that's it's enough to hurt his eyes. The window is open; a rare occasion, but he doesn't dare get his hopes up. There is metal caging on the outside, the squares barely big enough for him to fit his small fingers through. He pushes his face against them anyway, desperate to feel the fresh air and sun, however meagre the supply is through the grubby window.

Spencer snaps his eyes open, jerking his head back. He even takes half a step backwards, pressing his palms into his eyes. He shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the uncomfortably familiar feeling overtaking him. Spencer chances a glance at the window again, being cautious and not letting his mind wander. Nothing happens, and he allows himself to relax. What the hell had that been? It had been longer and clearer than any of the other flashes he has experienced today. It had still been distorted and vague, but there is no doubt in Spencer's mind that it had involved the very window now in his sight – but there's no metal caging, and he clings to this thought desperately because it means he's wrong, and his mind is playing tricks on him. This isn't a great thought, but it's better than thinking he's been inside Gary Michaels' house before, because that would mean he's going crazy, right?

He exhales softly, trying to calm his frayed nerves.

"Reid, come look at this," Blake calls from inside the house. Spencer takes a second to collect himself before finally stepping inside to try and find her – but his eyes seem almost drawn back to the window, just for the briefest moment, and he nearly trips as a wave of cold washes over him. Hidden in the overgrown grass surrounding the window, an old rusted square piece of metal window caging is resting in the dirt.

He darts into the house, more than eager to move far away from the window.

Spencer finds Blake in the kitchen, studying what appears to be a door leading to the basement. He's still a tad shaken, but hopes he's better at hiding this than he had been before. She glances up and turns around, obviously wondering what had taken him so long but willing to let it go.

"It's locked," she offers, "but the wood is splintered near the handle, so it's clearly been kicked down before. I don't see the key anywhere."

Spencer casts a look around the kitchen, instinctively looking towards the bottom cupboard near the door. The room is cleared out and bare, most of the miscellaneous items probably moved out when Michaels' body had been found, or when he disappeared, so the cupboards, fridge, and drawers are all empty; but Spencer naturally gravitates towards the cupboard, somehow sure that he will find something there.

"I checked the cupboards and drawers when I first found the door locked," Blake tells him, noticing the direction of his gaze. Spencer absently acknowledges her but doesn't stop himself from kneeling down and brushing his fingers against the walls of the cupboard. He's about to give up, deciding he's tired and imagining things, when his fingers catch on something near the bottom of the cupboard. Spencer carefully digs his nails into the thin crevice he's found and yanks it up, revealing a false bottom, too shallow to be of much use, unless, of course, you want to hide something small. Like a key.

"Nice find," Blake says appreciatively, a surprised look colouring her features. "How'd you know there'd be a false bottom?"

Spencer stays silent, unable to answer her. He doesn't know, and it worries him. Thankfully, Blake seems too preoccupied with opening the basement door to notice his lack of an answer. The click of the lock is audible throughout the room, and the basement door swings open. Spencer lets Blake go in first, for some reason fear gripping his heart. It doesn't feel like the usual apprehension associated with the dark, though he feels that too; instead, it feels worse. He tries to pinpoint why this basement affects him more than other basements he's entered in the past, but comes up blank.

He sucks in a breath and forces his feet to keep working, carrying him down the steps after Blake, who finds the light switch before he takes more than three steps. Unlike other times, though, this actually succeeds in making Spencer feel even worse. He freezes on the steps, blinking the spots from his eyes before he can assess the basement.

The room is small, only about half the size of the kitchen above it, and the ceiling is so low that Spencer has to keep his head ducked. The walls are unnecessarily thick too, that they can tell easily. This space is as empty as the rest of the house, but there are a short row of holes on the far wall, and Spencer doesn't have to spread his imagination out much to guess what used to be attached to them.

His wrist is red raw from tugging his arm to get free from the iron band clamped around his frail appendage, but thankfully it has stopped bleeding by now. He isn't always trapped to the wall like this, sometimes he's allowed to walk around the room, but today isn't one of those times. He looks longingly at the window mere feet from him, but still too far away. He weakly tugs him arm again, but abruptly stops when it sends a spasm of pain up to his shoulder.

"It's not hard to imagine what this room was used for," Blake says in a sort of distant disgust, studying the walls and tiny window. "I wonder why the door was locked, when it's been kicked down before."

Spencer struggles to focus, tearing his eyes away from the holes in the wall, feeling oddly foggy. "Maybe the police weren't the ones to kick down the door. Maybe it was already like that when they arrived."

Blake shrugs. "Or maybe the police were never here. In fact, now that I think about it, did Garcia ever say who found Michaels' body and how?"

"Um," he says, still feeling like his brain is trudging through sludge. "I don't think so."

Blake hums, sucking on her lip. "So maybe the door was kicked in before Michaels' died, and he locked it again. Either way, whatever was in here was probably gone before he died. Why else would the door have been kicked in?"

Spencer doesn't say anything, but he feels like the answer is on the tip of his tongue, he just has to remember. A sudden, unexpected, sharp pain shoots through his skull, and Spencer squeezes his eyes shut.

"… -eid? Reid? Spencer, are you alright? What's wrong?"

His eyes snap open to reveal a worried Blake standing in front of him. He jerks back, for some reason tense and skittish. "I'm fine," he says quickly. "I don't think we can find anything here. We should go to the site his body was found. I'll be in the car."

With that, he shoots up the stairs, desperate to leave the dark and dank basement that is impossible for him to recognize yet instills within him a sense of terrible familiarity. He's aware of Blake calling after him in a confused manner, but her words don't reach him until he's free from the house and breathing in the fresh air outside. It isn't until the air hits his face that he realizes he's panting and his forehead is beading with sweat. He makes his way to the SUV on weak legs, all but collapsing into his seat after a grapple with the door.

He carefully avoids looking back at the house.

What is going on?

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

"Huh," Morgan comments, back in the SUV with Rossi, as they pass down the road again. "I guess Reid and Blake finished fast; their vehicle's already gone."

"We finished fast as well," David says absently, glancing out the window as Michaels' old home flashes by, once again swamped with conflicting emotions.

"Yeah, but that was because of the new family living there, so there was really nothing to be done. Although, I have to say, the attic door was very well hidden; we wouldn't have found it if that kid hadn't been picking at it for weeks," Morgan says, brows furrowing as he thinks back. "Kind of wish he hadn't been so curious, though. Did you see how eager he was to see what was down there?" He snorts, shaking his head.

"You weren't just as curious when you were his age?" David says incredulously, giving him a sidelong glance.

"Not so much that I would have argued with two FBI agents," Morgan refutes. "Well… not as much as that kid, anyway."

Vaguely amused, David turns back to the window, his thoughts growing distant again. It's a shock to his system when his phone goes off in his pocket, jostling him out of his thoughts violently. Morgan looks curious as he pulls his cell out of his pocket, but doesn't comment, even though he's probably tired of being in the same car as someone on a mystery call, which is entirely understandable; not that it changes anything. David glances at the caller ID, and makes a split-second decision about speakerphone when he sees Garcia's number. He leaves the speaker off: after all, if Garcia has something to tell them both, he can turn it on after he confirms it's not a private call that he doesn't want Morgan overhearing.

"Garcia," he greets, ignoring Morgan's disbelieving shake of the head.

"I did what you asked," she says simply, disregarding pleasantries. "I dug up everything I could on Riley Jenkins. Born in 1981, he was molested and killed when he was seven-years-old, stabbed nine times with a weapon of opportunity, found in the basement of his own home. As far as I can tell, his killer was never identified."

David frowns, considering in silence. "Where did he live, Garcia?" He's careful not to mention anything that may tip off Morgan to his eavesdropping, not wanting to deal with that fallout.

There's a pause, one that makes David think there's about to be an 'ah-ha!' moment any second now. He's not disappointed.

"Oh… Wow, yeah, okay. Riley Jenkins lived on Jackson Ct., literally a few houses down from Kristopher Gulls, and not even a block away from… well, you know. Michaels."

David isn't too sure what to make of her obvious reluctance to mention Gary Michaels to him; on the one hand, he's somewhat relieved, as he doesn't want to speak about it with anyone, not even Hotch unless he forces him to; but on the other, it may hinder the case if she does so in front of the others, never mind piquing their curiosity, which he most certainly does not want. For now, though, he pushes the issue to the side in favour of more pressing matters.

"And his killer was never caught or anything?"

"No, at least, not officially. I can't find anything substantial, mostly just unconfirmed reports to the police, most of which went without being followed up on. Basically, the whole neighbourhood had a vendetta against Michaels," – again, the slightest hesitation with the name – "so many of the more nosy type of neighbours filed complaints about him watching their children; however, nothing was ever enough to worry the police too much. When Riley Jenkins was killed, though, there was a flood of reports about Michaels. But, when the police finally decided to do their jobs, Michaels had already disappeared."

"So he was killed shortly after the boy's death," David muses absently, silently wondering where James factored into all this. "In 1988? Are you sure?"

"Well, early 1988, sir," Garcia replies nervously, probably well aware where David is getting at. "If – If I may say so… from what I can find, Riley Jenkins was killed only a few months – well, just over half a year – after… well… -"

"Thank you, Garcia," David says in a clipped tone, quickly hanging up before she can say anything more. She doesn't need to; he knows perfectly well what she was about to say. What he doesn't know is how much she knows about James.

Regardless, Hotch said that Garcia has promised not to tell any of the others, so he supposes it doesn't really matter either way, other than the fact he refuses to mention it to her, just as he hopes she will let the matter stay silent between them.

Clearly seeing his agitation, Morgan glances over at him. "Something wrong?" he asks in a would-be casual tone, pretending to be focusing more on the road than David. "What did Garcia say?"

"No new developments," David says, trying for a disappointed tone. "Maybe the others have found something."

Thankfully, Morgan accepts this, or decides to move on, knowing better than to argue, and nods, still looking doubtful. "Maybe, but I don't hold out much hope. After all, Gulls and Michaels were killed years ago, same as Locke, so any evidence there might have been will probably be gone by now."

"Garcia might be able to find something from those videos," David suggests, not really paying attention to what he's saying. "Or maybe something can be found from the dump sites."

"Speaking of which," Morgan says, "we should head over to where Gulls' body was found."

CM

It's just over an hour later when everyone gathers back at the station, varying degrees of disappointment spread out upon them. JJ and Hotch are already sitting at the table with old and seemingly ill-kept files laid out between them when Blake and Reid arrive, Morgan and Rossi close behind them.

"What're those?" Blake asks, sliding into a seat beside JJ, acknowledging the disorganized files.

"Old case files on everything the department could find on the victims," JJ answers, sighing as she tosses the file in her hand back onto the table. "Unfortunately, there's a surprising lack of information. Apparently, the officers in charge of paperwork didn't take their jobs very seriously."

Reid frowns, looking disapproving as he joins the task and picks up an unread file, quickly flipping through the contents before setting it down with a disgusted look. "It's not even organised," he says. "What did they do, throw all the notes from the investigations into a big box 'to be sorted at a later date'?"

JJ shakes her head. "I don't know, but the officers aren't much help. The ones who helped out on one or two of the investigations – well, the few investigations there really were, anyway – can't give us any more information than what's in these files, and they're as lost with them as we are."

David and Morgan take their seats on the other side of the table, reluctantly picking up files of their own to join the tedious task. Predictably, Reid gets through them faster than anybody; but he actually tones down the speed a bit, or so David thinks, maybe because it's such dull work.

Hotch's phone goes off after a few minutes, and he excuses himself to answer it, leaving them to their task. However, he comes back after only a handful of seconds, the phone still in hand, apparently still on the call.

"Dave," he says, indicating the door to the very same office from before. David curiously places the file he's been reading down and follows him back out, already having suspicions as to what this is about.

Unlike last time, no one else on the team looks after them in curiosity, most likely knowing better than to think they'll find out anything by doing so.

"Alright," Hotch says to the cell in his hand – probably on speakerphone, then – once David closes the door behind him. "Garcia, tell Rossi what you told me." He looks over at David with an unreadable gaze, expression as stoic as ever.

"Well, Rossi told me to research a Riley Jenkins, so I did," – Hotch's expression doesn't change, nor does he say anything, but David knows he'll have to explain that request after Garcia finishes speaking. For this reason, he sort of hopes the Technical Analyst will make this a long session – "but, um, he sort of hung-up on me before I could finish, and I couldn't get a hold of him again," – David begins to regret silencing his phone – "so I called you.

"Basically, I did for Riley Jenkins what I did for the other children that made allegations just before the victims disappeared; I looked through his history for potential suspects. His mother passed away years ago, but his father is still around. Lou Jenkins is a mechanic, still living on the same street he and son had lived on, but he moved houses shortly after his son's murder."

"Could he be the UnSub?" Hotch asks, finally looking away from David in favour of the phone, which apparently holds more answers than the elder agent can currently provide through scrutiny.

"From what I can see, it's possible. He lives in the centre of the killing zone, like you said the UnSub would; he appears to be in the hub of activity, meaning he would've heard of all the allegations made by the children, and the parents of the murdered children all attend, or have attended, group therapy meetings in which he regularly participates…"

"Thank you, Garcia," Hotch says before closing the phone. He watches David in silence for a brief moment, then sighs and turns to deposit his phone onto the desk behind him. "So," he says, "who's Riley Jenkins, and why did you feel the need to ask Garcia to look into his history? Thought you said you've told me everything."

"I have," David replies, "but that doesn't mean everyone else has."

Hotch raises an eyebrow in confusion, but waits to see if anything more will be said. When nothing is, he looks vaguely worried as he leans against the desk. "Who?" he asks, briefly pinching his nose as if getting a headache.

David hesitates for the barest of moments. What does he say? If he tells him the truth, Reid will get dropped into the fire, but if he doesn't, Hotch will think he's keeping more secrets from him.

"I overheard it," he decides to say, hopefully able to keep names out of it. "Thought I'd get Garcia to look into it, see what she can find. Guess it paid off; we've got a lead, haven't we?"

Hotch studies him for another second, but seemingly decides to let it slide for now. "Yes," he admits, making a quick decision while he speaks. "We should talk to Lou Jenkins. It's a promising lead, and he might be able to point us in the right direction, if nothing else. You and I will go, and the others can keep working on those files."

David nods, but his thoughts return to Reid. Shouldn't he be told that Riley Jenkins was not, as he thinks, a figment of his imagination?

Although, it presents a startling realization: Reid had more connections with Gary Michaels when he was growing up than he thought. Bad enough he grew up in the same street as him, but to find out he had a friend that may have been murdered by the guy, not to mention his friend's father being a suspect to their very investigation…

However, if David tells Reid, who's to say the agent won't want to come along? David doubts he will, but there is a chance; and if he comes and somehow finds out about David's own connection with Michaels, then what? Not that David has any plans to reveal such information to anyone, but he can't rule out the possibility of it coming out, whether intended or accidental, while talking to Lou Jenkins, who probably won't be entirely open to talking about his long dead son, especially not if he does turn out to be the UnSub, or connected to them in some way.

"When do we leave?" he asks, pushing all the troubling thoughts away. "What do we say to the team?"

"We'll leave when we can get away without arousing too much of their suspicion and curiosity," Hotch decides, looking doubtful of his own plan. "Not too long, though; it's getting late, and I don't want to have to wait until tomorrow, not if Jenkins can provide a good enough lead for the case."

"If he sticks to his pattern, the UnSub won't kill again for another year, at least," David points out. "Not like we don't have time."

"Doesn't matter," Hotch says, scooping up his phone and starting for the door. "I want to close this case as quick as possible. I don't like the amount of secrets that are being uncovered here."

Without looking back at David, he leaves the room, leaving the older agent staring at the closed door in stunned silence.

CM

"Where are you going?" Morgan asks, looking up from his file as they stand from their chairs and make to leave.

"Possible lead on the case," Hotch answers without glancing up.

The others stop reading and follow Morgan's gaze with surprise colouring their features, giving both of them odd looks.

"What kind of lead?" Reid asks, flitting his eyes down to finish off the file in his hands before returning them to Hotch and Rossi. "Where did it come from?"

Morgan, having moved earlier to sit closer to Reid, probably to magically decrease his pile of files, leans back in his chair. "Why weren't we told about it?"

David pauses on his way out the door, briefly glancing at Reid before addressing Morgan. "Because it might be nothing. No point interrupting the work reading the old files if the lead turns out to be bust."

"If anything comes of it, we'll let you know," Hotch says before leaving the room, leaving David to take the brunt of the questions – or quickly leave after him.

He chooses the latter, making his quick escape to the SUV outside.

CM

Just as they pull into the driveway of Lou Jenkins' home, Hotch's phone goes off yet again. David considers going ahead without him, as he doubts the call will last long, and even if it has the potential to, Hotch knows they should get going, as Jenkins has probably noticed the unfamiliar SUV parked in his drive, so will hopefully be able to postpone it until they're done. But once he answers it, Hotch gestures for him to stay before turning on the speakerphone.

"Go ahead," he says, quickly eyeing the house in front of them for signs of the occupant within.

"The thing is, sir, I'm almost done searching the videos for traces of the UnSub, so I decided to revisit the whole Riley Jenkins thing, just in case there was anything else important to find, and…"

She trails off and Hotch shares an odd look with David. "What did you find, Garcia?" he asks.

"Nothing significant; I mean, not really. Well, it is, but not really to the case – I don't think so, anyway, I just found it; I might be wrong, or mistaken, or something, but if I am, then it's a big coincidence and -"

"What did you find?" David questions, curiosity burning away inside him.

There's a small pause, and Hotch automatically narrows his gaze at the cell-phone.

"Well, Riley Jenkins was part of a little league team, and though there's no official recording of the volunteer coach, I figured out that the guy who coached the team was one William Reid."

She says it in a rush, the words barely decipherable, then breaks off suddenly into an anxious silence.

Hotch doesn't seem to process it for a minute, while David tries to feign surprise.

"William Reid," Hotch repeats, slowly wrapping his mind around it. "That's not an unusual surname," he points out, and David has to struggle to keep quiet.

"No," Garcia says cautiously, "that's what I thought. So I looked closer, and, well, I found that the William Reid who coached the little league team also owned a house a few rows down from Gulls and Michaels, and had a son roughly the same age as Riley, and bonus points to who guesses his son's name."

Hotch closes his eyes and leans back in his seat, letting out a sigh. "Spencer Reid," he answers, but doesn't make it out to be a question.

"Exactly," Garcia confirms nervously.

"Thanks, Garcia," Hotch says in a pained voice, getting ready hang up.

"Okay – oh, but sir, what… what do you want me to do?"

Clearly knowing what she's getting at, Hotch quickly replies. "Not a word to anyone, Garcia. We need to wait until we know everything," – he shoots a look at David – "before we speak to them. But don't dig into Reid's past; we should speak to him first, ask him to tell us everything without letting him know how much we know. If he doesn't come clean about what we already know, then I suppose you'll have to find what we need."

"I really don't think I'm comfortable with that," Garcia says nervously. "I mean, if it's important, wouldn't he have told you already?"

"I'd hope so, but I have to know for sure," he says. "Thank you; I'll let you get back to the videos."

"I'll let you know if I find anything," she says as a bid of goodbye, sounding a bit strained and put out by the prospect of digging into her friend's past.

Hotch slips his phone back into his pocket before stepping out of the SUV and striding to the front door. David is barely a step behind him as he knocks, and as they wait, Hotch inclines his head towards him.

"Why is it this case seems to have far too many connections between both you and Reid?"

David shrugs. "Guess we'll find out later, when we speak to Reid," he offers.

Before anything else can be said, Lou Jenkins opens his door to see two FBI agents on his doorstep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

Lou Jenkins's living room is small but comfortable; it could even be called cozy, if it weren't for the lack of knick-knacks and personal possessions. The furniture is dated and worn, clearly testament to the many years before when a little boy had run free, disregarding any care towards such furniture, and each piece is mismatched to the others. Certainly no match for the wallpaper, which is an unpleasant shade of green and dotted with indistinguishable flower patterns. The mark of the absence of a woman's touch, David supposes, but doesn't say anything as he and Hotch are led into the room and offered seats.

Lou Jenkins himself doesn't look necessarily nervous, but both the profilers in the room make quick note of the way his fingers tightly grasp the arms of his chair as he lowers himself into it and the way he worries the inside of his cheek. Other than those slight tell-tale signs, however, he appears completely unperturbed by their presence in his home.

With other parents who have lost children, they usually start with pleasantries – how are you doing? Why don't you tell me about so-and-so? – but then again, they usually send JJ for this type of thing, and, by the look of him, Hotch doesn't look like he has the patience or the willpower to put up with the time-consuming niceties.

So, after giving Jenkins a second or so to settle in his seat, and time for Hotch to figure out where he really wants to start with in this, he leans forward, face impassive, and begins rather bluntly.

"Mr. Jenkins, we'd like to talk to you about your son, Riley."

Going by the overly-shocked look on his face, David guesses he isn't at all surprised by this. He may be a good actor, but he needs to work on his facial expressions. David starts to pay more attention to this than to the actual questioning; not that it really matters, he knows the general gist of what Hotch is going to be asking, and Jenkins' expressions give way to the proper answers he doesn't say aloud. So he notices every time Jenkins looks like he might be lying. Of course, he refers to the whole 'do you have kids' gag, which David feels is really overdone. Is it really anyone's business whether or not FBI agents have children? He understands it may make them seem more relatable, and therefore easier to speak with, but honestly, a lot of the time their answers are just used to be thrown back in their faces.

Hotch appears to feel the same way, or he's just impatient and unwilling to dither in pointless talk; David's rather inclined to believe the latter. It's an interesting scene to watch as Hotch grills this man, while the man himself answers with short, clipped tones, growing steadily more irritated as Hotch repeats questions, or just reorders words in the same inquiry, as if to trick him into screwing up his answers and giving Hotch a reason to open a tougher line of questioning.

Finally, after a good fifteen minutes wasted away, Hotch decides to shoot straight for the heart of the matter.

"What can you tell me about Gary Michaels?"

Jenkins clearly hesitates, fingers pausing from their previous drumming on the arm of his chair; his back stiffens and he draws back, biting the inside of his cheek and grazing his eyes over the opposite wall before answering.

"He lived here for a couple years, moved in some time before my Riley was killed. He was always at the kiddie park, watching the children, mostly the boys, but no one paid much attention to it at first. We figured maybe he had a kid himself; we wouldn't have known, because he kept to himself a lot." Jenkins sneers, fingers twitching, digging into the fabric of his chair. "Anyway, we – the parents of the Little League players – noticed that he started coming to the games. It wasn't unusual for some of the neighbours to come and support the team, but this was… different. He never spoke to anyone. Never tried to introduce himself."

He tapers off, clearly frustrated by something. Hotch waits patiently for him to continue, studying his expressions carefully, much like David has been for the past twenty minutes. After a moment, Jenkins clears his throat and shifts in his seat, tucking his arms together.

"On the day Riley was killed, his mother and I were both at work, so we couldn't pick him up after practice. It wasn't a big deal; it was a short walk, and he could spend an hour or two at a friend's house until we got off. But he, uh, he never got to his friend's house."

Only now does his previously well concealed façade slip, revealing some real, non-fabricated emotion. From this, David figures that he has formerly been trying to keep himself distant from the whole thing, trying to talk about it like it had happened to someone else's son. David can relate.

"Who was this friend of Riley's?" Hotch asks, apparently jumping to a new line of thought. It takes David a second longer to realize what he's getting at, but once he does, his attention gets kicked up a notch.

Jenkins struggles for a brief moment, maybe scrambling to figure out what he should say. He comes to a decision quickly, sitting up straighter, a faint glimmer of defiance in his eye.

"A friend of the family's. They had a little boy of their own, a little younger than Riley. He was on the team, too. In fact, his father was the volunteer coach."

Hotch leans back, eyes closing and jaw clenching. "What was the boy's name, Mr. Jenkins?"

Jenkins swallows, looking vaguely suspicious and cautious. "Spencer Reid."

CM

They leave very shortly afterwards. Just as David steps through the front door, Hotch right behind him, the team leader pauses, spins around, and faces Jenkins again.

"Just one more question," he says, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit. He pulls out his phone, showing it to the man. David thinks it's a picture, but he can't be too sure. "Do you know who this is?"

Jenkins peers at it, looking vaguely confused. "No," he says hesitatingly. "Why? Who is it?"

"Nobody important. Thank you for your time, Mr. Jenkins," Hotch says haltingly, striding away to the SUV, a stormy look on his usually stoic face.

Once they are both securely in the vehicle and on their way back to the station, David asks curiously, "What did you show him?"

Wordlessly, Hotch reaches into his pocket and hands his phone over, screen on. David was right; it's a picture. It's of a little boy, maybe three or four-years-old, wavy brown hair and big, hazel eyes. He doesn't really look familiar, but judging by the clothing, the picture is probably at least a decade or two old. If Hotch knows this boy as a man, which seems probable, it isn't too much of a surprise that David doesn't recognize him; very rarely does someone look the same as an adult as they did as a little kid.

"Who is it?"

Hotch gives him a calculating sidelong glance. "It's the earliest picture Garcia could find of Reid. She sent it to my phone as soon as we hung up before talking to Jenkins. That was taken a little while before Riley Jenkins was murdered. He couldn't have looked too different after; there was only a few months difference. Since the Reids were long time 'family friends' of the Jenkinses, you'd think Lou Jenkins would recognize him."

"It was a long a time ago," David points out, unable to look away from the picture. "Maybe he just forgot."

Hotch hums in a disbelieving sort of way, and the conversation ends.

David quietly sends the picture to his own phone.

When they get back to the station, only Reid and JJ are still at the table, struggling through the last remaining straggling files. There's only three left, and two of them are taken up in their hands. David briefly wonders where the others are, but the mystery solves itself when he hears the sounds of Morgan and Blake's voices coming from the hall opposite the door, along with a third, unfamiliar tone.

David moves to sit at the table and take up the last file. Reid will probably be done his in approximately three seconds, and he doesn't want him to take up another dull file while he's perfectly able to complete the job. But Hotch stops him with a tiny shake of the head.

"Reid," Hotch says, causing the younger agent to look up in surprise at his stern tone; lingering traces of his frustration with Jenkins have bled through.

He quickly stands and hurries over to them, following Hotch with bewilderment as he leads them to the deserted office from earlier. Reid shoots a nervous glance at David, as if for answers, but the older agent carefully schools his face into a blank mask.

"Reid," Hotch says, leaning against the desk and rubbing his face. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

A panicked and betrayed look is sent David's way, and a stab of guilt makes itself known.

"Rossi isn't the one who told me, Reid," Hotch intervenes, and Reid flicks his attention back to him. "It came up when I asked Garcia to look up connections between the victims."

David barely twitches at the slight fabrication, but otherwise tries to pretend that this isn't news to him.

Reid swallows thickly, basically falling into a chair in front of Hotch, twiddling the file in his hands. "I, uh, I lived in the same neighbourhood as Kristopher Gulls and Gary Michaels when I was growing up. I had this… this friend, Riley Jenkins, only, I was told that he was imaginary.”

Hotch considers for a second before saying gently, "He wasn't imaginary, Reid. Riley Jenkins was a real boy, killed the year you would've turned six. In January of 1988, Riley Jenkins was followed home, and subsequently murdered, by Gary Michaels."

Reid swallows, chewing the inside of his cheek as his eyes grow distant, fixated on random item on the desk in front of him. "He was real?" he says quietly – not really a question in need of an answer; more like he's trying to wrap his mind around it.

Hotch hesitates, the first flickering of uncertainty briefly rearing on his features. "Reid, I know you were young at the time, but do you remember how close you were with Riley?"

David quickly glances at him, unsure of his motives behind the questioning, but nothing is as of yet given away.

Reid pauses, as if thinking, eyes snapping back into focus and brow furrowing as he looks Hotch full on. "We were friends," he says slowly, tapping his fingers absently on the file in his hands. "At least, I think we were." A frown mars his face as he casts his mind back, worrying his lower lip. "I don't remember ever actually playing with Riley – I remember talking to him, shortly, but I don't know what we talked about. I don't think we had that much in common, other than the Little League team. I only ever remember talking to him the once, but I keep thinking we were friends. I guess I just can't remember."

"So you don't remember being a close friend of Riley's?" Hotch asks, looking even more frustrated than before. "Even though your family and his were supposedly good friends?"

Reid looks up in surprise, taken aback by this news. "What? No. No, I would've remembered if Riley was that good of a friend. Besides, if that's true, then why would my mom lie and tell me he was imaginary all these years? Even my dad told me he wasn't real before he… before he left. Why would they lie?"

"I don't know, Reid," Hotch says honestly, sagging against the desk, looking worn out.

An awkward silence envelopes the room as each of the men get lost in their own thoughts. Reid clears his throat, looking decidedly distracted and uncomfortable, and shifts in his seat.

"Is, uh, is that it? Can I get back to the files now?"

Hotch nods and Reid vaults out of the chair, but hesitates at the door when Hotch quickly cuts across, "Just a second – what are Blake and Morgan doing?"

"One of the officers who worked on some of the very first cases, including Michaels and Gulls, arrived earlier, and they jumped at the chance to help in a way that didn't involve disorganized files," Reid says blandly.

When Hotch voices no further questions, Reid slips from the room. On impulse, David follows him, reaching into his pocket and extracting his phone. "Reid," he calls, and the agent stops in the hall. "Sorry. Can I ask you a question? It'll be quick, I promise."

He sighs but nods, waiting patiently. David shows him the picture he’d sent himself from Hotch’s phone, and Reid furrows his brows in surprise.

"This is you, right?"

"Yeah…” Reid says, taking the picture into his hands. "From when I was three, I think. It was one of the only pictures in my house of me under the age of six – I don't why. I guess my parents didn't have many pictures of me when I was younger." His brows furrow in confusion. "I don't remember the day I got this picture taken. In fact, I don't really remember much at all until after I turned seven."

His eyes go distant, a trace of worry and confusion in their depths, but David has no idea the cause.

"Well, I guess that isn't too odd," he says, trying to snap the young agent out of it. "So you didn't always have a perfect memory – you're not perfect. I think Morgan would be glad to hear that."

"Right," Reid responds, sounding strangely mechanical. "Can I take this for a minute?" he asks suddenly, glancing up at David. "I want to talk to the officer who's with Blake and Morgan."

"Sure, but why?" David inquires, even as Reid takes off for the opposite hall, striding to keep up.

"A hunch," Reid says simply.

Out in the hall, it looks as if the other two agents are just finishing up with the officer, who looks rather put out. Probably the type who thinks they shouldn't care about murdered pedophiles, David thinks. Reid quickly intervenes, barely muttering an apology as he shoves his way into their conversation.

"Sir, can I show you something?" he says to the officer, who looks to be in his sixties, and probably hasn't seen fieldwork in half that. Reid doesn't bother waiting for confirmation before holding up David’s phone, picture on display. "Do you recognize this boy?"

The officer squints at it, scratching his head. It takes a minute, but finally a light bulb seems to go off. "Oh, yeah," he says. "You find that in one of the files somewhere?"

Reid falters.

"Why would we find it in a file?" David asks, stepping up in Reid's place, who seems at a loss for words.

"Isn't that a picture of, uh, what's his name... the kid, Spencer Reid? About the time right after that other kid, Riley Jenkins, was killed, this kid's parents filed him as a missing child. We figured it might be the same guy, Michaels, and were gonna look into it – but then the report was retracted, and his parents told us they found him. Michaels disappeared and there was nothing more to investigate."

"Thank you," David says. "If we have any more questions, we'll let you know."

The officer nods and walks away, leaving the four agents alone in the hall. Blake and Morgan turn to the now pale Reid, expressions demanding an explanation that he is clearly in no fit state to provide. Reid stands stock-still, holding the picture limply in his hands as he gazes at the muted wall across of him, face utterly blank.

"Reid," Morgan intones, spreading his hands out in front of him. "What was that? What did he mean? Did you know about this?"

David turns to quietly say, "Go tell Hotch," and Reid hurries off while David stops Morgan from following him. "He can tell you later – if he wants to," he tells him, effectively bringing Morgan's attention to him. "However, right now I think he needs to be alone for a minute."

A second of hesitance follows before Morgan slumps in defeat. "Yeah," he sighs. "Is JJ done those files yet?"

"She's probably on the last one by now," David answers, leading the way back to the room they have set up. "Learn anything new from that officer?"

"Not really," Blake pitches in, crossing her arms and leaning against the table, catching JJ's attention. "It was years ago. He doesn't remember any details that aren't in the files, and unfortunately he didn't even help put these junk files together, so no help organizing them. Although, he did make it his unofficial job to memorize any bit of information he could find on the children involved with convicting our victims."

JJ, placing the newly finished file down in front of her, glances up and folds her hands under her chin. "Anything new?"

Blake shakes her head in answer. "Nothing Garcia hasn't already told us."

"I'm not surprised," Morgan says. "There isn't a lot my girl can't tell us." He shoots a meaningful look at the hall Reid has vanished into, hand absently drifting towards his phone.

"Well, now what?" JJ sighs, running a hand through her hair. "There's nothing new in the files, no new lead . . . I don't think we're going to find anything useful at the victims' residences – everything that might've been there will be long gone by now. We don't even have enough to give a proper profile!"

"I wouldn't say that," David says. "It'll be rather general, sure, but we've gone on less information before. We should present the profile we have at this point; we've been in this type of situation before, and it's worked out."

JJ considers before blowing out a breath. "Alright. Guess it's time to deliver the profile."

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Even with everyone gathered for the profile, the room ends up only half full. The sheriff has sheepishly informed them beforehand that a few members of his force have downright refused to be present at the briefing, deeming the case pointless, as they do not recognize the murdered pedophiles as victims; and even though the sheriff has made it an order that every one of his officers participate in tracking down the serial killer, a handful of them will not enter the room; choosing instead to be informed of the proceedings by their present colleagues.

Hotch had tried to persuade them to join the group inside, but had come back with a rather stormy expression and a short response of, "They'll receive the profile later," and had given JJ the cue to start anyway.

"We're looking for a white male in his fifties," she starts off, standing in front of the room with Blake, Morgan, and David, while Reid and Hotch stay in their makeshift set up room with Garcia on the phone, as she has finally finished viewing the videos. "Most likely, he has had some sort of run in with a pedophile before in his life, and views murdering them as a form of justice."

"This interaction between our UnSub and a pedophile could have been anything," Blake puts in. "From his own childhood, or that of a sibling or of a friend's. Since the victims are killed only after an alleged crime had been filed against them, or when a mysterious death of a child occurs around them, and it always includes a child in some way, we think these homicidal feelings towards sex offenders started when either the UnSub was a child, or when something of the nature happened to their own child."

"The victims were all beaten to death," Morgan says, nodding to the board of pictures behind him. "Violently, with a regular baseball bat. This means that our guy's strong. It's not so easy bashing someone's head in, not with this kind of force. Probably works with his hands. Maybe he's a construction worker, a mechanic, anything like that."

"If he sticks to his routine," David takes over, "then we won't have to worry about another killing for a while. However, if he gets word of our progress, our investigation, he may feel the need to strike again sooner and break pattern. We've seen it before, which is why we want to keep this quiet.

"Judging by the location of the victims' homes, we think our UnSub probably lives somewhere in the middle, closer to the first two victims than the most recent. He blends in with those in the neighbourhood. He's probably well known, possibly well liked; maybe he helps out in the community, or volunteers at the schools and local organizations. Either way, we know he wouldn't stand out in a crowd. He's the type of UnSub who nobody would suspect, which makes him more difficult to track down."

A murmur goes through the assembled officers as David finishes, and finally a man in the back dares to say it aloud. "Way to narrow down the suspect list. You just described every suburban dad out there. Thanks for the help." The officer scoffs and turns away, taking a few steps in the direction of the door.

"We told you, we don't have a complete profile yet," JJ says, stopping him before he gets too far. "Our colleague has been going through the video evidence, and she recently finished. There should be more information to be found in that, but for now, all we have is the profile we just gave you."

The officer shakes his head and strides out, and one or two other officers follow him. Morgan mutters something sourly behind David, but he doesn't notice, because at that moment he sees Hotch and Reid walk out into the room as the rest of the officers scatter. Reid still looks pale from the earlier shock with the old officer, but seems calmer after his talk with Hotch, who makes a beeline straight for David, Reid tagging along beside him.

"Reid and are going back to talk to Jenkins again. I want the truth from him this time, and Reid has some questions he wants answered as well," Hotch says, and David gives him a surprised look, to which he gives a tiny shrug and lowers his voice and lowers his voice further. "I know we don't usually permit this sort of thing, but Reid deserves to know. Besides, it wouldn't be fair if someone else from the team gets the answers before he does."

David nods in response and Hotch moves to tell the others what he and Reid are planning to do. But before he reaches them, the police chief hurries up to him and says something that David can't hear. However, Hotch comes back over to him with an annoyed expression, looking between him and Reid as he says, "Some of the officers would like to speak with me, so I won't be able to question Jenkins with you, Reid." Hotch hesitates for a minute before sighing. "Dave, why don't you go instead?"

David looks up in shock, but hastily agrees, looking to Reid for approval. The younger agent shrugs, still looking a bit out of it, and Hotch quickly tells them to do what they need to before swiftly spinning around and marching out the door to speak to the reluctant officers. David has a suspicion that they won't be so quick to voice their complaints in the future after Hotch is through with them.

Reid doesn't move, even after David says they better get going, so the older agent moves to stand in front of him, trying to look into his eyes, which are strangely distant. "Reid," he says, to no response. "Reid, you awake?"

Finally, Reid blinks and snaps out of it, giving him a sheepish smile and a mumbled apology, of which David waves away. "Something wrong?" he asks as they make their way out to the SUV. "What did Hotch say about the report filing you as missing as a child?"

Reid doesn't speak until they are both in the vehicle, and even then he takes a minute or so. "He didn't really say much, other than stating the obvious: Lou Jenkins didn't tell you the truth, or at least not all of it, and we had to speak to him again. I asked if I could go with him, and I didn't think he'd agree, but he did. Then Garcia called and we didn't say anything else." He shrugs when he finishes and stares out the window, looking understandably preoccupied.

Taking pity on him for his predicament, David clears him throat and asks, "What did Garcia find? Anything helpful?"

"Not really," his companion responds absently. "Although she did tell us exactly what she thought about having to watch all those videos, before she realized Hotch was the one who answered her call. Our UnSub was careful not to give anything away in his videos; he didn't speak or anything, and must have edited out the parts that might have identified him, because Garcia said there were inconsistencies in the videos themselves. She also said that our UnSub isn't advanced technology wise, because it was a low-grade job at editing."

"Then what was the point of the videos?" David wonders, mostly to himself.

"Proof," Reid says suddenly, startling David out of his thoughts. "In our UnSub's head, what he's doing is justice; it isn't against the law, and he shouldn't be punished; he should be rewarded. He wants the videos to prove that he did it, so no one else can claim his glory."

"Then why doesn't he keep the videos? Dumping them with the bodies is like relinquishing his claim over them, and having no way to identify him in them doesn't prove anything," David points out.

Reid gains a thoughtful look, biting his lip and scratching his head. "Maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe he has his own copies of the videos? He leaves one with the bodies and keeps one, just so he can put them together and show people that he did it, that he has proof, and he should be rewarded. It's a backwards way of claiming fame for it, but it's not like we haven't seen crazier things."

They go on like this, throwing theories between each other, until they come to Lou Jenkins' home and pull in. David sees a curtain twitch as he climbs out, and the front door opens before he and Reid even get to the front steps. Lou Jenkins stands in the threshold, looking openly annoyed now. He falters ever so slightly when he sees Reid, though David isn't entirely sure if it means Jenkins recognizes him or just has the sort of familiar feeling that David himself has experienced on occasion. However, he recovers enough to turn a glare on David as he strides up, leaning against the door frame and effectively blocking their way inside.

"Haven't I already spoken with you?" he says, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you back here? Who's he?"

Well. That answers that question then – he doesn't recognize Reid, David thinks.

"Mr. Jenkins," David says, "we just have a few more questions for you."

"Like what?" Jenkins asks, eyeing Reid as he stands awkwardly to the side of the older agent.

"Like why you lied to us before," David says, and Jenkins' gaze snaps back to him. "Or why you didn't tell us everything."

Jenkins' arms fall apart and he moves away from the doorframe, his jaw setting and eyes cooling. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says stubbornly, looking David straight in the eye, which vaguely surprises David.

"Let me introduce you to my colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid," he says, watching Jenkins closely for his reaction. A hardly noticeable widening of the eyes, a clench of the jaw, eyes flicking over to Reid, and a trace of worry on his features. "Now, care to tell us the truth this time?"

Jenkins hesitates, but eventually steps aside and silently lets them into his house, following them in. He doesn't speak as they get settled into their respective seats, in the same room as before, and David lets it stay this way for a minute before getting sick of it.

"You told us that your son Riley was on his way to a friend's house on the night he was killed, but that wasn't true, was it?" he asks, not giving Jenkins enough time to reply before continuing. "The Reids weren't old family friends; in fact, I don't think Riley and Spencer here ever really knew each other, did they?"

Beside him, Reid opens his mouth as if to protest, but David quiets him with a wave of a hand and a careful look, and he falls silent, apparently trusting him enough to see where this is going.

"So, Mr. Jenkins, why don't you stop lying and tell us the truth?"

Their host swallows and leans back, nervously swiping his forehead and appearing to internally debate with himself before sighing. He nods to Reid as he says, "Spencer and Riley were on the Little League team together, and William Reid was the coach. That's as far my Riley and Spencer's friendship went. Riley wasn't on his way to a friend's house, that's true; he was just on his way home. He'd stayed home alone before, and it was just for a few hours, just until I got off work."

David nods, having guessed as much already. "Why did you lie?" he asks, having had trouble answering this himself.

Jenkins struggles for a minute, grappling with words, carefully avoiding looking at Reid. "Diana and William helped me out shortly after Riley was killed, and I was just repaying the favour," he finally says before leaning back and crossing his arms again, as if to say he wouldn't tell them anymore.

"How did they help you? Why did lying to us repay the favour?" Reid asks, an almost desperate look on his face. "Please, Mr. Jenkins, what happened here all those years ago?"

Jenkins reluctantly looks at him, and once he does, his arms slip free and he gains a conflicted look in his eye as he takes in Reid's searching look and pleading expression. David remains silent, deciding that perhaps the best way to get through to Jenkins is with Reid, who for some reason or another appears to touch a nerve for Jenkins. Their host groans and holds his head in his hands, placing his elbows on his knees as he gathers his composure.

"I swore I wouldn't tell anybody who asked," he tells them slowly, refusing to look at them, instead fixing his gaze firmly on the carpet at his feet. "The three of us promised each other it would remain a secret."

David and Reid share a silent look, and David sees clear as day the agonized look in his teammate's eyes; this must be torture for the young man: finding out that his parents have kept a dark secret for years, a secret that apparently involves a pedophile and a serial killer, and now sitting in front of one of the only people who can tell him what that secret is, and who is refusing to tell them the details.

"By the three of you," David says carefully, "you mean yourself, Diana and William Reid?"

Jenkins slowly nods, blowing out a breath through his teeth. "Diana wasn't well back then; not as bad as I hear she is now – I haven't seen her years, not since she was admitted into that hospital of hers – but she was there enough to notice certain things."

"What sort of things?" Reid asks quickly, twisting his hands together nervously in his lap. "Did they involve Riley? Or Gary Michaels?"

Jenkins opens his mouth, appearing to be completely ready to tell them everything, and Reid – and David alike – lean forward, practically waiting with bated breath for the explanation that may very well solve the whole case. Well, maybe that's wishful thinking, but it will certainly answer some very nagging questions, and put Reid's mind, at least, to rest. But at the last minute, Jenkins shuts his mouth firmly closed again, abruptly standing from his seat and shutting down his expression.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I can't tell you; it isn't entirely my secret to tell. I think you better leave now. Don't you have a job to do?"

David follows his example and stands, soon copied by Reid, and he reaches into his jacket as he speaks. "As a matter of fact, we do." He extracts a set of handcuffs and holds them up in clear sight of Jenkins, not doing or saying anything about them, just making sure he sees them. "I think you better come to the station with us, Mr. Jenkins. We still have some questions for you, and I'm sure the rest of our team do too."

Jenkins narrows his eyes and takes half a step back, keeping his gaze trained on the metal bracelets. "On what charge? You wouldn't bring those out if you weren't planning to charge me with something."

"Oh, I don't know," David says idly. "Let's start with obstruction of justice for now. Who knows, maybe we'll even get to suspected murder. Maybe you'll be more willing to talk by the time we get to the station."

"You know we can't hold him," Hotch says to David as they stand outside the interrogation room, looking in at the man inside. "He hasn't done anything."

"I wouldn't say that," David says mildly. "Besides, a little pressure might make him a little more loose-lipped about this 'secret' from twenty-five years or so ago."

Hotch sends him an odd look; one that David ignores and brushes off, instead opting to study Jenkins through the one-way glass. He can still feel the other man's gaze on him, which makes David uncomfortable, so he turns to leave, hoping to speak with the rest of the team. Garcia had called soon after he and Reid had returned with Jenkins in tow, and David wants to see if he can catch her before she goes; he has a task for her.

"I think you and I should go in and question Jenkins in a bit," he says to Hotch without turning, nearly out the door as he speaks. "Let him sweat for a while." David pauses before he starts down the hall, feeling as if he should comment on the fact that a lot of secrets from roughly twenty-five years ago are tied up in this case, but discarding the thought and continuing on his way, leaving Hotch alone in the room.

David is lucky as he gets to the others just before Garcia hangs up. There’s nothing new to report, except that she couldn't retrieve any deleted content or information from the videos (no surprise that her frustration with this is voiced loudly), so he quickly grabs the chance to ask her a favour. Thankfully, the others don't seem too curious about what he wants, which David finds somewhat suspicious – shouldn't they at least have questions on why he and Reid have brought in some complete stranger to question? – but pushes aside to deal with later. The task David asks of Garcia is a relatively simple one: bring up any communication that occurred between Lou Jenkins and the Reids (that piques her curiosity, but David puts a quick stop to that) twenty to thirty years ago.

When he hangs up on the Technical Analyst, he's surprised to see Reid hovering in the doorway, looking even more subdued than usual.

"I was thinking," Reid says quietly, "the others still have no idea about anything. They don't know why we brought in Lou Jenkins for questioning, and they've been asking me, and it just doesn't really seem fair not to tell them anything. Maybe they can help. So, I just thought… Rossi, I think we should tell them."

David inwardly sighs, but actually gives it some thought. Telling the rest of team about Jenkins will lead to questions about Riley, which will lead to questions about Reid, which will lead to questions about Michaels; eventually, the issue of James would be bound to come up. However, Reid does have a point; the team will most likely be of help, and it might be best if someone else is informed of Reid's connection to this, so he has someone to talk to. Morgan knows the most out of the others, and JJ will certainly help him with this.

So David carefully nods, noting Reid's relieved look as he does so. "Just tell them the basics for now," David advises. "Just until we know everything ourselves."

Reid agrees quickly before hastily slipping out of the room. No point telling to wait a little while, then.

With a quick glance at the clock, David makes his way back to the interrogation room, where Hotch is hopefully still waiting to question Jenkins. David is determined to get proper answers from him before they have to let him loose.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Hotch and Rossi enter the interrogation room together, and David goes to sit across from Jenkins at the table while Hotch leans against the wall, casually observing them without adding his imposing presence. Jenkins eyes them warily, not bothering to mask his irritation as he sighs pointedly and shifts restlessly in his seat, but David ignores him easily as he takes his sweet time in putting down the file in his hands and settling into his own seat before lacing his hands together and resting them comfortably on the table top, assessing the man across from him. Wisely, Jenkins keeps his mouth shut, allowing David to take all the time he needs but making the agent all too aware of how annoying he finds the whole situation by the angry edge in his eyes and posture. David lets it continue for a minute longer than necessary just to watch the man fidget before acquiescing to the silent order in Hotch's expression.

"So, Mr. Jenkins," he starts genially, "are you ready to tell us about that 'secret' now?"

Lou Jenkins struggles inwardly with himself, his eyes flickering downwards to trace along the table before darting to the walls, all while his foot begins to jiggle up and down in nervous energy. It's a far cry from his earlier cool indifference to their presence and questions, and both Hotch and David pick up on it immediately. However, he appears determined to remain tight-lipped about it still, carefully avoiding their questioning eyes and drawing in on himself.

"Mr. Jenkins, I'll remind you that we are in the middle of a murder investigation. Several murders, in fact, and you are wasting our time," Hotch injects, narrowing his eyes but not moving away from his spot against the wall.

"Start answering whenever you like," David adds smoothly, faking disinterest as he reclines in his chair, keeping his appraising eyes trained on Jenkins, who bites the inside of his cheek in response. The three of them stay in silence for a few moments, the two FBI agents watching the other man's resolve unravel in front of them until it finally gives away and he caves under the pressure of their undoubtedly unnerving presence.

"It's not just my secret," he says almost desperately, as if trying to convince them to let the matter drop. "It wasn't just me."

Feeling as if they're finally getting somewhere, David leans forward again. "Are you telling us so you can share the blame, or so you can protect them?" he asks, watching Jenkins twitch in answer, looking highly uncomfortable. "Because either way, I'm afraid we can't let you go without knowing whatever secret you've worked so hard to keep hidden."

Jenkins's head jerks up without warning and he stares at David with an almost wild look in his eyes. "You don't understand," he argues strongly. "It's a secret for a damned good reason. It'll ruin lives if it comes out."

"Including yours?" David inquires quickly, studying him as the man's mouth works silently and furiously for a second.

"Yes," he finally admits, his eyes dropping to the table again. "But not just me. It's bigger than that, far bigger. Keeping it a secret might have destroyed a few peoples' lives, but that was years ago; bringing it up again will just make it all worse."

Hotch and David share a quick, curious look before returning both their attentions to Jenkins, who puts his head in his hands. "What kind of secret was it that could cause that much damage?" Hotch shoots at him. "The illegal kind?"

Lou Jenkins moves and lets his hands fall from his face as he considers the question, truly looking as if he must put serious thought into it. "Yeah," he says slowly, apparently having no regard whatsoever for the fact that he has just admitted to going against the law. "But it worked out, didn't it? It didn't hurt anybody whose lives weren't already ruined before we got involved."

David looks to Hotch only to see his colleague staring at Jenkins, an odd expression on his face as he takes in the man before suddenly speaking. "Does this secret of yours happen to affect our colleague, Spencer Reid, directly, or just through his parents?" He looks suspicious, as if expecting Jenkins to lie to him, and David can't help but feel the same.

Jenkins stills in his seat, eyes hardening as he almost scrutinizes the agent in front of him. "No," he says slowly, flicking his gaze away to study the wall beside David's head instead. "Not really. I mean, he was affected, sure, but he wasn't directly involved in what we did."

"If I were you," David says carefully, getting slowly more frustrated with the man, "I'd start answering our questions in full. You may not know this, but our colleague can find anything about anything on you in the space of a few minutes, including any and all communication over phone or computer. Now, that would be the more difficult choice, so I suggest you make it easier for all of us and just tell us your secret."

Jenkins narrows his eyes at David again, clenching his jaw and apparently ready to remain stubborn. "I don't see why," he says finally. "It isn't hurting anyone anymore. In fact, the whole thing managed help that little -" Jenkins stops and shakes his head sharply, looking annoyed at himself. "It's best if it just stays secret."

"You say it isn't hurting anyone," Hotch intercepts. "But it is; my agent is being affected, directly or indirectly, by this, which means you're going to have to stop resisting answering and tell us what we need to know, otherwise I'll be happy to bring Agent Reid in here to speak to you himself. So the way I see it, you can either tell us and we can help break it to my agent, or you can tell him yourself and face the consequences."

This reaches him more than anything, David realizes, as Jenkins sighs heavily and seems to become sapped of energy, sinking low in his seat. "Fine," he acquiesces, looking none too happy. "But you can't blame Diana; she didn't realize what she was doing, she thought it was her son, we didn't – we couldn't convince her, and we didn't want to. It wasn't hurting anybody, not really, and we were helping him - "

"How about you start from the beginning?" David interrupts, vaguely annoyed at the odd, indirect approach Jenkins has taken with the story. "Diana, as in Diana Reid? What didn't she realize she was doing?"

"Diana and William's son Spencer was kidnapped when he was six, disappeared on his way back from the park. William Reid went to the police and reported him as missing, but Diana… it was almost like she didn't realize he was gone. This was only a few weeks after my Riley was killed, and by this point I, and several other parents on our street, suspected that scum Michaels was the one who killed my son and kidnapped the Reids', but we didn't have any proof. But then Diana approached me a few days after Spencer was taken, ranting about a day at the park or something, but I couldn't get anything coherent out of her until she calmed down, and by then I was pretty agitated myself. She started telling me about seeing Michaels watching Spencer, even sitting down and talking with him… I was still messed up about Riley, and was furious with Michaels, so it was all the confirmation I needed," Lou Jenkins admits slowly, rubbing his face again. He grows quiet, fidgeting in his seat, and the two agents share a look over his head.

"What did you do, Lou?" David prods, examining him through narrowed eyes.

The man across from him takes a deep breath, apparently psyching himself up for what's to come. "I grabbed my baseball bat and drove to his house with Diana. I didn't know the address, but Diana did and she gave me directions. Michaels was out front, putting out his garbage or something, so I – I cut the camera wire. I didn't plan it, but I saw the camera and knew it'd be better if… if no one saw. It was late so there was nobody around to see me as I went over to Michaels. He didn't know who I was at first, but he figured it out. Diana came into the house when – afterwards, and I was about to get her out of there when we heard something from the door leading to the basement…"

"Did you kill Gary Michaels?" Hotch intercedes sharply, recognizing the not-so-subtle attempt at dancing around the confession and temporarily ignoring the part about the basement – he'll bring it up soon, once they've gotten a solid confession on Michaels' murder; it is, after all, how they've justified keeping him in for questioning.

Jenkins stays silent, sitting stiffly in his seat and keeping determined eyes on the table in front of him. Hotch isn't sure if it's because he's realized he's messed up, let something slip, or if he had known what he was doing the whole time and is trying to figure out how to answer. It's not like they haven't seen this kind of thing with suspects before.

"It's not what I wanted, not at first," Jenkins finally says, voice quiet with an undertone of something not quite identifiable. "I just wanted to mangle him a bit. Make him feel some pain. I didn't plan on killing him, at least not consciously. I didn't realize how hard I hit his head before I noticed he'd stopped breathing. I probably would've kept going, too, if Diana hadn't walked in to stop me."

A new suspicion wriggles its way into Hotch's thoughts, though he desperately hopes he's wrong. "Did Diana participate?" If Jenkins says yes, how the hell is Hotch supposed to tell Reid? He's already shaken up enough as it is. What will this kind of knowledge do to him?

"No," Jenkins denies quickly, finally meeting his eyes. "No. Diana only came in when he was already dead, I swear. She had nothing to do with his death."

Not entirely true, Hotch disagrees mentally, as she was the one who lead him there in the first place, but before he can voice it, he pushes it to the back of his mind in favour of the other thing he'd thought of particular notice. Eventually he'll have to bring up Diana's involvement, probably with Reid, oh joy, but the longer he can put it off the better.

Hotch glances over at David, but the older agent doesn't acknowledge him, so Hotch takes it upon himself to ask, "What was it you heard from the basement?" Jenkins gives him a dirty look but doesn't clam up again. Hotch doesn't know why he's suddenly so chatty, doesn't know what's finally reached through and cracked his resistance, but he doesn't want to overstep something, shatter the already shaky ground allowing them to hear the whole of it.

"The door was locked and we couldn't find the key, so I smashed the door open with the bat. I tried to get Diana to stay upstairs – I knew chances were her son was already dead, and if he was, and if Michaels kept him in the basement, I didn't want her to have to see that. She was already pretty bad by then, and I didn't want to make it worse, but she wouldn't listen and went down first. When I reached the bottom of the stairs she already had a boy in her arms, though it looked like he was unconscious. At first, I thought it was Spencer, but even though I never saw much of him before that, I knew he didn't look quite the same. Other than the most basic of similarities, like hair colour and size, he didn't look like Spencer; or at least not the Spencer I knew from the very few memories I had of him. There was another boy too, in the corner, but right away I could tell he wasn't breathing. Diana didn't even seem to notice him.

"It took a little while, but I realized what was going on, what had happened. I tried to tell Diana that the boy she had in her arms wasn't her son, but she was convinced and I couldn't tell her otherwise. Eventually, I gave in, decided that it couldn't hurt all too much to maintain her delusion; the boy would be taken out of that place and given a home, and the Reids would have a child again. Maybe not their son, but nobody but us would have to know that. So I took Diana and the kid back home and explained everything to William. He didn't like it at first, thought we should take him off Diana, put him back in the basement and make an anonymous call to the police, but Diana pleaded with him and he folded. We made a plan, William and I, that no one could ever know but us three. Nobody in the neighbourhood would be too suspicious, we figured, since Spencer rarely went out anyway so no one could really be able to tell the difference. The next day, William went back to the station and took back the missing child report on Spencer, told them that he had just gotten lost, that it was a misunderstanding. It was just luck that when the kid woke up a couple days later, he didn't remember anything."

Hotch stares at Jenkins blankly for a minute, mind whirring. "So you're saying," he says slowly, "that Spencer Reid – the real Spencer Reid, died when he was six-years-old?"

Lou Jenkins nods.

"Then who -?"

But before Hotch can finish, David is out of his chair and through the door.

CM

Hotch finds him in the empty office, which he supposes he should be grateful for, as David could just have easily gone to the room the rest of the team are in, which would have spelled disaster.

"Dave," he starts, but trails off, not having a clue what he can say in this situation.

"There were two boys in that basement, Aaron," David takes over. "Two boys, but one body."

"It's …" Hotch flounders for a minute, "… a complicated case. There were three boys important to this case tied to Michaels: Riley Jenkins, your James, and now, apparently, Spencer Reid."

"Yes," David says suddenly, "but we know for a fact that Riley Jenkins was killed years ago, before Spencer Reid went missing, but after James was taken. Riley wasn't kept by Michaels, he was killed right away, but Reid and James weren't. There was no positive identification of the – the body the FBI found all those years ago, but it was always thought that it was James, but now Jenkins is saying that it wasn't, that it was the real Spencer Reid, which means …"

"Dave!" Hotch says sharply, stopping the tirade in its tracks. "Dave, you just said that there was no confirmed identity of the boy found in the basement, which means that there's no proof that it was James or that it was the Reids' son. We don't even know if Jenkins is telling the truth. Maybe he's lying, maybe the boy they found was actually Spencer Reid and there's nothing else going on. There's no proof, Dave."

"Why would he make it up?" David asks, quieter and calmer now. "What possible reason would Jenkins have to lie about something like this?"

"I don't know, Dave," Hotch says, equally as quiet. "Maybe because he knows that the files are too old by now for anything to be proven easily."

David shakes his head. "Then why confess to the murdering Michaels?"

"Something you want to tell me, Reid?" Morgan asks once Blake and JJ leave to talk to the officers again. He leans back in his chair and Reid slowly takes a seat near him, chewing on his lip. "Come on, you can tell me. What's up?"

So Reid tells him. Not everything, no matter how much he wants to, just the basics; but it takes a good ten, fifteen minutes to explain it all, then a minute or so longer for Morgan to regain the ability to speak, and even then he just shakes his head in disbelief.

"So your parents were involved with Lou Jenkins, the guy Hotch and Rossi are interrogating, and he might have been involved in the murder of Gary Michaels, who you lived near as a child, and you apparently went missing around the time Michaels was killed," Morgan enumerates, looking as overwhelmed and confused as Reid feels. "And you don't remember anything?"

"No, nothing from before my seventh birthday, which conveniently occurred after everything that connects me to the case," Reid mumbles, scratching his head. "I just don't understand! I can remember practically everything from seven upwards, but come up blank when I try to remember something important. If I could just remember something …" Reid huffs in annoyance, tugging at his hair before dropping his hand limply. "It's like nothing in this case makes sense."

"Come on, that's not true," Morgan disagrees. "Alright, yeah, maybe this is complicated and practically impossible to solve right now, but there's got to be somebody out there with answers, right? So let's just look at this like any other case, okay? We've got the names of the victims, meaning we're bound to come up with suspects, and we'll do what we always do: we'll solve this case and catch the bad guy. After that, we can focus on your connection to it. Or," he adds as an afterthought, "maybe Hotch and Rossi will get something out of Jenkins. He knew your parents, right? Maybe he'll know something, and if he does, you know they'll get it out of him. It'll be fine, Reid. We'll figure it out."

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

While Hotch and Rossi are presumably still interrogating Jenkins, and after Reid steals away Morgan for something, JJ and Blake head to the small kitchenette for a refill on coffee. They linger for a minute, not wanting to intrude on Reid and Morgan if they aren't done talking yet, though it doesn't stop them from speculating.

"Why do you think Rossi brought in Jenkins?" JJ asks, leaning against the counter and swirling her coffee around in the cup, putting off the actual drinking of it. For some reason, local police stations never seem to know how to make decent coffee, no matter the brew or machine, though she has a suspicion that she's just spoilt with the BAU coffee, which is by far the best, at least to her and her team. Even Spence says so, and goodness knows he has enough experience with the stuff. "I mean, who is this guy, really?"

Blake considers, taking a sip of the beverage in her hand, almost surprising JJ when she doesn't so much as wrinkle her nose at the too bitter taste. "I don't know," Blake hums. "I think something's going on with Rossi, Reid and Hotch, though. Two of them are always off somewhere, they don't tell us what they're doing, and they haven't even told us we've got a new suspect. I'm guessing Garcia knows; they have to get their information somewhere, otherwise they wouldn't have known where to find this Jenkins, and you must have noticed how odd the four of them have been acting."

JJ nods absently in agreement. "It's less obvious in Hotch and Rossi, but there's definitely something going on; every time we call Garcia I swear it's like she wants to tell us something. I doubt she knows everything though, considering it must be top secret stuff for all the sneaking around they're doing – not that Garcia can't keep a secret, but she does have a habit of sharing information between the team when she thinks it'll be beneficial."

"She's smart," Blake points out, "so if Hotch and Rossi are going to her to find information, we can probably assume she's doing some extra research, which means she knows more than she, strictly speaking, should. Doesn't mean she'll tell us, though, and we shouldn't ask – it's not our business, not unless it starts to affect our job."

Her companion raises her eyebrows. "Hasn't it already? I mean, they've brought in a guy we've never heard of, who hasn't turned up in the investigation, and they're interrogating him during the case! Doesn't that count as affecting our work? If it's got nothing to do with the case - "

"But we don't know it hasn't," the brunette interrupts, inclining her coffee cup towards JJ. "I can't tell you what I don't know, and I don't know why the others haven't told us what's going on, but who knows, maybe they'll explain it all when they have the answers, which they might get from Jenkins, and it'll make sense. It could even give us a valuable suspect. Trust them, JJ, they know what they're doing."

JJ sighs but doesn't press the matter, flipping her hair over her shoulder and turning her cup in her hands, still not taking a sip. "What about Reid and Morgan, huh?" she switches topic, resting her elbows on the surface behind her. "Think Reid's going to tell Morgan what's been bothering him?" At Blake's blank look, JJ takes a breath and gives her a disbelieving look. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed how twitchy he's been recently. He was fine when we started the case, but something changed after we discussed the geographical profile."

Blake shrugs, putting her cup down and folding her arms across her chest loosely. "Wouldn't you be the first one Reid goes to if he needs to talk?" she asks, watching JJ glance down and shift uncomfortably.

"It's been," JJ hesitates, "difficult. It's far better than it was, but it isn't the same anymore. He comes to me for some things, but I think he's turning to Morgan more, so I guess it makes sense they're talking now. Maybe Morgan knows a bit more than we do, making it easier for Spence to explain, or maybe he thinks Morgan will understand better than me. He probably didn't come to me for the same reason he didn't come to you. I'm not his only confidant."

They lapse into silence for a bit, JJ finally drinking from her cup and fiddling with it. They don't know how long they're in there for, not having a clock to glance at in the kitchen, but eventually two of the local police force wonder in to grab something, unintentionally but effectively kicking them out.

Having nowhere else to go, at least not until a break in the case, the two make their way back to the main room where the team's set up, seeing Morgan and Reid still there but not appearing to still be in the middle of a conversation. In fact, Reid's hovering by the boards, scanning over them with a faraway look in his eye, while Morgan sits at the table, the case file open in front of him though he doesn't look down to read it, instead focussing on the board beside Reid.

"Find anything?" JJ steps up next to Reid, trying to spot whatever has captured his attention even after he's looked over everything several times.

"Oh, no," Reid denies quickly, glancing to her briefly before studying the board again. "Just seeing if we missed anything. We know that all the victims lived in the same basic area, so it stands to reason that the UnSub lives in the middle of it all, but there's a whole neighbourhood surrounded by the area, not to mention the back-roads and private residences. It's practically impossible to pinpoint a specific street or even block, at least with so little information, but there's got to be something else, something we missed. I was wondering if it was possible to get something from the footage left behind." Seeing JJ about to intervene, Reid hastily adds, "I know Garcia went through it all carefully, but even the way it was filmed could help narrow it down – we could maybe estimate the UnSub's height, or know how he perceives killing the victim's just by how he films the murder. Garcia hasn't done that."

"I'll call our girl later," Morgan volunteers. "She's probably busy right now."

Reid nods, distant again, and JJ darts a look at Morgan, trying to draw out some answers from him but getting nothing except a cool gaze that tells her he knows exactly what she's doing. She inwardly rolls her eyes but obediently returns her attention to the clues, however meagre, on the board in front of them, trying to think like Spence and connect the obscure dots.

CM

"Okay," Hotch sighs, rubbing his forehead, feeling the onset of a nasty headache. He has a few papers scattered on top of the desk in front of him, some of them with scribbles and crosses and others completely crumpled into balls. "So Michaels gets out of prison, buys a house in a quiet street, and lies low for a bit. He travels to Virginia, supposedly heads to Quantico, and James goes missing." Hotch writes something onto the paper in front of him, glancing up for a stiff nod of confirmation from David before continuing. "There's no sign of him, and nobody knows about Michaels, so James isn't found. Over a year later, Riley Jenkins is molested and killed in his own home, and the street starts to suspect Michaels." More scribbles on the paper. "Shortly afterwards, William Reid reports his six-year-old son as missing, and Diana Reid goes to Lou Jenkins with her suspicions about Michaels."

"Jenkins and Diana head to Michaels' house," David takes over, watching Hotch wearily sketch out the shaky timeline, "where Jenkins kills Michaels. They hear a noise from the basement, go to investigate, and find two six-year-old boys, one alive and one … not," he manages to say without stumbling too much. "Diana immediately believes the alive boy to be her son, though Jenkins remains doubtful, they take him home to resume life as Spencer Reid. A few months later, the FBI converge on Michaels, discover the remaining boy's body and declare James dead. Now, if we believe Jenkins – and I'm not saying I do," he adds at Hotch's warning look, " – but if we did, then Diana would have taken the wrong boy home. There were only two boys in that basement, Aaron, so if the boy wasn't Spencer Reid then he would have been -"

Hotch exhales loudly, cutting off David's quickly escalating rant. "I know, Dave," he says sternly. "But what neither of us know is if we can even take Jenkins for his word. The only things we know for sure are that James was taken, Spencer Reid was reported missing, and the body of a little boy was found in Michaels' home. That body could've been anyone, Dave, it could've been another boy we've never heard of."

David stares at him with an odd, almost frenzied gaze. "Then where was James?" he asks forcefully. "Or Reid? The body could have been anyone, but Diana Reid did take home a boy, Aaron. Only one."

Hotch shakes his head but offers no argument, instead scanning the numerous sheets in front of him with disgust. "There's a simple way of solving at least one mystery about this," he says slowly, darting his eyes up to meet with his friend's. "We can't confirm the identity of the body, not after all this time, but we can confirm the identity of the remaining boy. The one Diana and Jenkins took back."

David abruptly freezes, expression carefully blank. "Reid."

"We could do a DNA test," Hotch cautiously suggests. "Garcia could make it fast. No one outside the team would have to know. Not even everyone in the team. Just a need to know basis."

Still unmoving, David considers, appearing almost indifferent to the idea, though Hotch can see the faint signs of fear and nerves, maybe anxiety in the subtle changes in his behaviour. "A paternity test," he clarifies, barely seeing Hotch's nod.

"If we could get William Reid to consent, we could know whether he's really Reid's biological father, but then we'd still need to check with you and Reid if he wasn't, just to eliminate all possibilities."

David manages a snort. "Somehow, I don't think William Reid will agree to a DNA test, not if he knew about the mix up."

"Which is why it'd be easier to just go ahead and check you and Reid," Hotch says, then dons a calculating expression. "Which means," he stresses, "you'll have to tell Reid. Everything. You can't leave anything out, otherwise he won't understand. It's fifty-fifty whether he'll listen at all; he won't like hearing about his mother being a part of a crime, or a potential case of severe mistaken identity. It'd be better if we could present him with concrete proof, not just speculative theories from a suspect, but the test could be the concrete proof." He hums in frustration, then sighs heavily. "It'll be hard to get Reid to agree, but he's smart; give him a while to cool off and he'll reconsider. Even if he just consents to get proof we're wrong and he wasn't raised by the wrong people."

David swallows thickly, nervousness even more pronounced now. "Me? Why do I have to be the one to tell him? He'd take it better if it came from you, you can make him understand."

"Dave," Hotch interrupts. "You and I both know it'll be better coming from you, especially if it turns out," he stops himself and changes his wording, "that he knew James in some way. I won't make you tell him, but he won't agree to the test unless he knows why. In the meantime, we have Jenkins' confession to murdering Michaels, which gives us a potential lead for the other killings."

He shuffles the papers into a disorganised stack, tossing the crumpled and useless sheets into the nearby bin, and stands, scooping up the stack and folding it to a more suitable size so Hotch can slip it into his pocket. "I'm going to tell the others about Jenkins' confession; I won't tell them anything about how we heard of him, but they're going to have questions, Dave, and we can't lie to them forever. Do you want me to send Reid in?"

"No," David sighs. "But do it anyway."

Hotch nods and steps out of the room, disappearing down the hall.

CM

"Hotch," Morgan greets when he enters the room, getting the attention of the other three. "Got anything useful from this guy, Jenkins?"

"And who is he?" JJ chips in. "What's his connection to the case?"

Hotch raises his hand to halt their questions, turning to Reid. "Rossi's in the office across the hall. He needs to speak with you." Looking confused, Reid nonetheless hastily exits the room without hesitation, leaving Hotch to face even more questions from the rest of his team. "Sit down," he tells JJ and Blake, who promptly do as he says, taking a seat on either side of Morgan. "Jenkins has a connection with the first victim, Gary Michaels, and he's confessed to killing him, though we don't have any other proof."

"What about the other murders?" Morgan asks, silencing any oncoming questions from JJ or Blake. "Has he got any information on them?"

Hotch shakes his head. "We haven't managed to question him about them much," he admits, leaving out further explanation. "I'll go back to talk with him more in a few minutes, let him sweat for a while. I'm guessing he's going to start regretting confessing to us and will want to take it back; if we're lucky, he'll be desperate enough to clear his name that he'll give us a proper lead."

"Is it possible he committed all the murders?" Blake suggests, glancing at the boards behind her. "We still haven't entirely discarded the idea that all the victims were killed by the same UnSub."

"But the first murder isn't consistent with the others," JJ argues. "At least not completely. And there was that odd gap between the first and second murders."

Blake shakes her head slightly, looking speculative. "Or maybe the UnSub found a better way to kill the victims after Michaels," she counters lightly. "We've seen it before; the UnSub tweaks or completely changes his method after the first few killings. It's possible that holds true here. And we've seen dormant serial killers too."

"Either way, Jenkins' will have the answers," Hotch says. "Did Reid find anything else?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

"Hotch said you wanted to speak to me?" Reid says, slipping into the seat across from David, picking at his fingers. "Did you find something out from Jenkins? Do you know what he meant about my parents?"

Watching the younger agent shift in his shift anxiously, desperate for answers, David suddenly finds the monumental task of explaining everything to him overwhelming, and finds himself speechless, struggling to piece his words together. How does Hotch expect him to tell Reid something he himself doesn't understand?

To buy some time, because, yes, he really is enough of a coward to stall, damn it, David glances down at the mess of papers on the desk, left by Hotch either in frustration or in an attempt to aid David in the storytelling of the insanity that is the case within the case. Though he really doesn't want to, he looks back up to meet Reid's anguished gaze, and with that he inwardly gives up whatever token resistance he has and slumps. How to start?

For a split second, David silently argues with himself. He can start with the first visit he and Hotch had paid to Jenkins, then slowly lead around to James, because he knows he will have to eventually get there at some point, or he can start straight off the bat with James then build up to the arrival of the case. He really isn't sure which path will go over best with Reid, but eventually he decides to start with what Reid already knows, willing to risk making things even more confusing, if only to put off the telling of his own secret for a tiny bit longer.

"Jenkins has confessed to murdering the first victim, Gary Michaels," he finally starts, easily capturing Reid's full attention. "Apparently, the street was getting suspicious of how much time he spent around children, despite not appearing to have any of his own." Reid nods, as if David is just confirming things he already knows.

Now comes the difficult part, David thinks sourly. "William Reid reported you missing only a few weeks after Riley Jenkins' body was found, but only days later he withdrew the report and said you'd simply gotten lost." David pauses, just long enough to see the conflicting emotions play out on the younger man's face, before hesitantly continuing. "Jenkins told us that your mother came to him shortly after you went missing and told him that she thought Michaels had been the one to kill his son. She accompanied Jenkins to Michaels' house when he…" David stops, seeing by the stricken look on Reid's face that it doesn't need to be said. "Jenkins assures us that Diana had nothing to do with the murder," he says quietly in poor consolation.

Reid glances at him sharply, but it's short lived as he visibly deflates. "What about the other victims?" Reid tries, and even though David sees straight through his weak attempt, he lets the conversation steer away for the moment.

"He only confessed to the one murder, but maybe he'll say more when we talk to him again," David says, watching the agent across from him closely. Reid's gaze it focussed solely on the desk between them, but David can see one of his hands clenched into a fist in his lap.

"You know, Carolyn and I had a son, James," David abruptly tells him, internally scrambling to piece his words together as he goes. Reid's eyes flicker up for the briefest of seconds, locking onto David's own before dropping again, being the only sign of his confusion. David, on the other hand, feels like there's something stuck to the roof of his mouth as he tries to continue. It had been one thing to tell Hotch about James, as he's known the man for years, been friends for years, but now, faced with the obstacle of telling Reid, it's completely different; awkward and painful.

Reid shifts in his seat when David doesn't immediately pick up his story, uncomfortable with the silence. "What, uh, what's he like?" he decides on asking, still refusing to look anywhere near his colleague's face. As such, he misses the tightening of David's jaw and the way his shoulders are suddenly a bit straighter.

"I have no idea," the older profiler says calmly, now using Reid's trick and studying the wall by the genius' head. He feels more than sees as Reid's eyes flick over him again, and before the other man can form any theories – which, based on Reid's own past, most likely won't show him in the best light – he smoothly explains, "Shortly before James' fifth birthday, he was kidnapped. Carolyn and I never saw him again, and he was declared dead around a year later." Ignoring Reid's wide eyes, which the kid now has trained fully on him, David carefully adds, "The top suspect was Gary Michaels."

Just like that, Reid's expression closes down, his eyes gaining a guarded look, though he doesn't look away, which David decides to take as a good sign. "What happened?" Reid asks, and there's so many different ways David can answer the question that it almost chokes him.

"The main theory was that Michaels broke into the house through James' window, took him, and ran to Las Vegas. There was no word for a year or so, but when the FBI found out about Michaels and searched his place, they discovered that Michaels had been dead for a while; and they found the body of a little boy in the basement. No way to positively identify him, but the safe bet was that it was James."

"I'm sorry," Reid says quietly, biting his lip as something flashes in his eyes, though as soon as David sees it, it's gone.

David shrugs, letting silence lapse around them for a moment. "I know you don't want to hear this, Reid," he starts slowly, noting how the other agent immediately tenses at his words, "but your mother's involvement with Jenkins and Michaels does complicate things."

"I don't see how," Reid says stubbornly, now eyeing him with a challenge. "She wasn't well, she didn't know what she was doing. Jenkins said she didn't have a part in the murder, right? So it doesn't complicate anything." He looks a little desperate, a little lost, when he finishes, and David really doesn't want to tell him the rest. It would be easier to just send him on his way and pretend he doesn't play a part in anything. Surely there's a sample of his DNA in the FBI database for agents, Garcia can dig that up and do the test… but neither she, nor Hotch, would let that happen without Reid's own consent, which leaves David trapped in a neat little corner.

"Reid, there's something else Jenkins told us… something about your mother," David eventually tells him in a resigned sort of way, resting his elbows on the desk. "He claims," he has to stress, "that before they left, after Michaels was killed, they heard a noise from the basement and Diana went down to look. You, by that point, had already been reported as missing by your father, and your mother apparently thought maybe Michaels had you; she was right. Jenkins says that they saw two boys in Michaels' basement, but only one of them was alive. Diana assumed this boy to be her son, nobody wanted to argue with her, and that boy – you – grew up as Spencer Reid."

Reid looks dazed, and if he wasn't so smart, David would worry he hasn't followed the story.

"Two boys," David sees Reid mouth to himself, and inwardly cringes. "Who was the other boy?"

He can still send the younger man on his way, he thinks. Granted, given enough time to think it through and get over his shock, Reid will most likely piece it together himself, but at least that way the responsibility won't fall on David's unwilling shoulders. Unfortunately, David knows better than to leave Reid to figure it out on his own, since that will probably have disastrous consequences, so he steels himself and plows onwards. "Reid, Gary Michaels has only been credited with the murder of two boys: Riley Jenkins, and James Rossi. If what Jenkins is saying is true, then Gary Michaels would have kidnapped you, taken you to his home, and you would have been held with the other boy; maybe even spoke to him. So far, believable. But if we believe the rest of his story, then Diana Reid took home the wrong boy when Jenkins killed Michaels, which means the other boy, the one who died, would have been the real Spencer Reid."

"Then I'm… not me?" Reid whispers, a terribly lost look on his face that eats away at David. "You mean I was someone else, that I was never…?" Suddenly his eyes widen in some sort of realisation, and David winces in preparation for the outburst that's sure to follow – but Reid surprises him; maybe it's because he isn't really in the right state of mind to connect the dots yet, but Reid doesn't explode about the implication of there only being two boys in the basement, Spencer and James, and the simple logic that if he isn't one, he's the other, instead heading in a completely different thought. "Do you think that's why he left?" he abruptly sounds small and even guilty. "My dad? Because he knew Mom took the wrong one home and couldn't… couldn't face it?"

"I don't know," David says gently, regarding his teammate with sad eyes. "We… can't know if Jenkins' story is true," he reminds him. "It's possible we're worrying about nothing and there's no question of who you are after all. Maybe Jenkins' is lying through his teeth, trying to distract us from questioning him about the murders."

Reid nods, though he doesn't look convinced. "Yeah, maybe."

David hesitates before getting to the main point of why he's told Reid everything. This could go south really fast, and David has a terrible feeling it will. "There is a way to know at least part of it," he sighs. "If you agree to a DNA test, we can determine if you really are Spencer Reid or if Diana took home the wrong boy."

Reid furrows his brow in confusion before it hits him, and he looks at David with a shocked sort of disbelief and, David thinks, maybe a little derision. "DNA test," Reid repeats slowly. "To compare… with you?"

He nods mutely because he isn't entirely sure if he can speak, or if there's even anything to say.

"You think I'm…" Reid shakes his head, pushing off out of his seat and backing away, an odd, unbelieving half smile twisting his lips. "Fine. Do the test. But I'm not – I'm not. I'm sorry, but I'm not. I can't be." He reaches for the door and yanks it open, managing to get half way out the door before David finds his voice again.

"Spencer," he calls, glad that the use of his first name catches Reid's attention enough to pause. "I have to ask you to keep this from the rest of the team. We have to focus on the case, and the less people that know the better."

Reid doesn't reply, just gives him a look David doesn't want to decipher and strides out the door, letting it close with a sharp bang behind him.

CM

"Do we think Jenkins' is capable of killing all the victims?" Hotch asks the team at large, the only acknowledgment of David's entrance being a vague nod in his direction. As David finds a seat at the table, conveniently putting Blake and Morgan between him and Reid, who studiously ignores him, Hotch continues with, "Could he be our UnSub?"

"Are we completely convinced the first murder wasn't done by someone else?" Morgan asks, clinging to their first theory. "There was that long time lapse in between."

Reid leans forwards in his seat, and though he looks a little pale and maybe not quite as focussed, there's no real indication that his world has just been flipped upside down moments ago. "We've seen longer," he points out, "and Jenkins does fit the profile."

"Be that as it may, we can't completely discard the idea," Hotch says, pulling out his ringing phone and sharing a brief look with David that basically communicates that Reid gave them the greenlight for the test before answering and walking out of earshot.

"Did Garcia get anything more on that Norton guy?" JJ wonders, gaze lingering on their rather pitiful suspect list.

With a sigh, Blake stands up and erases the name on the board. "He's been living in Canada for the past several years. There's no way he killed any of the victims. And we have no new suspects other than Jenkins."

"I still don't understand where you found the guy," JJ says rolling her head to look at David, then to Reid. "Where did he come up in the investigation, and why didn't we know?"

David thinks he sees Morgan glance at Reid, but tries to stay focussed on the currently useless evidence board in front of them. The truth is, they do have another suspect, but David doesn't want to find out how Reid might react to the idea they find William Reid and bring him in for questioning. After all, there were three people in on the secret of Michaels' murder (if they believe Jenkins' story, which David's isn't entirely sold on), one's in custody, one's got a good alibi of being in a mental hospital, and one's just up in the air.

Maybe David will get Hotch to suggest bringing him in when the rest of the team know enough to not raise many uncomfortable questions; because David knows there's no way they'll be able to keep it from them for long, especially with Garcia being in on it. He’s vaguely surprised they've managed to keep it quiet as long as they have.

As the other four quietly share ideas back and forth, David sees Hotch hang up, nod to him, and walk into the hall. Leaving the table practically unnoticed, David follows after him, closing the door to their makeshift conference room behind him.

"Garcia says the results will come in within a day or two of getting Reid’s DNA," Hotch says immediately, tucking his phone back into his pocket. David nods, all too aware of his friend's assessing gaze. "You told Reid, then. How did he take it?"

"He's upset, though I don't think he's too mad. Just confused. He doesn't want to believe that he isn't who he thought."

Hotch rubs his face, blowing out a breath and turning back to the door to the team. "I think it's time we call it a day," he says. "I'm going to tell the team to get some rest; that includes you. We can hold Jenkins for a bit longer; it should give us enough time to get more out of him tomorrow. If we're lucky, he'll solve this case for us."

David scoffs at the thought, and Hotch gives him a strained sort of smile before heading back into the room to relieve the rest of the team of work for the day. Even though David doesn't want to stop working just yet, he follows Hotch's advice and heads to the hotel, bypassing a formal dinner in favour of ordering room service, spending the rest of the evening focussing on how they're going to question Jenkins in the morning and stubbornly refusing to let his thoughts stray to his talk with Reid or the impending answers the DNA test might grant them.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning finds Spencer the first to arrive back at the police station. He makes a beeline straight for the small kitchenette, or, more specifically, the mediocre coffee machine stored there. He stubbornly refuses to concede to the team's shared feeling on his apparent coffee dependency, because he doesn't like the idea of having to rely on anything, let alone caffeine, and thinks the team should know better than to suggest otherwise. He's stronger willed than they sometimes give him credit for, and they should know how averse he is to the idea of being dependent on anything.

And maybe the shock from yesterday plays a part in his desire for some strong coffee, but Spencer doesn't really want to analyze that side of his feelings this early in the morning. Instead, he spends the next forty minutes it takes for the rest of his team to arrive nursing his large cup of coffee in the conference room, taking comfort from the caffeine and staring at the pictures pinned to the boards in front of him.

Morgan has his own cup in hand as he strides into the room, clapping Spencer on the back and taking a seat next to him, yawning as he says, "Mornin', pretty boy." Spencer murmurs a greeting in return, dropping his gaze to his almost empty mug, frowning as though the absence of coffee inside offends him.

JJ and Blake come in at the same time, discussing something lowly between them as they take their own seats, JJ flashing a smile in Spencer and Morgan's direction. They're all rather hazy from sleep, none of them being particularly chipper in the mornings, though Blake's better off than the rest of them, and Spencer's had almost an hour longer than them to wake up.

Hotch and Rossi arrive last, and Spencer makes a point of not looking their way as they settle at the table and share short pleasantries with the others. He thinks he feels Rossi's eyes on him, but when he chances a glance upwards, he sees the older profiler leafing through one of the case files, though he doesn't look very interested in it.

"Dave and I will talk to Jenkins again," Hotch says, drawing Spencer's attention away from his coffee and Rossi. "JJ, I want you to handle the press. They saw us take in Jenkins, but we haven't released a statement and they're getting insistent." Hotch hesitates before continuing with, "Blake, Morgan, check out Jenkins' house; if he's our UnSub he'll have copies of the murders hidden somewhere. Reid –" Spencer looks at him sharply, tensing in his seat. "– call Garcia. It's a longshot, but maybe she knows something."

They all nod and disperse to follow orders, and once Spencer sits alone in the room, he takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone, punching in Garcia's number. As usual, she only lets it ring a few times, before greeting cheerfully, "FBI Master of the Supercomputer speaking, how can I rock your world this morning?"

"Morning, Garcia," Spencer says, hearing the exhaustion in his own voice.

"Reid!" she gasps, as if he's the last person she thought she'd hear from. "Sorry, sweetie, but like I told Hotch, the results for the test won't come in for –"

"No," he says sharply, realising too late that he probably sounds harsher than warranted; but he's just so sick of it all already, and he wants to be able to go an hour without having to think about the mess he's been presented with. "Sorry," he sighs. "I just called to see if you've got anything new on the case."

"Oh," she replies, and Spencer feels a flood of guilt. "Sorry, sweetie, I got nada. Hotch is having me look through Jenkins' phone records, finances… so far I've got nothing. But don't worry; if this guy's got skeletons in the closet, you can be sure I'll find a sparkly flashlight and fish them out."

"Thanks, Garcia. And I, uh, I'm sorry for snapping at you," Spencer says.

"Boy wonder, don't worry about it. I know you didn't mean it; it's not like you. If you were really upset with me, I know you can do a lot worse than get a little short-tempered. I know this has got to be hard for you, and it can't be easy not being able to talk to the others about it. But remember you can always talk to me. I may not know or understand everything, but I'm always free if you want to vent."

"Thank you," he says into the phone quietly, maybe not feeling 100% normal but definitely better.

Spencer hangs up with a soft smile, any earlier frustrations close to evaporated after a quick talk with Garcia.

He's left standing alone in the room, staring at the boards of evidence. He sits back in his seat heavily, dropping his head in his hands now that he has nothing to do. It isn't the first time during a case that he's found himself without much to do, but usually he can task himself with revising the evidence or mulling over the profile, which usually leads to a 'eureka' moment of some sort, whether it's a case cracking realisation, or simply a small change that can help prod the team in the right direction. Now, however, he can't focus enough on the murders to be of any use, and his head is spinning too much to help any of the others.

Spencer can feel a headache brewing behind his eyes, and wonders if another cup of coffee will aggravate it into a full-blown migraine or not, despite the fact that he's just finished a cup. He doesn't move towards the coffee pot, deciding it's not worth the risk, instead pressing his palms to his eyes and hoping his headache will dissipate quickly.

Left on his own, his thoughts reluctantly, yet inevitably, fall on the conversation with Rossi the previous day. The whole thing leaves Spencer with a simmering sort of anger, though he doesn't really know where it's directed or where it's coming from. He doesn't want to admit it, but the conversation had struck a nerve. He'd spent most of the night repeating it over on a continuous loop inside his head until he'd miraculously dropped into an uneasy sleep, and he still hasn't sifted through his feelings, stubborn enough to tell himself that he doesn't feel anything at all.

Since he left the station the previous night, Spencer's been trying to assure himself that Rossi had been wrong, mistaken, that Jenkins is lying through his teeth and that the test Garcia is currently running is absolutely pointless outside of the fact that it will prove to Hotch and Rossi that they've fallen for an obvious trick and Spencer really is a Reid. He can't accept any other possibility, can't even entertain the thought, because being Spencer Reid is all he's ever known and the idea that it could all be a lie is terrifying.

It's like he's walking on a tightrope, knowing that if he puts too much thought into any of it, he'll slip and won't be able to snap out of it. Spencer can sense things on the edge of his mind, maybe memories, pressing in on the weak barrier keeping them hazy and unclear, and he's worried that it won't be long before they break through and he remembers it all. While he hates missing a part of his life, scared at the idea of remembering nothing of his first few years, he hates the thought of remembering something that could tip the scales even more.

The truth is, while listening to David yesterday, something had flared, triggered a previously unknown memory or two. At the time, Spencer had done his best to smother them, not wanting to be distracted, but then later, in his hotel room, he tried to dredge them up again with little success. Now, he has a feeling that if he tries, he might actually manage it, but that's something he really doesn't want to face, so instead he pushes away from his seat and wonders out of the room, blindly letting his feet take him to a different part of the station.

He finds himself just outside the building when he's woken by the chilly wind against his face, and he just slumps against the wall, staring across the parking lot. Idly, he counts the police cruisers, then recounts, then loses track and starts again. Eventually he stops, because he's frustrating himself with his own drifting thoughts. Usually he's more focussed than this, more useful, and he doesn't like being robbed of that, even if it is his own fault. So he takes a breath and decides enough is enough: whatever's pressing on his thoughts needs to be dealt with if he wants to actually help on the rest of the case. So Spencer reluctantly packs in all resistance and listens to whatever his mind is trying to tell him to remember.

"Did you know Kristopher Gulls?" Hotch asks, giving Jenkins his signature hard stare. "He lived pretty close by. He even knew Gary Michaels."

Jenkins groans in annoyance and drops his head in his hands, leaning forward in his chair. "I already told you I killed Michaels," he sighs, dragging his hands down his face. "Can't you just charge me and send me away or something? How long do I have to stay here?"

"We have more than one murder on our hands," Hotch answers, threading his hands together. "You're our best lead. Did you know Gulls? How about any of the other sex offenders living in the area?"

"No," Jenkins denies, clenching his jaw. "I don't make a habit of being buddy-buddy with bastards like that."

David watches from the other side of the one-way mirror, carefully watching Jenkins' reactions, or at least trying. Much as he attempts to stay on task, his mind can't help but wonder, usually drifting back to the same, predictable, thing. He can't help but remember how Reid had avoided looking at him this morning, and though he doesn't blame him in the least, it's uncomfortable and David can't help but regret telling him anything, no matter how much he deserved to know.

He's hoping things will be cleared up soon and things can go back to normal, though he knows he's just kidding himself. Really, there's no ending to this that can result in things going back to how they were; whatever the outcome is, there's always going to be that reminder that things could've been drastically different.

Still, David pushes that out of his mind, because there's no point thinking about it yet. He'll cross that bridge when – if – they come to it. For now, he tries to bring his attention back round to the interview taking place in the other room, and internally sighs in relief when it seems he hasn't missed much in his brief lapse of concentration.

The interview carries on for another twenty minutes or so, and nothing changes: Jenkins refuses to give much in the way of a straight answer, and Hotch is stuck running through the same questions. Finally, Hotch leaves the room, ignoring Jenkins as the man impatiently asks when he can get out of there again, and meets up with David outside the door.

"He's being difficult," David observes, keeping pace with the other man as they traipse down the hall. "Doesn't answer questions much, does he?"

"He will," Hotch says shortly, expression stormy. "He can't play games forever."

As they head back to the makeshift conference room, David happens to glance to the side, where the entrance to the building is, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Reid slip through the doors, looking pale and distracted as he stumbles into the bathroom. Curious, David pauses for the briefest second, but decides maybe it isn't the best idea to crowd the kid after everything, so he easily matches his pace back with Hotch's and pretends he didn't see anything.

Thankfully the washroom's empty when Spencer lurches in, finding a stall and dropping to the floor. He ignores how disgusting sitting on the floor is, too distracted to be bothered by it. His head throbs with a headache, but he's so used to them still that he barely pays the pain any attention, focussing instead on the newly recovered memories swirling around his head. They aren't complete, just broken pictures, but they're enough to make him feel sick, even if the majority don't make a lot of sense.

He remembers watching a news report on TV ages ago, when he was maybe eight years old. Spencer doesn't quite recall the exact report, but he thinks he remembers seeing a younger David Rossi on the screen, and a spike of unidentified familiarity he had felt when watching it.

Then Spencer remembers splinters of memories, some as vague as colours and sounds, like blue crayon or the sound of plastic crunching. He doesn't know what to make of these, since they seem harmless and rather pointless, yet his brain had apparently deemed them dangerous enough to warrant repressing for all this time.

There's other memories, too, but Spencer's already so overwhelmed that he can't sift through them yet, so he just sits on the floor with his head against the wall of the stall, eyes open but unseeing, gaze focussed inward. His chest feels tight and breathing is difficult, shaky and irregular, and distantly Spencer knows he should really work on getting that under control, but he can't seem to make himself do much of anything, feeling disconnected from his body. All he can focus on is the way his head is spinning, pulsing behind his eyes with a stinging pain that's just about enough to push him over the edge. But then he feels something, like a weight on one of his hands, and a voice manages to reach him through the chaos of his thoughts, and slowly his brain floats back down to the rest of his body.

Someone's speaking to him, and while he recognises the voice enough to not automatically close himself off, which at this point would probably exacerbate the remainder of his panic attack, his brain isn't quite back to its normal functioning yet, so he can't tell which teammate the voice belongs too.

Spencer closes his eyes and tries to listen to the voice anyway, unable to decipher the words or identify it, but glad it's there all the same as it slowly ropes him back to reality. His head still throbs rhythmically, but he can finally push it out of the forefront of his mind enough to think clearly, and as he gets his breathing under control, Spencer opens his eyes to see which teammate he has to worry about seeing him like this.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

"You okay, Reid?" Morgan asks him quietly, eyeing him with concern as he squeezes his hand. Spencer latches onto the contact, struggling to remain focussed and swallow past the sick feeling in his throat.

"Yeah," he mumbles, distantly feeling his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. "I'm, uh, I'm okay. Just… I'm fine now."

Morgan looks at him with some doubt, but helps pull him to his feet, steadying him when he sways a bit. Spencer still can't think straight, but he tries to tell himself that at least it was Morgan to calm him down and not someone else, like maybe a local police officer or Hotch or something. At least with Morgan he won't have to worry about being seen as weaker, and Spencer knows Morgan won't treat him like he's about to break. If it had been Hotch, Spencer can only imagine that he'd be made to sit out for a while, stop working the case, at least for a day or so, and that's the last thing he needs. Being sent away from any distractions and being forced to dwell on his thoughts? No thank you.

God, if it had been one of the local officers to find him in that state… He already has enough trouble making people take him seriously, even now that he's almost thirty, and if they knew he's prone to senseless moments of panic and gibbering then nobody would ever listen to him.

"What happened, Reid?" Morgan asks, keeping a hand on his arm even though Spencer's pretty sure his footing is steady.

He shakes his head, feeling sick just at the thought of trying to explain it, and thankfully Morgan drops it, at least for the moment. "I'm okay," Spencer insists, trying to pull away, but Morgan holds fast. "Really. I just need to go outside for a minute."

The walls of the bathroom, the stall in particular, are closing in on him, and suddenly he feels so fidgety and confined that he needs to go outside, to breathe the air and stretch. He staggers forwards, ignoring Morgan tailing him as he pushes through the bathroom door, blindly passing an impassive David Rossi on his way to the front door.

Morgan snags his arm outside the station, stopping him from going any further, though there is really nowhere to go. "Something's up," Morgan says, studying Spencer closely. "Tell me what's wrong."

Spencer struggles, mouth opening and closing, but the words won't come. He huffs, mortified that it sounds almost like a sob, and spins away, tugging on his hair.

"Reid?"

"I'm not – I – I don't know where to start," Spencer says, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. There's a gentle wind that wraps around the two of them, but they don't notice as it tugs their clothes and fades away. "It's just so… I don't even understand it! I didn't believe it, but now I – "

"Hey," Morgan interrupts, joining him against the wall. "Slow down. Just start where you can."

Spencer takes a minute, waiting for his head to stop spinning and his thoughts to settle, concentrating on his breathing. When he can think properly and is at least semi-calm, he takes a breath and considers.

"I don't think I can tell you," he says quietly, turning his gaze onto a silent Morgan. "I'm not, well, I was told I couldn't. I'm not supposed to tell anyone."

Morgan narrows his eyes in concern, crossing his arms loosely. "If it's bothering you, Reid, you shouldn't have to keep it to yourself. Don't tell me you can handle it," he adds, seeing Spencer open his mouth, "I just saw you having a panic attack in the bathroom. No way can you convince me you're okay."

Spencer worries the sleeve of his shirt, picking at a loose string and wishing he had scissors to be rid of it. "It's not just about me, though," he sighs. "It's not really my secret to tell."

Here Morgan snorts, shaking his head, and Spencer gives him a weird look. "You're my friend," Morgan says seriously, looking at him straight on. "And something's wrong. I don't care whose secret it is, if it's upsetting you I want to know. Besides, if it's their secret, I'm pissed just because they told you and expected you to keep quiet."

Spencer bites his lip, raging a mental war with himself, but all it takes is one look at Morgan for his resistance to cave. "Okay," he says, feeling unsure but determined to get it off his chest. Maybe if he shares, it'll make more sense – especially with two profilers thinking on it.

"I went to speak to Rossi…"

CM

David only catches a glimpse of Reid and Morgan before they slip out the front door, and for a moment he just stands there, in front of the station bathroom, frozen to the spot. He'd immediately seen Reid rush to the bathroom, a panicked look on his face, and had followed without a thought, only slowing when he was nearly touching the door.

He couldn't go in there. Reid had looked freaked, and whatever he went into the bathroom for, David figured his presence wouldn't help. So he'd slinked off to the side, unable to just walk away when there was clearly something wrong, but equally incapable of manning up enough to just walk inside the bathroom and see if Reid was alright.

Then before long Morgan had showed up, a worried look on his face as he followed Reid, straight by David without seeing him. Even then, knowing Reid would be in good hands with Morgan, better than he would be if David was in there, David couldn't leave, needing to see the kid with his own eyes before he could move on.

He'd been struggling to convince himself to unstick his feet and find Hotch again when the door opened and the two agents came out, brushing by him again. David wanted to speak to Reid, but couldn't make himself reach out and stop him, and even if he could of, he wasn't entirely sure he could say anything.

"Dave?"

He turns to see Hotch down the hall a little ways, an expectant look on his face. "Be right there," he says, sparing one last glance to the front door without spotting Morgan and Reid.

"We can't hold Jenkins forever," Hotch says as soon as David enters the conference room. "We only have a little time before we have to charge him or let him go. We can charge him with Michaels' murder, but after all this time, it's doubtful he'll get a full sentence. If we don't get him for anything else, we may have to let him go."

"I was thinking," David says slowly, stifling the little voice his head asking him not to continue. "Maybe Jenkins didn't commit the other murders. He might have, but unless we can get proof, we might as well look elsewhere, just in case."

"He fits the profile," Hotch points out, though he looks as if he's giving David's idea consideration. "But I agree, we need to start looking again. The profile's still relevant, we just need to focus away from Jenkins – until we can pin more on him. Have any ideas where to start?"

This is where it gets difficult, David thinks to himself. "If Jenkins really doesn't know who else might have killed the other victims, maybe the others do. The ones who were in on the secret with him."

Hotch leans back, narrowing his eyes. "Mr. and Mrs. Reid," he says slowly. "You want to bring them in? You think that's a good idea?"

"No, but I don't think we have much choice."

"Reid won't like it."

"To be honest, I don't think he can be any angrier with me at this point. He couldn't even look at me this morning."

Hotch shakes his head. "Well, this won't help with that. I only want to bring them in as a last resort – William Reid will put up a hell of a fight, one that won't end well, and Diana Reid… you know as well as I do that Reid won't be happy." David nods in agreement, uncomfortable with the way Hotch is scrutinizing him. "You know, if we do end up bringing them in, you can't ask them about what happened."

"I know that," David says mildly, not surprised that Hotch brings it up. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of it. "They can't give me a straight answer anyway, at least not one that the test Garcia's doing won't."

"Good," Hotch says. "Before we bring them in, maybe we should speak to Jenkins again, let him know we might not need him anymore."

CM

Morgan gives a long, low whistle when Spencer finishes, both of them sitting on the bench pressed up to the side of the station. They both sit in silence for a moment, digesting the information, before Morgan starts to laugh.

"Man, Reid, nothing's ever simple for you, is it? You're involved in two cases at once, neither of them solved. Damn."

Spencer shoots him a sour look, but there's a small part of him that's utterly relieved to have someone else in on it, someone he can actually talk to – because no way is he going to Rossi when his head's a mess, not about this – and even the fact that Morgan manages to avoid taking it deadly serious is oddly comforting. Spencer's been worrying himself sick over this, resisting and fighting it, and yet here's Morgan, reacting completely differently.

"Hey, you know it'll be alright," Morgan says, laughter dying quickly. "You said Garcia's running the test, yeah? So you're gonna know soon anyway, and you can deal with it then. Either way, there's no point worrying about it until you know. When you do, you can always talk to me."

Spencer nods, running his hand through his hair. "Thanks," he mutters, trying his best to do what Morgan says and avoid worrying, because he's right – all it's going to do is lead to more panic attacks, and that's hardly helpful. "I guess we should head back inside," he says. "Where's Blake? I thought you two were going to Jenkins' place?"

"We did," Morgan answers, standing from the bench. "Didn't take long to search the place. I came back before Blake with his computer for Garcia to check over, and she stayed behind to double check some things. In fact, I still have to call Garcia about the computer."

Spencer nods and follows him inside, Morgan moving away with his phone in hand, while Spencer heads into the conference room. It's empty, so he assumes Rossi and Hotch are talking to Jenkins again, and JJ must still be with the press, so he just sits at the table.

"If Jenkins isn't the UnSub," he says to himself, trying to prompt his brain into profiler mode again, having had enough of his inability to work properly. "Or maybe he is..."

Before he can get frustrated with himself again, JJ enters the room, a harried look on her face. She stalks over to the table and drops into the chair beside him, huffing.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate dealing with the press?" she sighs, pushing her hands against her face and giving him a tired smile. "This isn't my job anymore. Next time I should tell Hotch to ask someone else."

"You won't do that," Spencer says, getting up and moving to the end of the room, where one of the officers must have thoughtfully plugged in a spare coffee machine. He flips the switch on and snags one of the paper cups stacked nearby, turning back to JJ as he waits. "You're the best when it comes to dealing with the media, and you know if one of us had to do it, we'd say the wrong thing and end up disgracing the bureau or something, and if the local police were left to it, they'd leak the entire investigation."

"Yeah," JJ agrees, leaning back in her chair. "Still, the reporters… You say one thing, they quote another. Whatever I say, they're going to twist it into what they want. I've managed to get them to back off for now, but it won't be long until they come back, and if we don't have anything to give them, they're going to turn vicious."

Spencer turns to pour the coffee as he speaks. "Hotch and Rossi are with Jenkins now. If they don't get anything else out of him soon, we're not going to have another lead." He passes the cup over to JJ, who smiles in tired gratitude.

"We only have a few more hours until we have to let him go, don't we?" JJ asks. Spencer nods, taking his seat again. "Why did they bring him in, anyway?" JJ muses absently, resting her chin on her hand. "He came out of nowhere. You think they'll tell us soon, or is that just going to be another mystery?" She smiles, but it fades when she sees Spencer sitting stiffly beside her. "Hey, you okay, Spence?"

He shrugs, but she doesn't look away, and he knows she won't drop it. "Just a hard case," he eventually says, unable to look her way. "It'll be nice to go home."

She clearly doesn't buy it, but to his relief she doesn't push the issue. "You know you can talk to me whenever," she says quietly, lightly touching his arm. "I know you have Blake and Morgan, and that's good, but I'm here too."

"I know."

CM

"What do you mean?" Jenkins asks apprehensively, staring at David and Hotch from across the table. "Why wouldn't you need me anymore?"

"Because you're not the only one we can answers from," David says. "You've already told us who else was with you, who else knew, so we have two others we can ask. We plan on bringing in William and Diana Reid, if we can."

"No!" Jenkins protests loudly, causing David to raise his eyebrows. "You can't! Diana, she's sick, you won't be able to get sense out of her. Even if you could, she doesn't know anything. She was there when I killed Michaels, but she doesn't know anything about the other guys you mentioned."

Hotch and David share a look. "What about William Reid?" Hotch asks, close to the door. "We only really want to bring in him; Diana would just have been confirmation."

"He doesn't know anything either," Jenkins mutters angrily. "He's a good man. He didn't do this."

David stands from his seat, wandering over to Hotch. "Still, just in case, we might as well bring him in. Just because you think he's a good man doesn't mean he didn't kill our victims. How would you know? We'll just place a call with his workplace, drop by for a visit –"

"No!" Jenkins cries, face red with anger as he slams his hands down the table. "He didn't do it! I told you! Just leave him alone! Him and Diana, leave them both alone!"

"I'm sorry Mr. Jenkins," Hotch says, eying him closely, "but if it solves the case, we have no choice. We have a job to do…"

"But he didn't do it!"

David moves forward, keeping an eye on the handcuffs restraining Jenkins warily. "You can't know –"

"But I do! I do know! Leave him alone, he didn't do it! I know he didn't, because – because I did!"

The room falls silent, and Jenkins falls back in his seat, the colour draining from his face. Hotch and David slowly sit at the table, sharing a glance as they do.

Jenkins swallows with difficulty, sweat beading on his forehead, looking for all the world like his confession has stunned himself. "I, ah…" he says, eyes wide.

"You confess to the murders of all the victims?" Hotch asks, giving him the laser stare.

"I'd hardly call them victims," Jenkins says vehemently, fight briefly returned to him before fading again. "Deserved it, the lot of them. They weren't people, they were sick bastards who liked kids. How many people are going to side with paedophiles over me?"

"Doesn't matter," Hotch tells him, though David figures that's a bit of a lie. "It's a matter of you being a serial killer, Mr. Jenkins, and in my experience, people aren't big fans of them. Dave," he says, turning away from the man before them, "see if Blake and Morgan are back. I want to know if they've found anything – a confession might not be enough, especially if he changes his story later. Let them know he's confessed, but tell them to keep working; he might not be telling the truth."

David nods and gets up, reluctantly leaving Hotch alone in the presence of the man who looks pissed at being talked about in front of him.

An hour later, David spots Spencer leaving the conference room, and immediately abandons the coffee he's making in order catch up to him. He corners him just down the hall, snagging his arm before he can slip into one of the rooms.

"Reid," David says, waiting until the profiler looks at him. "Can we talk?"

"Thought we already did," Spencer murmurs, picking at his sleeve.

David sighs and takes a step back, thinking it best to give the younger man his space. "Look, I'm sorry about yesterday, but you needed to know. I don't expect anything, I don't know what the result's going to be, but whatever happens, you're a part of it, and deserve to know what's going on."

He waits as Spencer fidgets, then eventually stills and looks up at him. "I'm sorry," he finally says. "I… I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, and –"

David holds up a hand to quiet him. "No, you were shocked and angry, and you had every right to be. It's fine. I just wanted you to know that I told you because it was only fair."

Spencer opens his mouth to say something, but they're interrupted before he can.

"Dave," Hotch says, coming out of one of the doors nearby, presumably leading to an office. "Reid. Garcia called. The DNA test results are back."

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

"Garcia put a rush on the results," Hotch tells them a few minutes later, the three of them gathered in a little office. "I don't know what she did to get the test done so fast, and frankly, I don't want to. She faxed the results over before she called, but before you read them, I have to ask if you know the possible consequences."

Spencer chews on his lip, fighting the urge to fidget in his seat. He knows there might as well be a sign across his forehead labeling him 'UNCOMFORTABLE,' but he doesn't see the point in trying to hide it when both the other men in the room know it anyway. For a brief moment he wonders if Rossi feels the same tension, the same reluctance to look the other two in the eye, but Spencer quickly forces the thought away, because thinking of David Rossi right now isn't the easiest thing.

He doesn't answer Hotch except for a silent nod, letting David do the talking without bothering to listen until he hears Hotch mention the results again. Out of the corner of his eye he sees David shift a bit in his chair, a strange look on his face that Spencer's reluctant to decipher, so he sharply trains his attention on the papers in Hotch's hand.

There's two copies, one for both Spencer and David, and Hotch remains quiet as they look them over. Neither of them immediately look, taking their time, and Spencer can't resist a glance in David's direction, only to meet the other man's eyes. Spencer hastily looks down again, though he feels David's gaze stay on him a minute longer.

The page in front of him is full of writing and symbols, percents and funny little graphs, and for a second even his genius brain stalls at all the information. He skips all the jargon at the top, figuring he can go back and work through it if need be after he gets the answer he's looking for. He finds it near the bottom, under a few lines and graphs.

Match confirmed, or at least that's what he gathers before his mind goes blank. When his brain decides to function again, the first thought that occurs to him is 'Not a Reid.'

Distantly, he hears David's sharp intake of breath, but he can't focus on him at the moment, too wrapped up in his impending identity crises. It isn't the first time the thought's crossed his mind since he was brought into this mess, but seeing the proof in his hands, unable to argue anymore, brings it home in a horrible way. Spencer Reid isn't a Reid, isn't even a Spencer, and the realisation makes it difficult for him to swallow or breathe.

Nothing else matters, not even the far away thought that he can't be the only one who feels like the world has become unstable beneath his feet, but he doesn't care how David or Hotch or who the hell else might feel, because they haven't been lied to their whole lives, lives that weren't even their own, so for the moment Spencer thinks their shock pales in comparison to his.

"I know it's a lot to take in," Hotch says quietly, and Spencer nearly laughs because he's heard a lot of stupid things in his life, but this definitely makes it onto the top five list. "But we still have a case. When we get back, we're going to have to deal with the legal issues, and the bureau won't want you working together, and all of that will be easier to handle if you two talk about it here."

Spencer knows David is looking at him, but he stays focussed on the paper still in his hands, desperately trying to find a way out of the situation. If he was thinking reasonably, he'd agree with Hotch; he and David should get the toughest conversation, almost definitely the first of many, out of the way before the legal storm hits, and once they do, maybe – just maybe – they can push it aside enough to get to the end of the case.

While he knows a change of location is unlikely to really change anything, Spencer feels he'll be more reasonable, more patient and calm, if he can just deal with this back home. He doesn't know if it's because it would offer more of an escape – here, the team shares a hotel, the rooms close to each other, while back at Quantico, their homes are far apart – or if being home, without the pressure of the case, would give him a clearer head, but either way he really doesn't want to do this here and certainly not now.

Maybe David sees that, or feels the same, because after a moment he speaks up, voice sounding almost completely normal, except for the faint strain Spencer can only hear because of years spent working together.

"We will," David tells Hotch, and while Spencer doesn't dare look up at him, he thinks they're both avoiding looking at each other now. "Not now, but before we finish the case. I think we'd both appreciate a break before…" He trails off, sounding a little lost, which startles Spencer because 'lost' isn't something he'd usually apply to David Rossi.

It makes him even more uncomfortable, because being reminded that his teammate's life has also been altered by the papers in their hands drives it home further, and Spencer feels like a spring, ready to jump and run at a moment's notice. Which is why as soon as Hotch reluctantly agrees, he's out in a second, crumpling the paper in his hand as he strides down the hall, hoping Morgan's still where he was half an hour ago.

He is, and it takes just a glance in Spencer's direction for him to know something's wrong.

CM

Hotch doesn't say anything after Spencer bolts it out of the room, but he gives David a level look, one the man knows well.

"You saw the kid, Aaron," he says, nodding to the vacated chair nearby. "He needed to leave, and I can't blame him. It's… a lot to take in." David lets his gaze fall on the paper again, seeing the charts and numbers without processing any of it.

"And what about you?" Hotch asks, eying him keenly. "Reid's not the only one who's affected by this."

David stays quiet for a while, not sure how to answer. "It's a shock," he says finally. "I spent years thinking James was dead, accepted it, moved on, and now I learn I've been working with him for years?" He shakes his head. "How am I supposed to react to that?"

"There is no certain way," Hotch tells him quietly. "You and Reid are in a unique situation, and there's no instructions on where to go or what to do from here. You're going to have to figure it out yourselves."

"If he lets us do that," David mutters, but shakes his head before Hotch can say anything else. "I know. It's not fair to push Reid into talking now when he's not ready, and I know when he's given time to think he'll come around; he wouldn't let something get in the way of the case, and he doesn't run away from things, barring just now. If I'm being honest," he pauses, searching for the words before deciding nothing beats being blunt and to the point, "I'm relieved not to have to have that particular conversation straight away."

Hotch nods, but doesn't let David sink too deep into his thoughts, which, really, might be for the best. "The team?" Hotch says simply, not needing to elaborate. David considers for a moment, mentally cringing at the idea of sharing the story he's managed to keep quiet for years now with the others, but eventually sighs in defeat.

"They're going to have to know," he says in a resigned way. "I'd say we wait until the end of the case, or at least until Reid and I sort this out between ourselves, but I wouldn't be surprised if Reid's already told Blake or Morgan, and the ones he hasn't told are going to be getting suspicious anyway. It'll be easier when they know, but it won't be fun."

"Reid can talk to Garcia," Hotch offers, though they both know the suggestion won't make a bit of difference. Yes, the technical analyst will gladly lend a listening ear to Reid, but Garcia's still busy with the case and can't be on the phone for long periods at a time, so without another, more immediate confidant, Reid will be left hanging. Not exactly fair to the man, seeing as David can speak to Hotch at any time without having to explain anything.

"When do you want to tell them?" Hotch asks, leaving the ball in David's court.

He thinks for a moment, considering, weighing the pros and cons of what he wants against what he's sure Reid wants. "I don't think Reid will want to be there," David says slowly, hoping he knows the other man well enough to make the right call on this point. "If you tell the team while Reid and I are talking, you can field the harder, more immediate questions before they reach the kid. I can handle them, God knows I have experience with answering difficult questions, and that way Reid won't have to explain it all when he talks to one of them."

Hotch nods in silent agreement, but it's difficult to tell if he thinks this is the best course of action. He doesn't raise any objection, though, so David decides to ignore any and all doubts and hope for the best.

"Morgan brought back Jenkins' computer earlier," Hotch thankfully changes the subject. "Garcia's looking into it. With any luck, she'll find something that'll tell us whether or not Jenkins is lying. You still want to bring in William Reid?"

David hesitates. "We should wait and see what Garcia finds," he finally says. "If there's nothing to support Jenkins' claim, then we have no choice, but I don't want to bring Mr. Reid in unless absolutely necessary."

"You know we'll have to eventually," Hotch presses, expression, as always, unreadable, except for a faint tell that David only just manages to spot. "Maybe not for this particular case, but at least after we solve this one and have to focus on the fact that William Reid knowingly took home your son to raise."

The twitch David feels himself give is small, a stiffening of his spine in a subconscious reaction to the words he hasn't let himself think yet, but he knows Hotch catches it all the same. That's when David realises maybe Reid isn't the only one who desperately needs time to process this, meld the facts with the feelings.

Hotch seems to notice this, because he quietly excuses himself and leaves him alone in the cramped office, saying something about calling Garcia about the computer, but David barely hears him, too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

For years, decades, he's lived with James being dead, and after struggling to accept it for the first few years, he's moved on and got to the point where thinking of James isn't exactly painful, more difficult and nostalgic than anything. Sure, whenever he thinks of his son there's the usual spike of guilt, sorrow, and anger, but after a while those feelings were quickly overtaken with the memories he made sure to keep from the four years he had with James.

Now he suddenly learns that James has been out there all these years, alive and relatively well, making his own way in the world with absolutely no memory of those four years David so cherished. Not only that, but the two have been working together for over half a decade, becoming friends of a sort, with a mutual trust that can only come from chasing psychotic killers and jumping into life-threatening situations together. And that's without touching upon the fact that his son was raised by an absentee father and an ill mother who he should never of been with in the first place, only after he was taken away from the basement of a child killer and paedophile. It's enough to make his head hurt.

The paper still clutched in David's hand presents yet another troubling problem to be tacked on to the already long list. He still has the idea of his son in his head as being the same four-year-old boy he lost, smart, smiling, confident; yet the results he holds tells him that this boy is the same man he knows as Spencer Reid, brilliant, awkward, almost painfully unassuming.

Two ideas of the same person, warring in David's mind, clashing horribly, and he has no idea how to fuse them together.

CM

They sit in silence after Spencer unloads everything on his friend, the crumpled DNA results lying discarded between them. Spencer's mind buzzes with it all, but he's determined not to delve too deep into it, afraid of another panic attack as well as the knowledge that as soon he accepts any of it, everything will be different.

"When are you going to have it out with Rossi?" Morgan eventually asks, looking almost as tired as Spencer himself. "You're going to have to talk to him, Reid, and soon. You can't just leave him wondering, not after this."

Spencer growls faintly and drops his head in his hands, fighting with himself. "I know," he says, because he does – the best thing to do here would be to sit down with David Rossi for an hour or two and get the whole mess as cleared up as possible, or at least just enough to be able to work properly. Rossi also deserves the chance to say his piece, clear the air, maybe tell Spencer they can just ignore it all (Spencer isn't sure if that's really what he wants to happen, but it would certainly be a hell of a lot easier), and Spencer himself might benefit from explaining himself as well. "I just need to…" He waves his hand vaguely, silently begging Morgan to understand.

"Take some time to process it," Morgan finishes, a sympathetic look in his eye. "Look, Reid, I'm not even going to pretend to understand what you're going through. I know it's gotta be hard, hell, I can see that, but it'll keep getting worse until you deal with it. I'm not saying you should go and talk to Rossi right this minute, because to be honest, I think you both probably need a while until you can think straight; but do it soon, okay?"

He gets up from his seat and gently claps Spencer on the back, making his way to the door. "I know you need to be alone for a bit to think things through properly, but think about giving Garcia a call. She might not have any more experience with this sort of thing than I do, but you know she has a way of making you feel better."

After he leaves, Spencer remains in his chair for a long time, staring at the crumpled ball of paper and running everything through in his head in a constant, replaying stream, before deciding this is getting him nowhere and digging his phone out. He doesn't let himself hesitate before hitting the button for Garcia's speed-dial, not bothering to think ahead to what he's going to say.

"Hey, 187," she answers softly, her tone enough to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth and let the words spill forth.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know what to think or feel. Everything's upside-down."

"I know, and I'm sorry, Reid," Garcia says quietly, and Spencer doesn't even hear the usual background noise of typing.

He huffs out a choked breath in a poor semblance of a laugh, clutching the phone like a lifeline. "That's just it! I'm not a Reid, am I? I'm just a… a… an imposter! I'm not my mother's son, I'm not a Spencer, or a Reid… I'm not me."

"And why would not being born as Spencer Reid mean you're not you?" Garcia suddenly asks forcefully. "You could be called Spartacus Barkley and you'd still be our loveable genius. Besides, you are Spencer Reid. It doesn't matter if that's what you were born as, you were raised as Spencer Reid – and, really, what's a name? Just a silly label you're given as a squalling, wrinkly thing. Why should that determine who you are?"

Her words coax a short lived smile onto Spencer's face, though he can't deny Garcia has an innate ability to make him feel better. "But I wasn't meant to be a Reid," he says when his smile falters. "I wasn't meant to grow up with my mom or do the things I did – if I'd grown up the way I should have, who's to say I would have been the same person?"

Garcia snorts, and Spencer wrinkles his forehead in confusion. "Oh, Junior G-Man, first off, there's no way of knowing, so stop that genius head of yours agonizing over that, and second, personally, I like who you are. Why would I want you any different? You're the only one who can keep up with my stunning brain."

This time he gives a real, albeit shaky and quiet, laugh, and Garcia suddenly grows serious again.

"Hey. You know this whole thing with you being Rossi's long-lost son – hello cliché soap opera plot – doesn't change how I, or the team, will think of you, right? Like I said, you're still you. Genius, caveman with technology, obsessive to the littlest detail, clueless to pop culture references… That's not going to change, even though it seems like everything else will."

"Thanks," Spencer says, not wanting to admit to the relief sweeping over him.

"No problem, super brain. Now, I've got this crossword that I'd love to get your help on…"

It takes nearly two hours and more words of encouragement from Garcia until Spencer manages to bring himself to find Rossi again, slightly disappointed to run across the man only five minutes into his half-hearted search. He's coming out of the tiny kitchen, mug in hand, with a distracted look on his face, and when he sees Spencer, he stops in his tracks.

Spencer shifts from foot to foot, anxiously chewing on the inside of his cheek, carefully avoiding David's eyes. "If you want to talk," he starts haltingly, picking at his fingers, "I won't run off again."

David's silent for a moment, fingers visibly tightening on his mug, before nodding stiffly. "Alright," he says, gesturing down the hall. "The office is still free. Let's talk."

Chapter Text

Chapter Eighteen

On the way to the break room Hotch spots Reid shuffling down the hallway, followed by a tense looking David, who spares Hotch a look and nod, continuing to follow Reid to what looks like the perpetually empty office. Hotch takes this to mean the two are off to talk things through, which means it's time for him to gather JJ, Blake, and Morgan and finally include them in what's going on.

He finds JJ speaking quietly with one of the officers, Blake at the whiteboard, and Morgan in the kitchenette.

The only problem is where to start, he thinks, and how much to tell. Hotch knows there's very little that can be left out without missing key points in the whole thing, but at the same time he doesn't want to compromise either of his team members' privacy if he can help it.

In the end he decides just to say what he has to, and hopes David and Reid are more open to talking to each other.

CM

David restrains himself from fiddling with the coffee cup, but it's a close call and adequately distracts him from the tense atmosphere for a few moments. When he brings himself to look up, he sees Reid picking at the loose string on his sleeve, attempting to burn twin holes in the wood of the desk between them.

Inwardly, David lets himself indulge in the errant thought that at least they aren't seated like a superior and a subordinate, even with a desk between them. Instead of a proper leather chair usual to offices, the two chairs available are the same uncomfortable wood with thin cushion, which, he thinks, puts he and Reid on the same sort of level. David's perfectly aware Reid doesn't care about the chairs, and it hardly matters, and it wouldn't make a difference either way, but it's easier to try and assure himself that at least it's not as bad as it could be than to think of that.

Reid draws a breath and appears to decide to take the plunge, raising his gaze and meeting David's eyes.

"I won't lie," he says, stare level. "I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this, or react to it. I'm sorry I ran off before, but this is… difficult. I know it has to be hard for you too, even more so in some respects, but I wasn't thinking of that when I ran out, I was just thinking of myself. It was so overwhelming, still is, and I couldn't bother to think what you were going through and –"

David vehemently shakes his head, quickly quieting the other man mid-ramble. "No, Reid, relax," he sighs. "Yeah, this whole mess is hard, and I don't know how to go about it, either; but I think it's fair to say you deserve to be selfish right now. Don't bother worrying about me, not when your head's a mess."

Reid nods, looking relieved, and drops his gaze again.

"I don't remember anything," he says abruptly, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He doesn't try to meet David's eyes again, maybe because he knows he might lose his nerve. "You said your son –" Reid stops, takes a breath, and shakes his head sharply. "You said your son was kidnapped when he was four. I don't have any memories – not real ones, not solid, reliable ones – from that age. The first clear memory I have is when I was six or so. When I was already Spencer Reid."

Having already known this, David stays quiet, trying to ignore his involuntary flinch.

"I'm sorry," Reid rushes to add, though David's unsure whether it's because he saw the effect his words had on David or not. "I am, but… Rossi, I'm not him. Maybe I was born as your son, as James, and maybe we do share DNA, but I'm not him. I can't be. I wish –" Another head shake. "No, I don't wish I was anyone different. I like who I am, and I wouldn't be me if I didn't have the experiences I did. What happened to you and Carolyn, losing your son, wasn't fair, and it shouldn't have happened, and I guess things might've been… maybe they would've been better, easier, if I'd stayed with you and was raised as James Rossi. But that wasn't what happened. I'm really sorry."

David takes a steadying breath, pulling his coffee cup closer without a thought of actually drinking from it, just wanting to have something to do with his hands.

"Reid," he starts after a few moments, noting how the agent across from him still hasn't looked up. "I don't expect anything to change. I don't want you to pretend to be something you're not, and I know you're not James. Hell, we don't even have to ever acknowledge this again if you don't want to." Neither of them respond to this blatant lie.

"What was he – James – what was I like? When I was with you?" Reid blurts into the long silence that follows. All at once his eyes widen and the blood drains from his face, clearly horrified. "No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked, I didn't mean to… Just forget I asked."

David observes Reid closely, seeing how this must be affecting him, not knowing anything about his first few years of life, unsure if he should even ask without coming across as prying or rude. David knows how this must be eating at Reid, not wanting to give David the wrong idea about having to change, wanting to deny or ignore ever being someone other than Spencer Reid, but at the same time dying of curiosity about the life he could have had, should have had.

It's not really fair to David, and he knows Reid knows that, but David doesn't complain, can't complain, because while it'll hurt, sharing cherished stories of his son to Reid of all people, David will never turn down the chance to remember James as he was.

"Smart," David goes with first, pretending not to notice the way Reid looks up in surprise, a strange longing in his eyes that he quickly hides. "Though you could probably already guess as much. You hadn't started school yet, but you could already do some of the harder math questions Carolyn and I showed you after we realised you were a bit more advanced than 2 + 2 = 4." David's mouth twitchs up in a smile.

Reid nods slowly, fidgeting with his hands. "My teachers when I first started school didn't really know what to do with me," he admits. "While the other kids in class were struggling with simple multiplication tables, I was doing advanced algebra at home."

It comes as a surprise to David, because he hadn't known this was going to be a share and swap session, didn't know they were going to be exchanging stories, but he supposes it's nice in a way. Reid wants to know what things were like from the lost years in his memories, and David's spent years mourning the fact that his son never got to experience even the mundane aspects of growing up. This way Reid has to something to fill the gaps in his memories with, even if he can't remember experiencing them, and David gets hollow comfort in the fact that his son did, in fact, hit all the milestones of growing up.

Doesn't mean it's easy for either of them, though.

The scale tips in Reid's favour really, throughout their awkward story sharing. David only has four years of stories to relate, a limited number of achievements and anecdotes he can tell, whereas Reid has a wealth of stories from his years of memories. In the end it almost evens out, since David doesn't have much of a problem with telling Reid his favourite, most well-remembered stories – at least after some initial hesitation – while Reid seems reluctant to part with most of his childhood.

In the end they both taper off as David runs out of steam and Reid doesn't offer any other stories.

It's a nice reprieve while it lasts, but it doesn't take much to remind them both that no matter how much they tell each other about the years the other missed, it doesn't change anything.

CM

"What, uh, what do the others know?" Reid asks quietly, picking at his fingers. "I mean, we have to tell them, right? We can't keep this from them. And Hotch said we'd have to let the bureau know, so they'll find out anyway, especially if one of us has to leave the team –"

"Hotch is telling the team now," David cuts him off quickly, not letting Reid build up enough steam for a full blown rant.

"What?" Reid stops, narrowing his eyes. "I don't get a say?"

David inwardly curses, knowing it's his fault for telling Hotch to tell the team without consulting Reid first, but doesn't let any of the uncertainty show on his face. "Of course you do," he says, hoping Reid isn't really as upset as he seems. "I'm sorry, Hotch and I thought you would prefer it if the team found out while we were still talking, so you – we – wouldn't have to answer their questions immediately. Hotch isn't going to tell them anything you wouldn't feel comfortable telling them, only the necessary information."

Reid chews on his lip, eyes guarded, but eventually sighs in defeat. "I suppose I'm glad I'm not there," he admits. "Not when they first find out. I – I already told Morgan," he confides, fleetingly meeting David's eyes – because he asked Reid not to tell anyone, David realizes, and Reid thinks he'll be annoyed – "but JJ and Blake… You and Hotch were right. Thank you."

David nods, still troubled by his earlier request for Reid not to tell anyone. Stupid on his part, really.

"But I'd like to have made the decision myself," Reid adds. "I can do that – decide for myself." Something in his expression tells David he's touched upon something deeper than this one mistake on his part, a button for Reid that shouldn't be pushed.

So he nods and apologizes, knowing it was an oversight to ignore Reid's opinion on something he's so thoroughly involved in, and hoping there aren't any more conversational land mines he might stumble upon.

David dumps his full, cold cup of coffee into the trash, a bone-deep exhaustion settled around his shoulders. He and Reid had remained in that office for longer than he'd expected, long after the amount of time it would have taken for Hotch to finish explaining things to the others. They hadn't shared much more, simply talked in small bursts, between long silences.

Reid had made a comment on his surely stone-cold coffee, and David had taken this as an attempt to put an end to their never-ending non-conversation. They'd gone separate ways once leaving the office, Reid presumably off to find one of the others, maybe Morgan, and David heading for the nearest bin and coffee machine.

"Didn't know you were so dependent on coffee," a voice behind him muses, and David turns to see Blake in the doorway.

David shrugs, not bothering to make a new cup like he'd been thinking of doing. She had a point.

"With this job? Coffee is life-blood," he says instead, leaning against the counter.

Blake joins him, not saying anything, perhaps waiting to see if he really wants to talk. David doesn't really know, but he appreciates it all the same.

"Hotch told you everything," he starts off, not a question.

"Mm," Blake hums. "Maybe not everything. He said you had a son that was taken from you by our first victim, that it had something to do with the man currently in the investigation room. He also may have mentioned Reid was your son," she adds.

"It's complicated."

"I see that."

David doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't know if Hotch went into much detail on why Jenkins is being questioned, and he doesn't feel like asking, in case it's left to him to explain.

"I know," Blake speaks up eventually, "I know it's hard for you. Not just finding out Reid is your son, which I'm sure is hard enough, but losing him in the first place."

David snorts in disbelief. He doesn't mean to, doesn't mean to be rude, but it's involuntary.

"No, I really do," Blake insists. "My son, Ethan, he died when he was nine. He wasn't kidnapped, so I can't relate in that respect, but I know what it's like to lose your child."

Feeling duly chastened, David turns to Blake in shock. "I didn't know you had a son," he murmurs quietly.

"I don't mention it much." Blake shrugs, studying the opposite wall. "Besides," she says, "I could say the same of you."

"I spent years thinking James was dead," David says after a while. "Carolyn and I… we split up after James was taken. It took me years to stop looking for him. Now, it turns out he's alive, has been the whole time, and not only that, but I've been working with him for years."

"And he's not the boy you remember," Blake wisely sums up. "Of course he's not. Why would he be? He's had twenty-odd years being raised as someone else, without remembering anything of the time with you."

Not the most comforting thing to here, David thinks, but true nonetheless.

"However," Blake continues, "personally, I don't think Spencer's turned out so bad. You're not going to get your James back, and even though you've known that since you lost him, it's going to be harder now, because you're going to see what could have been. But your son's alive, David, he's here, just… different than you thought."

Suddenly David finds it difficult to look her way, intent on staring down the counter across from him. "I know," he says. "I just don't know where to go from here. Reid… I think he'd be happiest if we could just forget any of this happened, and I can't blame him. What are we supposed to do now? Just… ignore it? Pretend nothing's changed?"

"Oh, I couldn't do that," Blake tells him, a look in her eye that makes David uncomfortable, purely because he knows he's had the exact same look in the past. "I can't tell you what to do, because I have no idea. That's up to you and Spencer. What I can tell you, is that I'd give anything to be in your place."

Blake gives him a soft smile, gently squeezes his arm, and moves towards the door. Before she leaves, she pauses, half turning back to him. "David, if you don't want to pretend, which obviously you don't, tell Spencer that. He's not unreasonable, nor is he heartless. I can guarantee you he's having a similar struggle now, and while you might want different things, you won't know unless you ask."

"Not sure if we can handle three serious conversations in as many days," David responds, only half joking.

"Even so, Spencer knows at least a little of what you most want, and he won't ignore that. I can't promise he won't ask for things to go back as they were, but if he does, he'll know what he'll be asking of you. Whatever he does, while he has every right to be selfish right now, he'll take you into consideration."

With that, she slips out the door.

"Dave," Hotch calls, easily catching up. "How did it go with Reid?"

He got a head shake in reply. "Not sure yet," David says.

"Garcia looked into Jenkins' computer," Hotch smoothly transitions, clearly seeing it best to steer away from the topic. "She's still looking, but it seems like he could be our guy. We might not have to bring in the Reids after all."

"Reid will appreciate that," David adds, partly relieved. He has a feeling that if the Reids had been brought in, Reid would have been less than understanding, and he's eager to avoid the kind of argument that would have surely ensued.

Hotch gives him a look, one that David knows well, but chooses to ignore, continuing down the hall. Hotch walks with him, divulging the secrets Garcia dug up on Jenkins' computer. Nothing overtly damning, but evidence of digging into reports and files that Jenkins has no business digging into, mainly concerning the locations of sex offenders and their histories. No doubt a competent lawyer will argue simple curiosity, especially considering the files are open to the public, as long as said public are at least mildly tech savvy and willing to sieve through dozens of useless reports.

When they reach the empty conference room, Hotch stops him. "Dave, after this case is done, we'll have to speak with William Reid. We can send the rest of the team back to Quantico, keep it unofficial."

"When you say we," David says slowly. "You mean you, me, and Reid?"

Hotch hesitates. "We'll tell Reid what we're doing. He can decide whether to stay or not. Until then, we focus on this case. It's dragged on long enough, especially now that it looks like Jenkins really is the UnSub. Hopefully Garcia can find something more substantial on the computer; but if she can't, we should have enough to successfully arrest Jenkins, especially considering his confession."

Ducking into the conference room, David sees Reid down the hall with JJ, but doesn't stop, thinking they could probably both do with a break from each other.

CM

"What are you going to do?" JJ asks softly.

Spencer shrugs. "I don't know what I can do. Or what I want to. It feels like there isn't any time for me to figure it out, either, with everything happening now. I just want to be able to think, JJ."

She places a gentle hand on his arm, leading him down the hall. "I'm sorry, Spence. I'm glad you're telling me, though I know I'm not much help. Whatever you choose to do, I'll listen. I might not agree, but I'll listen." JJ smiles and bumps their shoulders together.

Spencer smiles uncertainly back, voice quiet, "I just don't know what to do."

Chapter Text

Chapter Nineteen

They're avoiding each other.

Well, avoiding is a bit too strong of a word, David supposes. They're just careful not to run into each other more than strictly necessary. Personally he doesn't think it would be his first choice on how to deal with the matter, but he's made a promise to himself to let Reid choose where to go from here on out, at whatever pace he chooses – including no progression at all. It wasn't an easy promise to make to himself, and David figures he's probably going to regret it, but he's made the decision to stick to it.

He thinks it probably helps that he hasn't let himself think about how he might want things to go from here. That way he can't be disappointed, not really.

So he doesn't say anything whenever Reid mumbles and slips out of the room as soon as possible whenever David enters, doesn't answer the question in Hotch's eyes, doesn't even let himself feel the twinge somewhere in his chest every time Reid avoids meeting his eyes. Doesn't think about how he thought things were going to be a bit better after their talk the other day; it certainly didn't resolve all the issues, but David had really thought it had been somewhat of an improvement, enough that they'd be more open with each other afterwards, but Reid seems more closed off than ever.

It only goes on for a few days until things are forced to change, and David isn't sure if he can even bring himself to be grateful.

CM

"How much do you guys love me? I mean, seriously, I amaze myself sometimes," Garcia says smugly from the other end of the phone. "I dug and I dug through Mr. Jenkins' computer and really thought I wouldn't be able to find anything. The guy has very limited technical ability, the poor mortal, but he seemed to dust off all his odd bits of knowledge to hide a specific file."

"What kind of file?" Hotch asks, leaning back against the desk. He and David are the only ones there, the others busy in other parts of the station, and David wonders if they shouldn't fetch Reid for the call too. He'd go grab him himself, except he's sure Reid is still relying on all the tricks he has up his sleeve to steer clear of David.

"Okay, so it turns out you guys were right about keeping copies of the videos left with the victims, and I think I found the videos on Jenkins' computer."

She sounds sure of herself, but David can tell she probably hasn't watched the videos herself, not after the first time watching them, so she wants them to confirm it. "Send them to us," he says. "We'll have a look."

"Sure thing," Garcia says. "On their way to you now."

"Thanks, Garcia," Hotch tells her before hanging up, both he and David making their way to their tablets. "Dave, I can watch these, you go tell the others," Hotch adds before David can do much more than see the notification from Garcia. "If these are really the videos, then Jenkins confession isn't the only evidence we have against him. It also means he could be telling the truth and we won't need to bring in William Reid until the others head back to Quantico."

"Reid will like that," David says automatically.

Hotch raises an eyebrow at him, and suddenly David realises he's lost whatever game they were playing. "Then go tell him," the unit chief says, inclining his head towards the door in a shooing motion, tablet in hand and waiting for him to open the file from Garcia. "He should be with Morgan."

"Yeah, yeah," David sighs, admitting defeat by doing as he's told, heading towards the door. "At least the team will be happy this case is almost wrapped up. Feels like it's been going on for ages. It'll be good to be going home."

CM

Reid is indeed with Morgan, holed up in the conference room and sorting through the files, and the pictures tacked up to the board. Seeing as there isn't anything new to go over, David isn't surprised that the files look mostly discarded, perhaps half-heartedly paged through but quickly given up on, while a handful of pictures taken from the videos found with the victims lay on the table. Morgan and Reid, however, have their heads bent together, talking in low voices, so whether they've actually done anything with the files and pictures is questionable.

"Rossi," Morgan says, spotting him lingering in the doorway first. "What's up? You guys learn something?"

"Garcia went through Jenkins' laptop," David tells him, carefully not allowing himself to look too long at a quiet Reid, who doesn't dare to even lift his eyes from his lap. "It looks like we can prove he's our guy. Along with his confession, with any luck the case will be wrapped up by tomorrow."

Morgan looks glad at the news, which doesn't surprise David, and even Reid looks relieved. His job done for the moment, David turns to leave, perhaps to head back to Hotch and go over the unearthed videos with him, but Reid stops him before he goes too far.

"Actually, uh, Rossi, do you have a moment?" Reid asks, getting up from his position at the table, plucking at his fingers. David absently wonders if he's always had that nervous tell, or if it's a recent habit. "I'd like to talk to you, if that's okay?"

Taking the hint, Morgan gets to his feet, clapping Reid on the shoulder. "I'll go see what JJ and Blake are up to," he says, something in the parting glance he gives the other agent telling David the two of them had been discussing this plan before he arrived. For FBI agents, you'd think they'd be more discreet. Morgan nods to David on his way out the door, and David can't help but think it's a wish of good luck.

David takes up Morgan's vacated spot, waiting for Reid to gather his thoughts.

"After this case, we'll still have to call in my dad, won't we?" Reid says, and instantly David knows it's going to be one of those conversations, a pit of dread starting to grow in his stomach. "Sorry," Reid immediately says, wincing at his perceived folly. It takes a moment for David to realise he's apologising for referring to William Reid as his dad. He shrugs it off, taking a moment to check himself, to see how he actually feels about it, and coming up empty.

"Don't be," he assures. "I know he's your father, Reid. That hasn't changed, and it doesn't have to. He's the one who raised you, the one you grew up calling Dad. Don't worry about it."

Looking frustrated, Reid sighs. "I know, but he's not. I mean, even before all – this," he waves his hand in front of him, indicating what he means by 'this', "he wasn't my dad. I stopped thinking of him as my dad by the time I started highschool. When he left, he gave up being my father." He chews his lip, a wrinkle in his forehead as he thinks so hard David swears he can smell the smoke. "I just, I know we have to bring him in after the case, because he can tell you what happened when… with Michaels, and everything, but we don't, you don't need to talk to my mom, right? She doesn't know anything, and even if she does, she won't be able to – to tell you, or –"

David raises a hand to slow the onslaught. "We won't bring in your mom unless we absolutely have to," he promises. "I'm sure it won't come to that. We can get everything we need from William Reid, and everything else from Jenkins; he seems willing enough to talk. I see no need to bother your mom with this."

The relieved exhale from Reid tells David just how much this particular issue has been weighing on the man's mind. How long had this been bugging him? Days, maybe?

"Thank you," Reid says sincerely, looking grateful. "I guess I'll have to talk to her eventually, but it's hard to talk to her about the past sometimes, since she doesn't always remember… Everything she could know, Jenkins and my dad probably do too. I'd hate to disturb her for no reason, you know?"

David nods along in understanding, sensing it's what Reid expects him – needs him – to do. He can't help but wonder if this is the reason Reid's been working so hard to avoid him lately, worrying himself over nothing; if so, David isn't quite sure how to feel about it. Relieved, because at least he knows it's nothing he did wrong, simply the overly anxious thoughts of Reid when it comes to his mother; but confused, because David had really thought they'd made some progress during their last chat, yet apparently not enough for Reid to come to him with these concerns sooner.

But Reid's giving him an uncertain smile, which slowly starts to flicker and fade the longer David simply stares, so he shakes himself out of his thoughts and attempts to plaster something akin to friendliness on his face. It seems to do the trick, since Reid relaxes noticeably, already giving off the vibe of opening up to David once more. It's a strange thing, watching Reid thaw from his frozen, polite-but-distant façade, and David won't deny it's nice.

Reid starts chatting, mainly about the case, but in a strained way, and while David knows he's doing the best he can to diffuse the tension, apologise for his prior avoidance, the older agent also knows it's of no use for the moment, so he makes his excuses and slips from the room. He heads back to Hotch out of sheer lack of anything else to do, still thinking. He passes Morgan in the hall, talking to Blake, and they both attempt to give him an encouraging look. He elects to ignore them, but not out of rudeness – or so he tells himself, anyway.

Hotch has already started on watching the videos Garcia sent, so David picks up his own tablet and does the same, nodding noncommittally when Hotch looks up at his entrance. They settle down into silence, watching the homemade movies of a serial killer out for revenge, neither making a sound at the gruesome scenes depicted on their screens over the course of the next half hour.

CM

"I think it's safe to say Jenkins is our UnSub," Hotch finally speaks up, nothing in his expression giving away the horrors he'd just witnessed. "He matches the profile, he confessed, and now we have the videos from his computer."

"These guys will be happy to hear it," David muses, putting his tablet down on the tablet heavily. He gestures to the handful of police officers milling about in the hall outside. They generally tend to stay out of the BAU's way, polite enough but not providing much in the way of interaction, but all members of the BAU team are used to the feeling of many sets of eyes on them when at any local department. In the past few days especially, David has noted how restless the LVPD has seemed as a whole with the prolonged presence of the FBI, with no obvious breakthrough in the case.

Hotch hesitates. "If we want to talk to William Reid before Jenkins is taken to prison," he starts slowly, watching David critically, "then it'll be easier if we're still operating here. As soon as we turn Jenkins over, the department will expect us to leave, and we can't tell them why we need to stay, not without the bureau knowing first; as soon as a local officer finds out about you and Reid, it'll just be a matter of time before the media hears about it."

Seeing where Hotch is going, David sighs. "You think we should keep working the case, bring in William Reid and let the department assume he's a suspect?"

It's a tough call, and while it's perhaps not breaking the rules, it's certainly bending them into fantastical contortions. Until they officially close the case and hand over Jenkins, the LVPD will automatically suspect anyone else the BAU brings in to question, and they know better than most how damaging that can be to people who are later released as innocent. William Reid certainly won't thank them, but David isn't inclined to feel much charity or sympathy for the man, not if he can tell them exactly what happened twenty years ago, and certainly not when it looks like Mr. Reid played quite a big role in keeping David's son from him, intentional or not.

"I think we need to keep Jenkins close by," Hotch answers reasonably. "And I think the only way to do that is keep the investigation ongoing, until we can determine William Reid's relationship with Jenkins, and guarantee that Reid played no part in the murders. If they choose to reveal information on another matter, then of course we can't be expected to ignore it."

"Sometimes I forget you used to be prosecutor," David says idly.

Hotch shrugs. "Let's tell the team. They can head home and get started on the reports while we finish up and call in William Reid. Reid can decide if he wants to stay with us or fly home with the others."

"I can guess which one he'll choose," David says wryly.

CM

"I'd like to stay," Reid tells them firmly when they ask.

The others have already filtered from the makeshift round table room, evidently relieved to have solved the case, just as David predicted. He and Hotch had caught Reid before he could follow after JJ, and offered him the choice to go home or face William Reid for the first time since finding out his childhood and identity was a lie – just not in so many words, of course.

"Of course," Hotch easily agrees. "But you know that you can't talk to your father when we bring him in," he cautions. "Dave, you'll have to stay away as well, at least as much as you can. If you have to interrogate him, I'll be there, and I'll ask the questions. At the first sign of either of you getting too personal about it, I'll send you both home."

Sufficiently warned, David and Reid both nod, understanding if not agreeing. They both know that neither of them should even be on the case, and that Hotch is putting a lot on the line just to keep them working together, and of course they're both grateful; but Reid, for one, isn't sure how he's supposed to not question William Reid himself.

After making sure there's nothing else David and Hotch have to say to him, Reid heads after the others, just remembering to thank them before leaving the room.

CM

"It shouldn't take too long to finish up here," Hotch is saying to Blake and Morgan, JJ off in the background, talking on the phone to Will, telling him to expect her home soon. "Jenkins is more than happy to tell us everything we need to know, and I doubt William Reid will be much different once he knows the situation."

"You sure you don't want us to stay, help out?" Morgan asks. It's a useless question, considering they're already on the tarmac, the jet ready and waiting for them to board, but Hotch has no doubt if he – or Reid, especially – ask Morgan, or either of the women, to stay, they'll immediately grab their bags off the plane and head back to the police department.

However, it isn't necessary, and Hotch knows Reid will never ask them to stay for this. "No, we'll be fine," he assures, nodding to the jet. "You two should board soon. The pilot's waiting, and JJ looks impatient to get back home to Henry."

It's true, too. JJ, after saying a goodbye to Reid, is already on the plane.

It only takes a few more words to reassure Morgan and Blake that they'll manage and follow them home soon, and after a short round of quick goodbyes, they're on the jet, and in short order are taking off.

David, Hotch, and Reid head back to the police department to bring in William Reid and ask him some overdue questions.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty

A second investigation room has been utilized in the LVPD, and a second 'suspect' has been brought in to enjoy the space. William Reid had been brought in by Hotch and two eager officers, David and Reid having been told in no uncertain terms that neither of them would so much as see the man before Hotch spoke to him and assessed to what degree he might piss off his agents. To no one's surprise, the two agents hadn't been at all happy about this decision, but had acquiesced anyway, if only because they knew it would be of no use to argue.

Unfortunately, this means it's up to them to field the LVPD's incessant and increasingly agitated questions and thinly veiled accusations. David, at least, has had some experience in this, what with press and editors and frankly, the years he's been doing the job and dealing with the scum of the earth; Reid, however, is not as accustomed to the onslaught. He handles himself quite admirably anyway, David thinks, as he watches the younger man reason with an irate officer. It's possible Reid's new found expertise is due to practise, the skills cultivated in this very station during this very case, since all the officers seem to ask the same things and have the same unfavourable ideas of the BAU, so maybe Reid's just getting used to repeating himself, improving each time he's forced to relate the same things.

"Your team left yesterday," an officer is growling at Reid as David handles her colleagues. "There's three of you left! Who the hell is this guy you brought in? He can't be a freaking suspect, not when half of you left us in the lurch. We don't have time to keep this case open. Just cuff the guy and go home."

"We're still exploring different leads on the case," Reid explains, not for the first time. "We wouldn't want to make a mistake and leave a serial killer out there. The rest of our team left to handle some other pressing cases, and are always on call should we need them back."

The officer snorts and pulls a face. "Don't see why you even bother with this case. Nothing wrong with cleaning up the streets a little." She shakes her head and turns away, not giving Reid a chance to respond before she stalks off.

David wraps up with his own pigheaded officer quickly, finishing off the batch of LVPD officers demanding answers for now. He and Reid share an exasperated look, glad at least to be done with it for a short while.

They've come to somewhat of a truce now, allowing them to partner up to fend off questions and await word from Hotch without the awkwardness that's been plaguing them since the start of the unraveling of this case. It's not perfect, far from it; there are times where they can barely look at each other, but it's something. David doesn't know if they'll ever be able to have that easy communication they had before the case again, but for now the uneasy truce is more than he could have hoped for.

Reid has yet to discuss where he wants them to go from here, but David is sticking to his word and letting it go at Reid's pace, withholding from pressuring him in any way. Part of him wonders if, as Hotch has suggested, Reid is waiting to see William Reid before making his final verdict, but either way David supposes it doesn't really matter.

"Have you or Hotch talked to Jenkins at all since the team left?" Reid asks as they settle into their thankfully empty conference room. To be honest, David is surprised they haven't been evicted yet.

"No," he answers, making his way over to the evidence board. They have to keep it all tacked up for now, even though they've practically closed the case, in case one of the police force wanders in. "We're hoping to get some answers before we go in again. Hotch thinks his confession was too easy, and we still have a few hours until we have to charge him."

Reid stays quiet for a moment, not saying anything as David continues to examine the evidence board. The silence is unnerving, making the hairs on the back of David's neck stand up, something about it smelling off.

Finally, Reid speaks. "You don't… We only brought in my dad because of, you know, right? Not, uh, not for the case? We're only telling the LVPD that he's a suspect so we can keep using their office. He isn't really, though. Right?"

David doesn't answer straight away, thinking Reid probably knows the answer to that. "Reid," he eventually says, being careful with how he chooses his words. God knows they don't need any more upset between them. "There were only three people who knew about Michaels' murder before the FBI. Jenkins has already confessed, but even you have to admit something smells fishy about it. Why the stretch between the first and second murder? Why was he so adamant in protecting your parents, even to the point where he only confessed when we threatened to bring them in? Something isn't right."

Reid is already shaking his head, a desperately troubled look on his face. "No," he says firmly. "No, they didn't have anything to do with this. My dad… I have issues with him, but he couldn't do this. He isn't a serial killer, okay? My mom would have known, and she wouldn't – she'd stop – He didn't do it."

"Reid," David tries to reason.

"No! I don't care what you think about them, okay? I know you must hate them for what they did, for taking your son, but they're still my parents. My mom didn't know what she was doing, she… she's sick, and you don't get to blame her for that. My dad just wanted to make her happy, and I know I can't justify what he did because it was wrong, I know it was wrong, but I don't regret it. I'm glad they're my parents, I'm glad I was raised by my mom, because I love her. You don't get to brand them as serial killers just because you hate them for breaking up your perfect family! I'm sorry I'm not the perfect son you always imagined James would grow up to be, but they're my parents and they're not serial killers."

Reid cuts himself off, hands curled into fists at his sides, standing before David but not meeting his eyes. His breathing is shaking and his eyes are too bright, but David can see as Reid tries to calm himself down, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. Hotch had warned him that this would happen, that Reid was bound to explode at some point, because really that's what the man did – he bottled it up until it ate away at him and he couldn't hold it anymore. JJ could attest to that. David had hoped it would be different this time, with Reid talking to Morgan and David trying to be open about everything, but clearly that had been a foolish hope.

"I'm sorry," Reid eventually says in a quiet voice, the colour drained from his face. "I didn't mean –"

"Yes you did," David interrupts, voice flat. Reid flinches but doesn't argue. "Look, Reid, I'm not blaming your mom for any of this. Am I angry about it? Damn right I am. My son was taken from me by a sick bastard, one we're currently trying to find justice for, and you bet it makes me angry. Furious, in fact. But I don't blame your mom, and I certainly don't hate her for it. I would have loved the chance to raise my son myself, would have given anything in the world to get you back, but I thought my son died years ago. The fact that he's alive, that he's standing right in front of me, is something I never thought I'd be able to have. And if I couldn't have raised my son, then at least I know he was raised by someone who loves him, who helped him become the genius I'm proud to call my teammate today."

Reid opens his mouth and closes it again, floundering for words. David doesn't let him try to find words, feeling the need to let everything out, lay it all on the table. He's been trying so damn hard to move at Reid's pace, to keep quiet and force himself to be happy with the tiny victories. But he has ties to this too; he has feelings that sometimes start to drown him, ones that he doesn't think can be resolved if he keeps stifling them for Reid's sake. He matters too, damn it.

"The thing is, I'm allowed to be angry about this. I mourned James for twenty-five years, and I think I'm going to still be mourning him for many more. Because you may have his DNA, but we both know you aren't him. James Rossi died years ago. Spencer Reid shares my DNA, and I hope to God one day I get to call myself your father again, but despite all that… Reid, I could never be disappointed by you. I've considered myself honoured to call you my friend these past five years, and now I find out you were the son I was meant to raise? Jesus, kid, you have any idea how amazing you are? I don't think any father could be disappointed in a son like you, even if it's in biology only."

David takes a deep breath and looks away from Reid, rubbing his face.

"I'm not calling your parents serial killers," he says wearily. "And if I was, it wouldn't be because of what they've done with you. I'm angry, and I think William Reid is a piece of shit, but I know they're your parents. I wouldn't accuse them of something like this just to hurt them, or you. But you we can't ignore the leads, and you know that. If there's even a chance your father was involved, we have to look into it."

They're both quiet for a long time, David still turned away. He has so much more to say, but it's mostly ranting on knowing who took his son, who took the chance of fatherhood away from him, and he knows Reid doesn't need to hear that.

"I didn't know you felt that way," Reid says softly into the void between them. "Rossi, I… Dave. I'm so sorry. I never asked how you felt, how you wanted to handle this. Honestly, I don't think I would have been ready to listen before. But… I think I am now. I don't want things to be bad between us. Can we… Can we talk? No arguing, no fighting, no accusations. Just talking."

David stares at the evidence board in front of him, the name Gary Michaels mocking him. Looking at it, at the picture beside it and the dates below it, David comes to a decision. He just hopes he doesn't end up regretting it.

"Okay," he says. "I'd like that."

Hotch narrows his eyes suspiciously when he sees David hovering by the interrogation room.

"You can't go in yet," Hotch warns. "I want to talk to you and Reid first." He stops and sweeps his gaze over David, eyes softening as he sees something in his friend's stance. "What is it? Where's Reid?"

David checks the hall for any pesky officers, and waits until the one Reid had verbally sparred with earlier reluctantly slinks out of hearing range. "We talked," David says. "Well, more like the kid exploded like you said he would and I probably didn't handle it very well, but then we talked."

Hotch hesitates, clearly trying to decide whether that sounds like a good thing or not before apparently giving up. "And?" he prompts, raising his eyebrows. "You seem fine, so I'm assuming it didn't end in a brawl."

David snorts before sobering, feeling his mouth curve into an uncertain smile. "We're going to try," he says, still feeling the high from the conversation he'd had with Reid. "He's not going to be calling me Dad anytime soon, and he's never going to be James, but we both agreed that we don't want this awkwardness to continue. We've both set some boundaries and we had a serious talk on what either of us can and can't expect, but I think… I think it went well."

Hotch's expression relaxes, risking a gentle smile. "I'm glad," he says. "I'm happy for you, Dave. Just try not to break my agent, okay? He's a valuable asset to the team. We don't need you to start rubbing off on him now."

"Hey," David retorts. Then he sobers, gaze straying to the interrogation room as he's brought back to reality. "You said you needed to talk to Reid and I," he prods Hotch. "Reid's still in the conference room. What did he say?"

Hotch sighs. "Nothing, yet. He's demanding to see Reid. I have an idea, but I need something from you both. I can't say you'll like it," he thinks to warn. "But we need to shake Mr. Reid, and I think this is how."

Cautious, David narrows his eyes. "Okay," he starts slowly. "What is it exactly you need?"

"Spencer," William Reid sighs in relief as David and Reid enter the interrogation room. "Thank God. What am I doing here, Spencer? Are phone calls too overrated? Need to get your boss to arrest me?"

Reid doesn't say anything as he settles into the chair across from his father, David taking the seat next to him. William Reid frowns at their silence, but doesn't seem too worried yet.

"Mr. Reid, we just have a few questions," David says smoothly, laying out a file on the table. "We're sorry for the wait, but I'm sure you'll be happy to know that this can all be over very quickly. All you have to do is give us all the information we need."

William wrinkles his nose, eyes calculating, and David is suddenly reminded of why he hates dealing with lawyers. "Then I suppose I'll be on my way," William says coldly, leaning back in his chair. "Once I answer your questions, of course."

David smiles woodenly. "Well, Mr. Reid, that depends entirely on your answers."

"Dad," Reid interrupts. "What can you tell me about this picture?" He takes the file from David's side of the table and flips it open, revealing the picture that had sparked things off – the one Hotch had shown to Jenkins.

William leans forward to get a better look, and David instantly recognizes the fond, sad look as the other man recognizes the boy in the picture. David was unprepared for how much it would hurt to see that look again, even on the face of some other father. A grieving father.

"That's a picture of my son," William says softly. "My beautiful son. That's you, Spencer, you know that."

Reid frowns, hand curing into a fist in his lap. "No, Dad," he says, sounding suddenly exhausted. "It's not. We're here on a case, do you know that? I'm sure Agent Hotchner mentioned it. There's a serial killer murdering sex offenders right here in Vegas. Do you know who our first victim was? Gary Michaels."

William looks up from the picture, face carefully blank. David has to hand it to the man; he's good.

"Who?" William asks neutrally.

Despite how badly Reid clearly wants to lose his cool, he keeps his head, and David admires him for it. It takes years to build up that kind of control in the interrogation room, let alone in front of your own family.

"Don't lie, Dad," Reid warns. "It will only make things worse. See, as we were looking into Michaels' past, a few things came to our attention. One of which was the fact that he's credited with the murder of Riley Jenkins. Funnily enough, a name I recognize as one belonging to an old imaginary friend of mine. Another was that one of the officers here recognized this picture," Reid taps the picture in the file. "As one in an old missing child report. One you filed. We have Lou Jenkins in another interrogation room here in the station. We know you've heard of Gary Michaels, just like we know a few days after you filed a missing report for one Spencer Reid, you retracted it."

"See, Mr. Jenkins has been very helpful," David adds pleasantly. "He told us all about Diana suspecting Michaels as the one who murdered his son. He even told us that they paid Michaels a visit and found your own missing son while they were there. Funny how that works, isn't it? Now, Mr. Reid, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but not long after Diana and Mr. Jenkins paid Michaels a visit, the FBI made a little trip of their own. They were looking for another missing boy, a James Rossi. At the time, they thought the body they found was the boy they were looking for, and the case was closed."

Reid quietly flips over the picture in the file, revealing another picture. "This one I recognize," he says. "My eighth birthday. You bought me a new baseball bat and invited the neighbourhood kids over for a game."

Now it's David's turn. He takes the picture Hotch had requested out of his pocket and lays it on the table, choosing not to look at it. If he does, he knows he won't be able to finish the interview. He can hurt about this later, when his job is over.

"This is my son, James," he says lightly, working not to look over at Reid as he senses the other man tense. "He's quite a bit younger than Reid in this picture, but I'm afraid it's the most recent one I have. Recent, of course, being a relative term. I'm afraid I haven't introduced myself, have I? I'm David Rossi; James Rossi's father. The FBI was looking for my son."

William's jaw tightens as his expression closes off, clear panic setting in.

"I'm sure you can figure out where this is going," Reid says. "We know almost everything. We just need you to confirm the story." He nudges both pictures on the table, expression blank. "What took me is that the resemblance is almost uncanny, even with the age difference. But that's not possible, right?"

William takes a deep, shaky breath.

"Spencer," he says brokenly, but he isn't looking at Reid. His eyes are glued to the picture of the three-year-old Spencer Reid, the one the police officer had recognized. "I'm so sorry."

And David swears he can hear Reid's heart stop.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-One

“I think you better start from the beginning,” David suggests quietly, keeping a careful eye on a frozen, pale Reid. William doesn’t even bother to tear his gaze away from the picture, his whole world focussed on it. Beside David, Reid’s breathing is carefully regulated, expression schooled into a careful mask to hide the whirring of his brain. “The time for secrets is passed.”

William takes a deep, stuttering breath and something in him just caves, his resolve folding before their eyes. He bows his head, shoulders trembling, and Reid’s jaw tightens at the sight.

“Riley was on the Little League team,” he begins in a soft, hoarse voice. “I was the coach. I only knew the Jenkinses in passing, just from the games and practices, but they seemed like a nice enough family. Riley and Spencer knew each other from the team, but I can’t say they had any particular strong feelings for each other.

“When Riley was killed, the whole neighbourhood was shook up. We couldn’t believe it; who would hurt a little boy like that, in his own home? Everyone rallied around the Jenkinses; the parents of the Little League, everyone. Then Spencer went missing.” William’s voice breaks and his face spasms before closing off, eyes dulling.

Under the table, Reid’s hands are clenched into fists, muscles tense and stiff. David shuffles closer in his own chair, subtle enough to slip under William’s radar, until Reid shoots him a grateful glance for the support. This is obviously torture for the younger agent, but they both need to hear this. Need to hear it confirmed out loud and from the horse’s mouth. It’s the only way they’ll be able to move forward.

“I knew he had to have been taken by the same bastard that killed Riley. The only question was who the psycho was. We all had our suspicions, of course, all made our own little reports to the police. Nothing ever came of it, and Diana and I were basically told to brace ourselves for the worst.

“I didn’t know about what happened between Lou and Diana until I got home and saw a little boy in Spencer’s room. I got the story out of Diana later, after she’d calmed down. I knew right away that wasn’t my son, of course, no matter what Diana believed. But Lou convinced me to go along with it, let Diana pretend. He told me Spencer was gone, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t still have a son. We thought… Well, I suppose we chose to believe the boy Diana brought home wouldn’t be missed. We’d be doing him a favour. We didn’t like to think we were being selfish.”

Only now does William look up and meet David’s eyes, bypassing Reid’s own piercing ones.

“From one father to another,” William says fiercely, the intensity of his gaze prickling at David’s skin. “I’m sorry for taking your son away. But don’t you see? We did it for him. We gave him a home, loving parents; we gave him everything we had. We’d lost our son, but we took yours in and loved him as our own.”

Reid snaps, slamming his hand onto the table between them with a resounding crack. “No!” he says, loud and strong. “You left when it got too hard. You don’t get to pretend that you did me this huge favour by keeping me away from my family, the parents that should have raised me. What you did was disgusting and selfish!” He takes a jerky breath and exhales in a gust. “But you can redeem yourself, at least a little. You knew Lou Jenkins killed Michaels, yet you never said anything. Now he’s spent the past two decades murdering people, and still you kept quiet. Why?”

Reluctantly, William peels his gaze off David and looks to the stricken man before him. His mouth is a thin, tight line sunk into his skin, and he almost wilts under the accusation in Reid’s posture. It’s obvious to David that William had been working under the assumption that Reid was lacking a backbone in which to stand up to him, which just makes this all the better.

“Because they deserved it,” William says calmly, indifferent to the way his words strike Reid’s very core. “Michaels killed Riley and Spencer; what Lou did was justice. An eye for an eye, Agent.”

Reid flinches, blood draining from his face, and David could snarl at the man in front of them. This isn’t at all fair to Reid, but they both know he’d never choose to leave, not before they have all the facts, not until Reid has proved to himself and to William that he’s a better man without him. That doesn’t mean it won’t break him, though.

“That’s not justice,” Reid manages to say. “That’s vengeance. It’s wrong, you know that. When we do the job we do, we don’t stop hunting serial killers just because what they’re doing is fair. That’s not how it works. They all think it’s justified.”

William shakes his head, pulling himself together again until he’s composed as ever. “No, this is different. These monsters were hurting children, agents. The fact that they were out on the streets is just proof that the legal system had failed to protect our children from them – so Lou and I decided to do what the courts should have. We only ever went after the ones who we knew had hurt a child, and recently. They weren’t innocent. They don’t deserve your professional time and effort.”

David straightens in his seat, breath catching, and he can almost feel Hotch’s attention sharpen through the observation glass. Beside him, Reid only just manages to avoid crumpling in on himself, the wind knocked straight out of him in horror and defeat.

“Mr. Reid,” David says sharply, stopping the vigilante tirade in its tracks. “When you say ‘we’, are you admitting to assisting Lou Jenkins in the murder of eleven victims over the span of the last twenty-five years?”

William blinks at him in surprise. “Yes,” he says easily. “From where I stand, I have done nothing wrong. These people, these victims, didn’t deserve to live – they were a danger to every child around them. We were doing them all a favour. Lou didn’t believe me, not at first; he wanted to turn himself in for killing Michaels, but I made him understand. We had to continue what he’d started, so that no other father would have to experience what we did. I found Gulls and the next few, and then Lou started to catch on.”

Horrified, Reid and David wrap up the interview quickly, retrieving the taped confession and hightailing it out of the room to meet Hotch. David feels slightly ill himself, so he can’t imagine how awful it must be for Reid to have William’s words ringing in his head, the cold and calm reasoning behind his killing.

“I can’t believe he actually…” Reid says weakly once they’re safe inside the commandeered office. “I thought… I knew he knew about Jenkins killing Michaels, but I didn’t think… Oh, god. Dave, you were right – you said, earlier, you said you thought he was a part of it and you were right. How didn’t I see it?”

“Reid,” Hotch says, stern but not unkind. “This isn’t what any of us expected, but you know we were preparing for this possibility. There were inconsistencies in Jenkins’ story; he couldn’t have tracked down every victim, not on his own. I know this is a shock, but we still have a job to do.”

Dazed, Reid nods helplessly, trying to get himself back together.

“What I don’t understand,” David speculates, warily watching Reid as he composes himself. “William knows how we work. From the minute we brought him to the station he knew better than to talk. As soon as he saw Reid, as soon as we showed him the pictures, he started to incriminate himself. He didn’t need to confess – we had no proof. We knew he was aware of what was going on and withholding it from the police, but we had no way to tie him to the murders themselves. He could have stayed quiet and walked out of here. Why didn’t he?”

“He wanted to confess,” Reid says, still pale, but with more of himself shining through. “You heard him, Rossi. He thinks it was all justified. As a father who knows what it’s like to lose your child like that, he thought you’d understand.”

The three of them fall silent, digesting that information, before Hotch moves to pinch his nose.

“We’ll hand over the taped confessions of both Jenkins and William Reid to the police chief. Then we’ll call the team and let them know that we’re heading back soon. I don’t know about you two, but I’d had enough of this case and the Vegas air for now; I’d like to head home.” He hesitates and considers something. “Unless you’d like to stay for their arrest and conviction? I’m sure I could arrange some time off.”

David and Reid share a look, a silent conversation that lasts only a short while.

“Actually,” Reid says, looking suddenly tired. “I’d like to visit my mom before we go, if that’s okay?” Hotch nods easily, waving him on. Reid gives David a nervous look, as if for permission, and David quickly joins Hotch in agreeing.

Reid smiles gratefully.

--

“How was your visit?” David asks lightly the next day as they meet in the lobby of their hotel. Hotch had left early to smooth over some ruffled feathers at the police station before they take off, so it’s just Reid and David there with their bags, waiting to be picked up. They’re hoping to be back in Quantico in time for dinner, but at this point David would gladly take the red-eye if need be. As much as he’s enjoyed his past leisure visits to Vegas, he doesn’t think he’ll be itching to be back for a while.

“Yeah, it was good,” Reid says, setting his go-bag at his feet. “I, uh, I didn’t talk to her about the case. I thought about telling her about Dad – about William. But she was having a good day and it was nice just to talk to her; I didn’t want to ruin it. I’ll tell her eventually, someday. I want to know her side of things; if she ever realized I wasn’t her son.”

“You are her son,” David is quick to counter. It doesn’t hurt to say it, not like he thought it might. If anything, it’s just strange on his tongue.

Reid shrugs and looks away, so David lets it go.

“I… I might write her a letter,” Reid continues hesitantly. “I know it would be best in person, but this way I could send it to her doctors first, so they can be informed. I don’t want to upset her. I know she’s not completely responsible for all this.”

David doesn’t know if he completely agrees, but he knows better than to say anything. Instead, he checks his watch and decides to change the subject, not looking to raise Reid’s hackles just when they’ve started to warm to each other again.

“Car should be here soon,” he says mildly. “Hotch said he’ll meet us at the plane. Ready to go?”

Reid look around, a strange look on his face, before straightening his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

--

They board the plane to finally leave Vegas a few hours later.

William Reid and Lou Jenkins’s pictures are plastered all over the news and the papers, always accompanied by a list of their victims. There’s no mention of the familial involvement between one of the agents of the team who caught them and William Reid, but only because JJ had threatened the LVPD so badly that so far all the officers have declined comment to the reporters.

As they board, Reid and David pick seats close to each other instead of isolating themselves, determined not to close off from one another. They still have no idea how they’re going to proceed in the future, no idea how their relationship will change or how much they want it to, but they’ve both agreed that avoiding the issue won’t take them anywhere.

Hotch takes the seat across the aisle from them, officially to utilize the space on the table to fill out paperwork but unofficially to give them privacy.

Before they can even think of falling into a proper, All Important conversation, they get a video call from Garcia and the rest of the team.

“Sir, we have a problem,” Garcia says urgently, looking frazzled. Behind her, the rest of the team is huddled into her lair with various levels of stress playing out on their expressions. “An officer from the LVPD got into contact with some press in Quantico. The bureau nipped it in the bud before it got anywhere, but the director wants to speak with all of us.”

Hotch furrows his brow and leans forward in his seat while David and Reid share uneasy looks.

“What’s happened, Garcia?” he presses.

JJ leans into focus, looking exhausted and overworked. “The FBI knows, Hotch. Someone from the LVPD must have overheard you. The director knows that Rossi and Reid are related. They’re calling a meeting as soon as you land.”

David starts in his seat, taking a moment to comprehend. Beside him, the panic is almost radiating off  Reid in waves.

Hotch pauses to take a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to think. “Alright,” he says. “Thank you, Garcia, JJ. See what you can do to calm things down, and we’ll see you when we land. Rossi, Reid – it’ll be okay. They can’t touch either of you; you’re both too vital to the bureau. There’s no point worrying about it until we can talk to the director in person. We’ll all fight tooth and nail before we let either of you be taken off the team.”

David nods firmly and tries to assure Reid, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

“It’ll be alright,” he says. “The director and I are old friends. We’ll get through this.”

Nervously, Reid swallows. “Together,” he adds, flicking his gaze back to the now dead screen.

“Yeah,” David agrees, smiling despite the stress itching at the back of his thoughts. “Together.”

Chapter Text

Epilogue

“So, how’s the time off treating you?” Hotch lowers himself into the lawn chair beside David and accepts the beer offered to him. “Doesn’t seem so bad. I think I could get used to this.”

“Feel free to take my place,” David grumbles, taking a swig of his own drink. “Damn boring is what it is. There’s only so much fishing a man can do, Aaron. I haven’t been able to even get some writing done. My agent wants me to go a different route this time around, but I’m thinking of dropping her.”

Hotch smiles as he visibly relaxes, basking in the sun overhead. “I heard you and Reid went to the museum last week. Any other plans before the two of you are thrown back into work?”

David considers for a moment. “Not really. He’s been coming over for dinner every now and then, and I’ve been trying to wrangle him over sooner to learn how to cook something other than instant noodles, but so far, no dice. I never realized how much the kid actually knew outside of psychopaths. He’s always spewing out all these facts on cases, but he’s not a bad conversationalist out in the real world. He was telling me all about the last book he read and some paper he was writing. He wants to know if I’ll look it over for him; you know, give my professional opinion from a writer’s viewpoint.”

“Getting along, then,” Hotch observes. “That’s good. No arguments?”

David snorts into his drink. “Oh, there’ve been arguments. Plenty of them. But that’s okay. A little fighting now and then’s good for the soul. Besides, at least it isn’t so awkward between us. I think we’ve finally gotten that out of our system – and about time, too. Much as I hate to admit it, I think the time off’s actually been helping. I don’t think we’d have worked so hard to see each other regularly if we were still working together.”

Noises suddenly erupt from the house behind them before dying away as quickly and suddenly as they started. A murmur of voices float through the open windows, followed by faint laughs, then silence falls again. David and Hotch incline their heads towards the house, stopping to listen.

“Are you ready to return to the circus next week?” Hotch asks wryly. “The bureau hasn’t been the same without you two. You should see the way Garcia’s been sulking.”

“Is that why she’s been sending goodie baskets twice a week?” David muses. “I’d ask her to stop, but Reid likes the little baubles inside. Last Tuesday she sent him a model TARDIS, or something.”

Suspiciously, Hotch raises an eyebrow. “Or something?” he repeats. “Dave, have you been watching Doctor Who?”

David grunts dismissively. “Spencer’s always talking about it. Figured I might as well see what all the fuss is about. I’d seen a few episodes before, of course, but never really paid much attention. I still don’t put much stock in it, but Spencer likes it, so it can’t be too bad.”

With a pleased look, Hotch nods at someone in the house, just out of David’s sight. “I’m glad you two are getting along,” he says.

“Me too,” David agrees softly.

“Man, what are you guys doing out here alone? The party’s inside!” Morgan interrupts, striding over. “C’mon, Rossi, get your butt in there. This whole thing’s for you and Reid. This is your last week off from work! We gotta celebrate. Henry and Jack have already got the board games set up, Pen’s got the snacks, and Reid’s this close to melting through the floor in embarrassment. Get in there and share the spotlight.”

With a sigh, David mournfully looks at his beer. “Alright,” he says. Heaving himself out of his chair, he abandoned his cooler and discarded book in favour of turning to the other agents. “Let’s get the party going, shall we?”

“Oh, man, Reid’s going to put on a magic show for the kids. You do not want to miss it. Hey, Rossi, I’m sure he’ll need an assistant.”