Criminal Minds Fanfic

by spinner

Lightning Strikes

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9

 By the roots of my hair some god got hold of me.

I sizzled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

Sylvia Plath

 1

Two blissful weeks of vacation at a remote archeological dig in North Carolina had produced a warm aura of relaxation around Dr. Reid.   He had gone there as a favor to a friend who wanted to apply modern forensic techniques to a mysterious but long-dead body the excavation team had uncovered while mapping out a three-centuries-old homestead.   Reid had found it interesting and diverting, figuring out how the female skeleton with a musket-shot wound to her face and to her ribs, a sword underneath her, and a noose around her neck had wound up buried in unconsecrated ground so far from a church or other holy site.  

The physical clues were as follows: female; Caucasian; late teens or early twenties; black hair judging from strands found wrapped in the make-shift shroud; broken neck; broken ribs; left handed and skilled with the weapon that had been found underneath her,  judging from the wear on the bones of the hands, wrists, and arms.   A hypothesis had been produced: murder victim; no doubt buried under the farmstead to hide her death.  Perhaps a story about a sudden departure had been created to cover her mysterious disappearance.   It would be up to the historical records research team to comb through the scant public information from the time and see if a name or a face could be put to the young woman.  It could take months or years to find out who she had been, but at least the search for her identity had begun.   It was satisfying to Reid to have helped in even a small way.   

The calmness evaporated from Reid’s mind the instant he walked through the front door of the police station in Atkins, Kansas.  The rest of the BAU team was deep in the middle of another case, delving the mind and deeds of another killer.  The others had spent nearly a week already tearing around this non-descript area of the Midwest.  They had finally captured their unsub on his home turf in Atkins, this small town in the middle of nowhere.   Did the name even matter?  There was a diner, two gas pumps at the only convenience store, and a small police station with three officers including the sheriff.  If there hadn’t been a medium-sized college in nearby Wichita to support the local economy of the area, this place would have disappeared off the map a long time ago. 

Reid had rejoined the team as they were taking a break in the interrogation which had started earlier that same morning.   When Reid appeared, there was no friendly teasing.  There was no joking around.  It must have been a serious case indeed, judging from the demeanor of the team.  Or maybe they felt he had no right to come strolling in here all relaxed, tan, and happy when they were miserable and frustrated with an unsub who simply would not break. 

Hotch’s impenetrable eyes fell on Reid first, and Aaron was all business.   Spencer had been gone for two whole weeks, and Hotch’s cool reaction was not what he had been hoping for.  Reid hadn’t wanted bear hugs or air-kisses, but a small amount of pleasure in Hotch’s dark eyes at seeing Spencer again would have been a nice gesture, that’s all.   

It wasn’t that Hotch was keeping Reid at a distance since that blurry night stuck in Spencer’s memory.   But he wasn’t making any moves to get closer to him either.  If angry at Reid over the alcohol-seeped events, Spencer would have expected Hotch to treat him with dismissive disgust.  If angry at himself, Spencer would have expected Hotch to be solicitous and overly-kind to him.  Hotch had been neither.  Aaron had simply been himself, leaving Reid completely puzzled and feeling himself at a disadvantage.  If things hadn’t changed at all between them, was that a good sign or a bad sign?

Outside, a merciless and never-ending row of storm systems was rolling over this patch of Midwestern desolation smack in the middle of Tornado Alley.   The farms and fields and tiny towns around were being pummeled with lightning, thunder, hail, heavy rains, and occasional power losses.  Reid had spent the rough commercial flight between Raleigh-Durham and Kansas City losing lunch and hugging a pillow to his chest.  He had actually kissed the stewardess’s feet when they had finally landed.   After the bumpy flight had come the five-hour drive, back-tracking by ground the areas that he couldn’t fly through because of the storms.   Spencer’s butt was sore, and his limbs stiff from clenching the wheel tight as he navigated odd, unfamiliar roads through blinding rain. 

“Reid.  Good.  You’re here,” Hotch stated. 

“Here I am,” Spencer confirmed with an awkward nod, rocking back and forth on his toes and heels.  The team was crowded around the viewing window of the observation room.  Reid got a brief wave from JJ, a nod and a smile from Prentiss.  Rossi and Morgan were too focused on the suspect to even look up. 

“Hey, kid,” Morgan said. 

“Reid,” Rossi said. 

Hotch took those few seconds to appraise Reid’s appearance, but no mention was made of Spencer’s sunburned nose and cheeks, or the streaks of light that had crept into his dark hair due to being out in the sunshine instead of holed-up in a dimly-lit lab or library or crime scene.  If Aaron liked the changes he saw, he wasn’t showing it.   But then, a sudden brilliant fire (inspiration) lit up his face, and he took on a tight and devious smile.  Spencer wasn’t sure he liked that one bit. 

“Dr. Reid, I need you to come into the interrogation room, and sit at the second table.  Keep your back to Mariner.  Be busy.  Go through folders, make notes, but stay out of the conversation.   Most important of all: no matter what I do, don’t show any reaction.”

“O….K….?”  Spencer murmured, puzzled, starting to slip out of his jacket.  He dropped his bag to the floor.  Mariner – that must be the unsub.   What a  strangely-nautical name for someone in such a land-locked portion of the country!

“Take off your tie too.  And…could you….?”

 Hotch hesitated a split second before reaching both hands at Reid.  Instinctively, Spencer shriveled back from the touch, but not far enough to actually get away.  Hotch fluffed and mussed Reid’s hair with all ten fingers while Spencer held extremely still.  Two suspicious eyes watched Hotch.  Spencer really wasn’t liking this at all now.  He had spent ten minutes in the gas station bathroom, tamping down his wild hair as much as possible, and all for nothing.  Once done, Hotch drew his fingers forward under the ends of Spencer’s locks, fingertips brushing the edge of Reid’s jaw as if by accident.  He lifted Reid’s head, and stared down into his face. 

“Nice,” Hotch decided.  JJ looked sympathetic to Spencer’s misery.  Emily chuckled, and Morgan nodded approvingly.  Rossi shifted on his feet, distinctly uncomfortable.   

“I like your thinking,” Derek commented, facing the viewing window again.   

“Not a good idea,” Rossi disagreed.

“What do you want me to do?  I’ll be no help.  I’m totally unfamiliar with the case,” Reid protested, his voice breaking. 

“Keep your mouth shut and follow me,” Hotch ordered.    “Wait.  No.  Better.  Give me a couple minutes, and then come in.  When you come in, bring me a cup of coffee.  Bring Mariner one too.”

“Yes, sir,” Reid said. 

2

“Damn power surges,” Hotch was muttering as the lights flickered on and off and on again.  Thunder and rain pounded the walls outside as he disappeared back into the interrogation room.     

The heavy door beeped and opened, and the smell of fresh coffee preceded Reid’s entry into the room.   There was more electronic beeping as the door closed.   The sheriff had been so excited to show Hotch their new security system, and Hotch had agreed it was a work of art.  Unfortunately, it was like displaying a Vermeer in a phone booth.  It was nice to have all portals in and out of the police station controlled and monitored by a central computer, but in an area like this where strong summer storms and power failures could be a frequent occurrence, Hotch was sure this set-up was going to lead to trouble.   That forty-five thousand dollars would have been better spent on hiring another deputy, maybe even a receptionist. 

Spencer placed one mug down in front of Hotch, and stretched across the table to place the second mug in front of the man who was now staring him up and down with naked curiosity. 

“Cream and sugar,” Reid said as a swath of hair fell in his eyes.  He dragged long fingers through the locks to push them back over his ear. 

“Thank you,” Mariner rasped, green eyes glowing with interest.  He actually had very nice eyes, Spencer thought, and something about him that made you think you could trust him.   Was the team questioning the wrong guy?  He almost felt as if Mariner was latching onto him, desperate for someone to pull him out of this fix.  Spencer’s was a new face the unsub hadn’t seen yet, and he didn’t consider him an enemy.  Mariner was anxious for an ally.  It was impossible not to felt a twinge of pity for the guy, but unequivocally, Reid trusted his team.  He knew that they would not have pulled a suspect in without good cause and evidence to back up their suspicions.    

“You’re welcome,” Reid answered.  He glanced cautiously up at Hotch when he felt Aaron’s prickly stare.  His face was full of displeasure.  Should Spencer have not replied to Mariner?   Hotch made a subtle chin-point in the direction of the only open chair, and Reid obeyed immediately, positioning himself at the second table, which was under the one-way mirror.  He began combing through the waiting files, familiarizing himself with the case as fast as possible.

The silence in the room was interrupted only by the violent thunderstorms going on outside, and by Hotch giving Mariner the evil-eye, and by Mariner struggling to control his breathing as he stared at Reid’s shoulders and back and the curve of his long neck.  Each crash caused a flicker of the lights, and also brought with it the beeping and the quiet clickety-click of the door lock as it reset itself with each interruption of power to the building. 

“For the benefit of Dr. Reid, we’ll start at the beginning.  Again,” Hotch intoned with a hint of impatience.  “Once more, with feeling.”

“I’m done talking to you,” the unsub growled towards Aaron.  Mariner’s genial aura evaporated when he concentrated on Hotch. He didn’t like the stiff and commanding lead agent one damned bit. 

“Done?  You’ve hardly said six words in eight hours,” Hotch mocked. 

“I know my rights.  I don’t have to talk to you.”

“Yes,” Hotch drawled not without a hint of humor.  He took a sip of coffee.  “Anyone who has been arrested as often as you have ought to know their rights.”

Reid scanned through the files under his fingertips, reading every single detail of how this man, Ted Mariner, had spent at least the last few months, maybe longer, picking off young men from the nearby college where he worked as an associate professor in the history department.   

The missing persons’ reports were spread out over four counties and two states, all in places with small jurisdictions which wouldn’t necessarily work with each other on a regular basis.  No one had put two and two together when all these young men continued turning up missing.  As the locals had put it, they kept themselves to themselves and preferred to handle their own problems without outside help.  The only connecting factor had been that the missing young men had all attended the nearby university, either as full time, part time, evening, or satellite students.  

The bodies had been buried in the most-recent graves at the town’s only public cemetery, located next to the Episcopal church.  This manner of concealment was at first a good plan, except that there hadn’t been enough fresh graves to accommodate his growing number of victims.  This lack of recent-dug eternal real estate had eventually necessitated bunking two victims in one grave, and that on top of the original occupant’s coffin.  This doubling-up had caused too much dirt displacement for someone not to notice.

The local gravedigger had also become suspicious because fresh graves were unusually slow to grow new grass.  Apparently watching grass grow was a fascinating hobby in these parts.  Although the suspect had taken great care, the gravedigger eventually developed an overwhelming fear that the dearly-departed under his care were being, or already had been, disturbed.  At first he suspected drug-addicted teens.  Then his thoughts turned to a more sinister possibility – grave robbers or an insatiable necrophiliac.    

The gravedigger called the undertaker, who went to the sheriff, who consulted his pastor and then his wife on what he should do.   Against the protestations of the town’s more-squeamish citizens, the sheriff had ordered all deceased in the last year to be exhumed—six graves.   This macabre scavenger hunt had yielded thirteen bodies in all, six of whom were to be expected, and seven of whom came as rather an unpleasant shock.  The whole town was in an uproar.  The sheriff was annoyed.  The gravedigger—horrified.  The Episcopal priest—practically catatonic.  That’s when the FBI had been called in. 

The sheriff’s first question to Hotch: should they dig up last year’s dead too?   A practical question, Reid agreed, considering the circumstances.  While the sheriff was inclined to keep going, the poor gravedigger was about to keel from the stress of having to undo one year’s worth of work, let alone the prospect of two years’ worth, not to mention the moral dilemma of disturbing the eternal rest of these good, Christian people.   At this juncture, they were debating whether or not to drive over to the closest nearby town and borrow a backhoe from the sheriff’s cousin.  They had already broken six good shovels, and several spines were currently out of alignment.   It was time to stop screwing around and get serious about this, the sheriff had decided.    

Hotch had requested that ground-penetrating radar be brought in from Kansas City or Dallas or Oklahoma City, whichever FBI field office could get it there first.   Oklahoma City had replied with a quick no.  They were using theirs in the search for a missing wife and mother whose husband owned a housing construction company.  They had three subdivisions’ worth of yards to search, and were sorry, but they simply couldn’t help. 

Dallas wasn’t sending theirs without knowing first how long Hotch would need it.  What if they needed it, after all?  Hotch couldn’t give them a definite time frame because he had no idea.  So Dallas was stalling without actually refusing. 

Kansas City was more than willing to bring theirs, if they could watch the proceedings.  It was a perfectly ghoulish request, but then again, Reid could understand if they were bored waiting around for an interesting case to come their way.   He could relate, because his own team only seemed to get interesting cases when he was on vacation.   

Spencer pined to himself, sorry he had missed this case so far.  He flipped open each victim’s file one by one.  His amusement evaporated as he stared down at their faces in procession.  They were young men in their late teens, early twenties, thin build, bookish, shy to the point of being socially-withdrawn, easily overlooked unless they were the type that caught your eye.   These young men were not the sort to wander off alone on a whim.   What’s more, they all distinctly reminded him of himself. 

The eerie feeling teasing the back of Reid’s neck was the undeniable knowing that he had been dragged into this room to act as a distraction for the killer.  Hotch was attempting to make Mariner stumble.  Reid didn’t know whether to be scared or flattered.  He gulped audibly and frowned at his own reflection in the one-way mirror.  In spite of the so-called sound-proofing, he could hear Morgan chuckling behind the silvery glass. 

Concerning the victims, there was binding of the hands, apparently with handcuffs, and indications that a gag was used.  There was an attempt at rape with each victim, though no actual penetration took place.  Hair and fibers and body fluids on the victims and their clothes had provided a DNA sample which had led the team to the unsub.   Mariner had previously attempted rapes in other college towns where he had worked (the victims being one young woman and two young men) along with a string of related offenses such as peeping, lewd conduct, and one very hostile encounter at a Sip-N-Bite drive-thru. 

The attempted rapes cases had been resolved before going to court (the female victim had quickly transferred to another college at the behest of her parents, and the male victims had been too embarrassed to press charges), but these cases were the reason why the unsub’s DNA had been on file.  Even though he had not been convicted, a semen sample had been taken in as evidence from victims’ clothes, and once taken, it had been processed and entered into the offender database.  Technically, the man might not have been an official offender, innocent until proven guilty, but there was a lot to be said for the accidental thoroughness which had helped the FBI capture Mariner. 

Hotch’s notes on the case, left in the front of the first file, indicated he felt this unsub’s frustration at his sexual inabilities with women, and his emotional and moral turmoil at the possibility of being homosexual, had boiled over into abduction and violent murder, severe beatings, and manual strangulations.     

“No, you don’t have to talk to me,” Hotch agreed, reaching back to take one of the folders away from Reid.  “Thank you,” Aaron added, letting his hand linger over Reid’s hand on the pages, letting his eyes linger on Reid’s face as well.  Spencer felt the electric tease of sexual attraction pass between them, like a spark jumping from one to the other, before Hotch got himself back under control. 

“Welcome, sir,” Spencer whispered shyly, starting to blush. 

Hotch had to fight with himself not to smile.   Then he saw Mariner watching him fight the smile, and decided that was somehow better than an open display of feelings. 

“However, Mr. Mariner, I can spend all the time I want talking to myself or to my colleague while you are in the room.   The facts of the case are this:  on May 1^st, Mr. Mariner used his faculty ID to gain entry into the university library.   He stayed in the library for …

Power surges made the overhead lights crackle and sizzle.  The door unlocked and relocked of its own accord.   Hotch’s voice continued.  They were sitting close enough together that their chairs were touching.  Spencer could feel Hotch’s body heat.  If he moved sideways a fraction of an inch, Aaron’s shoulder would touch his own.  Hotch could feel Reid holding back a shudder with each bolt of lightning that came too close, each crash that sounded right above their heads.  He had no idea that Reid had astraphobia.   He had never noticed it before.  Or was it something else making Spencer quiver this way?   

“….nearly twelve entire hours.”

When the lights came back on, Mariner wasn’t looking at Hotch.  He was focused entirely on Reid.  Hotch bristled. 

“Stop watching him.”

Silence.  Reid didn’t have to use the one-way mirror—he could feel Mariner’s eyes boring into his back.   

Hotch shifted in his chair and got up.  He sat on the opposite corner of the table, stared angrily at Mariner. He slapped the file down to drive home his point. 

“I said stop looking at him!”

Spencer propped up an elbow on the high crossbar of his straight-back chair as he turned halfway around. 

“Sir, I can leave if I’m in the way.”

“No,” Mariner blurted.

“Yes.  I want you to leave,” Aaron ordered.  Reid was on his feet at once, ready to sprint for the door.  “Wait.  Bring me back some sugar, and then you can go,” Hotch requested. 

Reid walked with trembling knees to the table where coffee pots simmered and doughnuts were strewn around.  He fumbled for packets of sugar, tipping over the Styrofoam cup that they were held in.  When he returned to the interrogation room, Reid could hear Hotch’s voice behind the door but he couldn’t make out what he was saying.  One of the chairs was scooting around – Mariner’s or Hotch’s? Not likely Hotch’s chair, as he hadn’t been sitting in it.

“When he comes back in, I want you to turn the other way.  He’s off limits.”

“What?” Mariner demanded.

“You heard me!  Turn around!” Hotch bellowed as Reid opened the interrogation room door again.  Spencer stopped in his tracks, his face full of fear.  He dutifully turned his back.  “No, not you,” Hotch soothed, whispered intimately. He softened his voice, his face, his entire demeanor.  “Come in.  It’s all right.  Leave the sugar on the table.  Take the files.”

Hotch was standing near the door.  Reid’s chair had been moved from the second table to the first table, placed at the end closest to the door.  Reid nervously reached over the chair in order to place several packets of sugar onto the table next to Hotch’s mug.   His gun bumped the top of the chair.  His hips brushed the high crossbar.  Mariner watched Reid hungrily as he leaned across that chair, devouring the line and form of the young doctor up and down and back again.   Mariner wasn’t the only one watching, either. 

With shaking hands, Reid collected the files on the table under the one-way mirror, and then he pivoted to Hotch, waiting for permission to retrieve the last file.  Hotch shook his head once.  Reid nodded.   On his way to the door, Spencer stopped by the repositioned chair, finally realizing why Hotch had moved it.  He understood too late what a display he must have made for Mariner as he had leaned over that chair.  

Reid treated Hotch to a reproachful scowl that Mariner could not have seen.  In reply to that scowl, Hotch ran a hand over Reid’s shoulder and leaned in to whisper in his ear.  Spencer wanted to leap out of his skin at the unexpected touch, but Aaron’s strong arm held him steady in place. 

“I’ll see you later,” Hotch promised seductively.  He pressed his lips behind the same ear he was whispering in.   The kiss dislodged several locks of hair which swung down into Spencer’s eyes again. 

3

Once back in the observation room, Reid spilled the files on the table under the mirror and fled for a chair in the farthest corner.  He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, then clenched his fingers together on top of clutched knees.  Hotch’s voice insinuated itself into his mind. 

“On the evening of May 1^st, you entered the library, and stayed in the stacks for twelve hours.  You signed out the next morning at 9 a.m., and then immediately signed back in at 9:01.  So you might have slept that night in the library, and stepped out the next morning for a quick breath of fresh air before returning back inside to your task.  Or you might have left the library by a means other than the front entrance, and you went back to the scene the next morning to see if anyone had noticed a disturbance.  Either way, you couldn’t sign in again without first logging back out.”

Mariner was staring at the door.  He sniffed.  Hotch did too, as imperceptibly as possible, and detected the lingering scent of hand soap, rain, a clean rental car, and  warm peaches.   He wondered why Reid would smell like peaches.  Warm peaches.  It puzzled his brain, a stray thought buzzing around inside him.   

Aaron wished he had waited to get Spencer to take off his jacket until he was already in here with Mariner.  That would have been even better – Reid’s jacket over the back of his empty chair – a physical reminder of him to distract the unsub.        

“On July 3^rd,” Hotch continued, “you entered the university library at  2 p.m. and then the next morning, 8 a.m., you signed out, and then signed back in again.  Slept the night in the library again?  No comment?

"How many other people also logged into the library that night?”

“Forty-eight, all of whom logged back out again before closing time.”

“So?  Everyone on campus knows the security system at the library isn’t fool-proof.  All you have to do is ask.  It’s the exact same system they’ve installed here at this station.  In theory, it’s a good system overall, but it’s not without its flaws.”

“We know about the flaws in the security systems at the library and here as well,” Hotch confirmed.   

“Not the least of which could be the sheriff taping the security code on a post-it note above the keypad panel on the outside of that door there,” Mariner smirked.  Aaron agreed with a tilt and nod of his head.

“Surely not the wisest move.”

“Then why am I still here?”

“May 1^st.  July 3^rd.  August 14^th.   Do you know what each of those days has in common?   Three of our victims entered the library that day, and none of them were ever seen again.  You also entered the library those three days, spent the night, and logged out and immediately back in the next morning.”

“I told you – the library security system has flaws, doors where you don’t have to slide your ID card to get in and out.  I must have left by one of the unprotected portals.”

“So?” Hotch barked, and Mariner glared up at Aaron. 

“Maybe the missing boys left by those portals too.  It’s completely plausible.  It’s certainly enough to support reasonable doubt.  You don’t have any reason to hold me here.”

“Nothing except your DNA on all of our victims,” Hotch retorted. 

Mariner stared at the door, at the repositioned chair, and then at the mirrored window.    He shifted in his seat and gave Hotch a hateful look.

“You are one sadistic bastard,” Mariner accused.   “I see what you were doing,” he snorted darkly, “bringing your colleague in here.”

“I told you before, Mariner, he is off limits to you.  You don’t get to look at him, and you don’t get to think about him.”

“You can’t control what I think.”

“Neither can you,” Hotch observed.  “Wipe Spencer out of your mind.  You won’t ever see him again.  I’ll make sure of it.”

“Spencer.  Is that his name?  Your pet?  You surprise me.  I would never have thought a macho jackass like you would be gay,” Mariner murmured. 

“Let it go, Ted,” Hotch warned.

“Now, him?  Yeah, no doubt. ” Mariner mocked.  Hotch sat on the table again, and intruded into Mariner’s personal space, making him flinch. 

“We’re not here to talk about Spencer.”

“Does it bother you when other people talk about your boyfriend?  Does he belong to you and only you or something?”

“Yes, actually, it does bother me.  And, yes, Spencer does belong to me,” Aaron purred, his voice a honey-rich and melodic rumble.  Reid’s prodigious mind flashed back to that alcohol-seeped night, and his body relived in one second every sensation, all encapsulated in one uncontrolled tremble which spoke volumes.  It really had happened.  

Morgan was staring right at Reid, cataloguing his reactions instead of Mariner’s.   Reid gave Derek a dirty look for his troubles, which only served to silently amuse Morgan.   Rossi watched Morgan tease Reid with a smile, and he cleared his throat at Derek.  Morgan shrugged one shoulder and faced the window again. 

“Lucky you,” Mariner twitched. 

“Stop thinking about him,” Hotch growled protectively.  Maybe possessively.  Reid wondered if he was faking that feeling or if it was genuine.

“I’ll think whatever I want about whoever I want,” Mariner growled back.

“That’s all you can do, think, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” Mariner spat the words. 

“You couldn’t if you wanted to,” Hotch retorted.  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you, you bastard.  I’m not saying another fucking word to you.”

“Fine.  Don’t talk to me, Ted.”

“Don’t call me Ted.  Only my mother calls me Ted.  You don’t get to call me Ted.  I’m Mr. Mariner to you, and I’m done talking.  I want to go back to my cell.”

“Fine, Ted.  You can go back to your cell.  But when you’re lying there alone tonight, touching yourself and dreaming of something you can never have, I want you to think about this.  Spencer belongs to me, not because I make him stay, but because he wants to stay.  I don’t need an ankle chain or a gag or a pair of handcuffs to keep him.  What turns you on, that’s not normal, and it makes you feel guilty, and it makes you feel sick about yourself.  Your self-loathing is the reason you can’t keep it up.”

“How would you know what normal is?”

“Ted, normal is when two people want to be together.  Normal is me taking Spencer home after work.  Normal is dinner and maybe a glass of wine.  Normal is taking Spencer to my room, laying him down on my bed, undressing him slowly because he likes it that way.   Normal is discovering and remembering where he likes to be touched, where he likes to be kissed, what makes him hard, what makes him open up for me.  Normal is Spencer under me in my bed, his arms up around my shoulders as we move together, him whispering my name in my ear.   No gags.  No handcuffs.  Just skin on skin, two consenting adults alone together in the darkness.  That’s normal.  You’re never going to have that because you’re not normal.  It’s not normal to want to kill the people you’re attracted to.”

Dark silence was all Mariner could muster. The storms outside echoed his growing fury.  Hotch turned things up a notch, using his rich deep voice to every advantage.

“Tonight when I’ve got Spencer in my arms, and we’re making love, moving together slow and sweet, and he’s moaning my name, and I’m making him spread out those long legs and curl his toes and bite his bottom lip the way he does…. it’s… it’s a really beautiful thing, watching him come.   Tonight when I make Spencer come, I’ll be thinking of you, Ted.  I’ll be feeling sorry for you, because you are never going to know how good it feels to make every nerve in someone’s body tingle.  To make them see stars.  To know you own that person because no one else is ever going to make them feel as fucking good as you make them feel every time you slide your dick inside them.  That’s why Spencer belongs to me. 

“Ted, I feel sorry for you because you will never have anything like that.  Ever.  I know it.  You know it.   Every day of your miserable existence, you’re reminded of it, and it’s eating you alive.   You’re angry, Ted.  Very angry.  You’re striking out at these innocent young men because you hate yourself for wanting them.  You’re angry at them for being so desirable.  You hate them for making you want them.  That’s why you’re doing what you’re doing, and if you let me, maybe I can get you the help you need.”

Mariner sat in cold silence, a tangible cloud of hatred washing around him.  Hotch could smell it leaking from his every pore, like the burn of sulphur in the air after a vicious stroke of lightning.   Aaron collected the file and his notes off the table.  He exited the interrogation room without another word.   Thunder continued to crash ominously outside.  Lights around him flickered on and off, on and off, and the door locked and unlocked once more. 

4

Hotch entered the observation room to a different kind of silence, several staring faces with their mouths hanging open.  Of course the local sheriff and his two deputies had returned by this time, having grown bored arguing about who was going to drive over and get the sheriff’s cousin’s backhoe.  Naturally, they were taking this unique opportunity to watch the FBI at work, and they had been eagerly observing the interrogation at this critical moment.  Of course they were.  As his team stared at Hotch and the deputies stared at Hotch, the sheriff’s brows slowly rose into heights yet unimagined on a human forehead.  

Prentiss was the first to break the uncomfortable tension.

“Damn, Hotch.  Talk dirty to me, baby.”

Hotch sprouted a bashful smile. 

“I need a shower,” Rossi groused.

“I need a cigarette,” Morgan teased.

JJ gave Reid a worried glance.   There was notable void of sound from the farthest corner of the room, because Reid had been shocked silent.  He looked as if someone had hit him in the stomach and taken his breath away.  Hotch’s bashful smile fell flat. 

“Reid, wait,” Hotch said, but Spencer rushed past him, hurrying away.  Reid disappeared down the corridor and vanished into one of the restrooms— Hotch hoped it was the correct one.  “Oh, damn,” Aaron muttered.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Prentiss sighed.  “Make him understand.  You were only saying what you had to say to get a rise out of Mariner.”

“Oh,” the two deputies chorused.  The sheriff’s eyebrows came back down to their normal positions.  JJ shifted in place, smiling down at her lovely shoes.  She was too kind to roll her eyes at them, but Rossi was not above it. 

“You got a rise out of him all right,” Morgan snickered, glancing back into the interrogation room.   “That thing with the chair?  That was pure evil.  You should have seen Mariner’s face.”

“Leave Reid alone.  He’ll be fine.  You embarrassed him, that’s all.  Eventually, he’ll understand what you were trying to do,” Rossi predicted. 

Prentiss stared at Hotch, waiting for permission.   “Go talk to him,” Aaron pleaded to her.  “He’ll listen to you.”

“Don’t worry.  I got this,” Emily promised.

“Hope this works,” Rossi whispered as he moved towards the open door as well.   “Mariner, I mean.”

“So do I,” Hotch replied.  “Sheriff, could you take Mr. Mariner back to his cell?  Bring him back tomorrow morning first thing.  We’ll start again.”

5

“Dry your face.”

“What am I going to do?” Reid whimpered. 

“My advice?  Call him up late some night and beg him for telephone sex,” Emily teased huskily.    

“Am I that transparent?” Reid worried, casting scared eyes at the mirror and back at Prentiss.  She smacked him in the side of the head, and he winced.  “Ow!” 

“Reid, this has nothing to do with you.  You were the one who most closely matched the unsub’s tastes.  If Mariner was straight, Hotch would have been asking me to loosen my buttons and slink around the room.  If Mariner liked clean, sweet blondes, JJ would have been bringing Hotch his coffee.  If Mariner had been killing muscle-bound black men, Hotch would have been blowing in Derek’s ear.”

So the rest of the team hadn’t seen the kiss?  They had thought Hotch was blowing in Reid’s ear?  Somehow that was worse.  They were taking amusement at Reid’s perceived discomfort with Hotch’s flirtations for Mariner’s benefit, not knowing the real reason Reid was so emotionally displaced by the actions was because he was worried Hotch was sadistically tormenting him for more personal reasons. 

“Reid, Hotch doesn’t know you have a crush on him.  Trust me – men are perfectly clueless until you club them over the head with the obvious,” Emily bemoaned. 

“It’s not a crush,” Reid defended archly. 

“Okay.  It’s not a crush.  Is it more serious than that?”

“Yes.”

“How serious?”

“I think…..”

“What do you think?”

“You can’t say anything….” Reid begged, staring down at his tie, fumbling nervous fingers along his shirt buttons, struggling to straighten his appearance.   

“I won’t say a thing,” Prentiss promised in complete frankness, taking over straightening Reid’s tie because she was worried he was going to hurt himself with it.

“…..that night….”

“What night?”

“That night,” Reid sighed.

“You mean that night when Hotch drove you home after he caught you doing tequila shooters in the company of lustful strangers? Yeah.  I remember.  What about it?  I’m still missing half a butt cheek from the chewing out Hotch gave Morgan and me for taking you out with us.”

“Hotch drove me home, and I seduced him,” Reid whimpered. 

“WHAT?” Prentiss shouted.  Reid practically imploded in a shuddering, guilt-ridden cringe, covering his face with both hands and nodding his head.  “Seriously?” Emily whispered.  Reid continued nodding. 

“I remember, but it’s all fuzzy in my mind,” Reid’s voice went soft and husky.   He did not add that the proof was in that kiss – Hotch knew the right spot to start in to turn Spencer to warm goo.  Prentiss took both Reid’s shoulders in a very strong grip.

“Tell me everything.  Slowly.”

Prentiss grinned wickedly at him, and Reid grew a storm cloud of his own. 

“Stop it,” he growled at her, not amused.   

“Kiddo, maybe you were dreaming.  You did have a lot to drink, way more than you normally would.”

“I’d think I was dreaming too, if it weren’t for….weren’t for….”

“What?”

“The physical evidence,” Reid said in a barely audible rush of words. 

“I see….” Emily drawled, perfectly intrigued. 

“The taste of his skin…..in my mouth….and….and….and…..his hands all over me….and….inside me....and.....” Reid stammered.

Emily crooned, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Love bites?  Aching thighs?  Hotch’s scent?  Not just his scent either?”

Reid swallowed loudly and bit his bottom lip.  He wouldn’t look her in the eye. 

“I may have been somewhat out of control,” Spencer added. 

Prentiss cleared her throat and got right to the point.  “How was he?”

“What?” Reid whimpered. 

“What was he like in bed?”

“Mmm…..phenomenal?” Reid offered, a timid, fragile smile turning up one corner of his mouth.   “Wish I could remember it more clearly.”    

“Spencer, you are such a woobie,” Emily whispered, squeezing his shoulders gently.   “Tell me more.  Tell me everything.  No, wait.  Let’s go back to the hotel.  We can get comfortable.  Have a drink.  Then you can tell me everything.”

“I don’t think….”

“Pretty please?”

“No,” Reid whined, but he was starting to laugh.  “You are such a pervert.”

Reid lowered his head to Prentiss’s shoulder and shook with soundless humor.  Emily ducked down to catch his eyes and smiled, because her not-so-gentle teasing was finally working.  Spencer was slowly gathering his cool again.   

“Well, that’s all right.  If I can’t have Hotch’s cherry, at least I got yours,” she added, playfully tracing his neck with one nail. 

“You did not!” Reid gasped, backing away, utterly wounded at the accusation.  He arched up as if she had traced his spine with an icicle.  She was teasing him again, of course.  Prentiss bounced the tip of one finger off his rounded mouth.

“Oh yes, I did.  Don’t deny it.  You were naked in my bed, and I made you come.  Repeatedly.”

“Emily, you and I….we didn’t technically, actually….physically….never…..together …..us…um.    Letting you test out sex toys on me until I can’t see straight, that is not the same thing as….as…. you and I…. together….. sexually……”

“Not nearly the same thing as Aaron Hotchner hip-deep inside you, making you hear choirs of angels sing?  How well I know,” Prentiss sighed. 

“I was not a virgin,” Spencer defended.

“Maybe not, but you are a woobie, and that is never going to change,” Emily said, straightening his tie and caressing his chin.  Reid endured the touch with a small cringe.  

“Don’t call me that.  It’s not even a real word,” he muttered, smiling in spite of being annoyed at her. 

“Has anyone told you how adorable you are when you’re flustered and babbly?”

“No, usually the opposite, you included.”

“Adorable or not, you better reel that in, because we have to walk out past everyone, and if they see you like this, they’ll know you’re upset.  Do you want that?  Morgan will tease you into such a frenzy over this if he thinks he can get under your skin.  Is that what you want?”

“No.”

“No one knows how you feel about Hotch except me.  Hotch sure hasn’t got a clue, or he wouldn’t have done what he just did.  Okay?  Leave it at that.  Leave all the panic and embarrassment and tears in here.  Put it all away.  Pull yourself together.”

Spencer nodded in reply. 

“Good.  That’s better.  Let me give you a lift back to the hotel.”

“I’ll walk.  Point me the right direction,” he protested. 

“Don’t be an idiot.  It’s pouring down rain.  Come on.”

Even though he was annoyed with her, Spencer put himself entirely in Prentiss’s control, which probably said something profoundly disturbing about both of them.

6

Spencer was lying on the bed in his sporadically-lit hotel room, watching the lightning outside as storms continued to roll overhead.   The lamp had switched off with the last power surge.  Spencer hadn’t turned it back on.  What the hell would be the point?  He stacked his book on the side table and gave up for the night. 

An unexpected crash of instantaneous lightning and thunder shook everything around Reid, and he leapt up off the bed like a startled cat.  Close by, sirens were going off, and police lights were flashing red and blue in the rainy streets.  The police station was only two blocks away.  He could see the chaos from his window.  He thought a tree might have come down too, the way the sirens were wailing and warbling and whining out of sequence.  Transformers were crackling wildly, an answering echo to the storms above.  Reid eventually settled back down on the bed, tentatively stretching out his tired limbs once more. 

His cell phone on the nightstand rang.  Spencer rolled over and stared at it.  Lethargically, he picked it up and put it against his ear.

“ ‘lo?”

“Reid?” Hotch questioned.   The sirens Reid could hear outside were echoing through the phone from Hotch’s end too, an eerie doppelganger of sound that made his brain feel foggy.

“Yes, sir?” Spencer answered sleepily.  It wasn’t a question of not being tired.  Maybe the problem was he was too exhausted to sleep. 

“About today.  I know it’s late, but I wanted to apologize.  What I said, what I did, what I asked you to do, that was inappropriate.” 

“Hotch, it’s okay.  Emily explained,” Reid mumbled.   He cleared his throat and shook out his brain.  Had Hotch been lying awake worrying because Spencer had skipped dinner to avoid seeing him, and to avoid being teased by the rest of the team but primarily by Morgan?  Was Hotch wondering what was running through Reid’s mind? 

“I should have told you ahead of time what my plan was.”

“No.  I understand.  I’m sorry that I over-reacted.”

There was a moment or two of silence. 

“Okay.  Good.  I’m glad you’re not angry,” Hotch said.  He sniffed a little.  “Did I wake you up?”

“No.”

“You should be asleep, Spencer.  It’s past midnight.”  The use of his first name and the sensual way Hotch’s voice wrapped around those syllables, it made Reid shiver with pleasure.  He hoped the involuntary groan that fell from his lips did not make it through to the other side of the phone line. 

“It’s the lightning.  Every time I drift off….you know.”

There was another electrifying flash.  Bolts of silver and white cut through the darkness, and a rebound of thunder made his head ache. 

“Oh damn,” Hotch muttered.  “That sounded bad.  Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Spencer answered softly. 

“You want me to come read you a bedtime story?  It always works for Jack.”  There was Hotch’s peculiar sense of humor again.    

‘Great, he thinks I have the emotional needs of a five year old,’ Spencer thought maliciously to himself. 

“No thanks.  I’ll drift off soon,” he said out loud.  

“Spencer?  I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Hotch.”

“Why didn’t you come to dinner?”

“You didn’t hurt me.  You made me feel dirty,” Spencer blurted. 

“I’m sorry,” Hotch murmured sincerely. 

There was silence again.  Was Hotch thinking of all the other ways he could apologize, in order to keep Spencer on the phone longer?  Or was he imagining other scenarios?  Anything to do with that straight back chair and having Reid lean across it?  Why in particular had that scenario been the first to spring to Hotch’s mind?  Limited resources in a contained, controlled environment, or was it a deeper and darker fantasy that Aaron Hotchner was harboring in that straight-laced mind of his?

“Spencer, how can I make you feel better?”

“What?”

“How can I make this up to you?”

“This is not something you can fix, Hotch.  What is the point of going on about it?  You did what you thought would throw the unsub off his game.  Great job.  Glad I could help.  You surprised me, that’s all.  I’m not accustomed to being used to sexually stimulate other people.  Instead of rattling the unsub, you rattled me.  Is that what you want me to say?

“No.”

“Maybe you should have bent me over the table and been done with it, if that’s the impression you were going for, that I belong to you, that you can dominate me at will?” Reid added angrily.  Hotch’s breathing became unexpectedly ragged, and Reid felt a heartbeat or two of sheer panic.   

That was what Hotch had been fantasizing about, wasn’t it?!   

“Spencer,” Hotch pleaded unhappily, upset he had been found out. 

“Any other sinister fantasies about me you’d like to get off your chest?” Reid growled.

“Reid, what did I do?  How have I annoyed you this badly?”

“I’m not annoyed,” Reid denied.

“No, I agree.  This little tantrum—it goes beyond annoyed.  I’ve said something terrible.  I’ve stirred up painful feelings in you, opened an old wound?”

“Hotch!  You made me bend over a chair in front of a killer who has put at least seven young men in the ground because they made the mistake of turning him on! Excuse me if I’m not thrilled at the prospect of that man fantasizing about me while he’s touching himself, or him wanting to choke me to death and then masturbate over my corpse.”

“Spencer, calm down.”

“Don’t you tell me to be calm!”

“I hate when you get unreasonable like this.  I’m coming downstairs, and we can talk in person,” Hotch answered.  Then he hung up.

“I’m not unreasonable!” Reid shouted, his mouth suddenly so dry.  He put the cell phone back on the nightstand and shook his head in the darkness.  ‘Be careful what you wish for’, he thought ruefully.

The biggest storm front of the evening must have been right overhead.  It shook the room again, filled it with intermittent daylight then overwhelming darkness.  Reid picked up his phone once more and dialed for Hotchner.

“Pick up,” Spencer muttered.  “Pick up.  Pick up.  Pick up.”

The storm filled his room with the illusion of daylight and a crash of noise that jolted the bed.  Immediately following the first violent crash, there was a second one.  The door to Reid’s hotel room slammed back against the wall. 

“HOTCH!” Reid yelled at the top of his lungs, going through stages of being startled, angry, baffled, and then petrified when a different voice answered.

“Not tonight it’s not.”

7

Lightning illuminated the room long enough for Reid to see and feel green eyes piercing through him.   It wasn’t Hotch?  Reid’s mind puzzled over this for the split second before Mariner lunged forward and grabbed at him.  Spencer rolled off the bed and onto the floor, scrambling for the open door.  Mariner grabbed Reid by the hair and yanked him upright.  With one hard swing, he smacked his skull to the wall, dazing Reid long enough to drag him down to the floor, beside the bed. 

Hands seized Reid’s wrists, holding them high above his head.  Cold metal cuffs burned his skin, biting his bones.  As a tremendous rattle of thunder rolled overhead, lightning echoed through the room, and hate-filled green eyes bore down into Spencer’s brain like shards of sharp glass. 

If looks could kill, this would have been over right there. 

“HOTCH!”  Spencer screamed.   The part of his brain that couldn’t possibly be troubled about the panic that was freezing his physical form stiff wondered at the choice of calling him ‘Hotch’.  Not Hotchner.  Not Aaron.  Not simply a scream of terror.  Why had he chosen to scream for Hotch at all?  Why not scream for Morgan, who was next door on his left?  Why not Rossi, who was next door on his right?

Mariner left Reid only long enough to slam the door closed and lock it tight again, destroying all hope of escape that might have remained.  The analytical part of Reid’s brain shut up for a second, annoyed with these developments, then it started calculating what to do to get away. 

Reid frantically shook his arms, and the bed quaked.  He yanked even more desperately on the cuffs, hoping to pull them under the wheel that the post of the bed rested on.   A sharp, slapping blow struck him across the face, followed by another and another.  He was seeing stars and lightning and flashes of pure rage on the face above him. 

Mariner ripped open Spencer’s shirt and tried to tear it away.  His violent yanking on Reid’s arms pulled the cuffs out from under the end of the bed.   Spencer swung blindly at Mariner, catching soft flesh with angles of metal and clawed fingers.  Spencer dragged mercilessly downward, and a trickle of blood jetted out at him, catching his hands, face, and chest.  Mariner screamed in pain. 

Reid balled up his legs to his chest and turned on his side, but it did no good.   Fighting back was only infuriating the unsub even more.  Powerful hands yanked at Reid’s legs, grasped his knees, pulling them apart.  Mariner turned him forcefully onto his stomach, banging knees and elbows on the floor.  Mariner was yanking at the rest of Reid’s clothes, and his pajamas bottoms were giving way.  Spencer kicked and flailed, kicked again.  Mariner slammed his knee into the back of one thigh and managed to still Reid momentarily.    

Mariner was on top of Reid, panting in his ear, thrusting against him but not inside him, trying to get a foothold on the floor and a death grip of Spencer at the same time.   He rubbed against Spencer and groped him thoroughly.  But Reid wasn’t going to simply lie down and die—he wasn’t about to make this easy for Mariner.  The more he struggled though, the more blows rained down, on his back, his sides, his ribs, his head.  Teeth dug into his shoulder.  He felt blood run down his skin, or was it rain?  Mariner’s hair was wet.  His clothes were wet.  He stank of rain and sweat and lust and anger and hatred.   

Spencer got an elbow free and slammed it backwards, sideways, connecting with Mariner’s stomach.  He managed to stun him long enough to flail free, spilling himself one arm’s length away.  In his attempt to rise to his feet, his heel struck the side table, and the lamp crashed onto the floor.  His cell phone dashed across his back and disappeared. 

Hands grabbed his head and yanked backwards, pulling him back to the floor.  Reid bit the fingers that were stuffing a knotted, dirty handkerchief in his mouth.  The gag bit back, digging into his mouth and face.  It was laced tight through his hair.  He struggled to breathe, tasting blood on his tongue and in his mouth.  Was it his own?  He felt bile rising in his throat at the thought that he might be tasting the blood of Mariner’s other victims. 

Reverberations through the floor of the room travelled up Reid’s body, and told him someone was running at top speed down the hallway, maybe more than one person.  Someone had heard him screaming!  Hope burned hot again in his chest, and it brought back his desire to keep fighting in spite of the punches Mariner was punishing him with.

Hotch was outside in the hall, pounding on the door to his room with both fists, calling Reid’s name loudly and urgently.  Morgan was there too, his shouting an echo to Hotch’s concern.   For all his teasing, Morgan was intensely protective of Reid.  The entire team was.   He knew they weren’t going to let him die alone in here at the hands of this man.  The door to his room rattled, jumped, shook angrily as if a poltergeist was on the other side. 

Spencer jolted forward away from Mariner’s inelegant, rough thrusts.  Mariner yanked him back, bit him again, and continued rubbing against him.  Spencer put his head down on his arms, found his face with his fingers, and tried to pull the gag away.  He got a fingertip inside but couldn’t get the damned thing off.   Mariner growled hatefully in frustration, threw Spencer down on the floor on his back, and climbed on his chest.  He grabbed Reid’s throat with both hands, smothering his breathing and his voice at the same time. 

Everything for the next fifteen seconds was a blur caused by the lack of oxygen.  The door was kicked open again.  There was a strange and disorienting mixture of pounding and lightning and thunder and voices shouting.  The dead weight on top of Reid was dragged away.  Someone freed his hands from the cuffs, pulled away the gag from his mouth.    He fought with the hands pulling his pajamas bottoms up around his waist.  Spencer was shaking uncontrollably, gasping for breath.  He wondered too if he might have been losing consciousness.  

Everything came back into focus for a few seconds, like being lifted out of a vat of water and catching your first solid breath.   The lights came on again, blinding Reid's eyes, sending stabbing pains through his head.   Hotch was wrapping a blanket around Reid's naked shoulders.  Reid withdrew fearfully in the other direction, colliding with the bed, backing up against the solid surface until it inched out of place.   He hid his face in his arms and hands. 

Morgan dragged the yelping, snarling Mariner across the room towards the door.   Spencer had clawed Mariner right to left diagonally down across his face.  Three livid marks like bloody lightning stood out on the mask of rage on the unsub's face.   Morgan finally subdued Mariner by bracing one big forearm around his throat, giving him a rough shake while threatening him, nose to ear, close enough to bite him if needed. 

"You move one more muscle, and you're dead.  Am I making myself clear, Mr. Mariner?!"

“Get that animal out of here!” Hotch boomed. 

Reid closed his eyes and quaked in fear even though he knew Hotch’s anger wasn’t directed at him.   He couldn't stop whimpering-- was only just shy of full-on sobbing.  Spencer lashed out suddenly at the arms that went around him.  Hotch dodged back barely in time to avoid a scratched face too.  Reid dropped his head backwards to the mattress behind him and screamed out a blood-choked, half-strangled wail.  Hotch's form seemed to pool around him from above, drowning the wail in one shoulder, holding Reid gently.  Hotch was whispering soothing syllables at him. 

“Spencer.  It’s okay.  Shhh.  Shh.”

Reid tasted a second horrible rush of bile in his throat when he realized the blood-soaked gag was knotted around his throat, hanging against his chest like a mangled dog collar.  He had wanted to pretend or believe that he was dreaming this entire unpleasant episode.  But the sound of his own cries, and painful aching all over his body, and the blood streaming down his face and backwards down into his throat told a much-worse tale.   He coughed roughly in between sobs, spraying Hotch’s shirt with bright-red droplets.  Seeing his own blood on someone else was the final straw.  It cemented the truth in his detached brain that he really was hurt.  Black spots swarmed over him like hungry locusts, and he finally surrendered to blissful unconsciousness. 

8

The last few hours spun around in Hotch’s mind the next morning.  He needed to go to sleep soon.  But he couldn’t rest.  Not yet.  He stared down at the steering wheel in his hands and shook his brain to clear his mind.  This was no time to panic, but panic was all he felt as his heart raced and his mind clouded over with worry and self-doubt.   

Last night, Hotch had rushed Spencer to the nearest hospital in one SUV while Prentiss and JJ followed him in another.  He was in such a hurry to get Spencer inside to a doctor that he wasn’t even sure he had turned off the ignition.   Once Reid was in capable hands, Hotch had ridden back to the police station with Prentiss and JJ to observe Mariner’s interrogation, not giving a single thought to the vehicle he had left here in the hospital parking lot.

Aaron had stayed awake until dawn, glowering through an observation room window as Morgan and Rossi ran roughshod over Ted Mariner, abusing Mariner verbally and psychologically the same way Mariner had injured Reid physically.  Hotch enjoyed every minute of them making Mariner angry, upset, confrontational, and finally tearful as he broke down and confessed to everything they had suspected him of from the start and more. 

There were moments when JJ and Prentiss had worried Hotch might storm into the room and smack Mariner around for the pleasure of making him bleed.  It wasn’t like Morgan was holding too far back from doing that himself, truth be told.  But Hotch held his cool, icy disdain like a shield and waited, letting Morgan and Rossi wring Mariner out instead of taking him into hand himself.   Considering what had happened to the last person to harm someone that Aaron Hotch cared about, Mariner got off lightly.  But perhaps that wasn’t the best way to phrase it.  

Aaron was taking the most disconcerting and uncharacteristic pleasure from the three livid scratches that would forever mar Mariner’s face, delivered by the hand that he had tried to still forever.  Those scars were going to serve as a warning to the rest of the world to look past the kind green eyes and be wary of the true monster that lay within. 

Morgan rushed off to the cemetery once more, a hand-drawn map in hand with Mariner’s other victims’ burial locations marked in red.  JJ and Prentiss were not far behind.  Rossi took over the final phase of Mariner’s confession—he was cool, calm, collected, and professional.  There was nothing more that Hotch could do at the police station.  Rossi certainly wasn’t stupid enough to let Hotch in the room with Mariner again.  Besides, by that time, morning had arrived.

Aaron had hoped to drive back over to the hospital and check on Spencer, to make sure he was resting comfortably.  Then and only then would Aaron allow himself a few hours of rest.  He might have even been considering begging Reid’s forgiveness for endangering him, but that had only been a remote possibility. 

Whatever Aaron had had in mind wasn’t happening, because when he had walked out of the police station, he remembered he had left his vehicle at the hospital.   He remembered he had left the keys in it too.  

Steeling himself for the very real possibility he might have lost a federal vehicle, Hotch took the only other available vehicle left in the police station parking lot in order to drive back to the hospital to check on Reid.   The car was a dark blue, four-door sedan.  It was parked between two larger vehicles, almost vanishing in their shadows.  This car had escaped any damage from the angry storms.  Unlike the SUVs that flanked it on both sides, this car had not lost its windshield to any hailstones or falling branches, and wasn’t pock-mocked or dented either. 

Hotch had climbed into the driver’s seat, and smiled when he saw the keys dangling out of the ignition.   He started the engine and pulled carefully away.  There were an inexplicable number of empty glass bottles in the passenger seat. Someone liked Snapple Tea quite a bit.  Whoever owned this car had left a map of Kansas open on the floorboard.

The drive south to the hospital on I-35 was uneventful, aside from a black SUV that had flown by him at a truly-remarkable land speed, sirens wailing, lights flashing.  Hotch had given it a lingering glance in his rearview, wondering if the wheels were even touching the ground.  Any traffic on the highway parted dutifully aside as the vehicle rocketed away beyond the horizon.  Whatever emergency waited at the other end, it was not Hotch’s problem.  He had more than enough to deal with already. 

Once he reached the hospital, Hotch had steered into the same space in emergency parking that he had taken last night.  That was how he knew the vehicle he had left here last night was now missing.  He had put the sedan in park, turned off the engine, and went inside to check on Reid. 

Hotch had come back out to the car empty-handed three minutes later.  He opened the driver’s door, and sat down behind the wheel, not quite believing the situation he had found himself in.   The chaos of last night through this morning whirled around in his tired mind.  He was running out of steam, and he was feeling more than a little overwhelmed.   Hotch blinked down at the steering wheel in his grip, spending a deep breath or two on undisguised, unfocused panic before he pulled himself together and yanked out his cell phone.

It was Penelope Garcia’s second phone call of the day, both before she had even put her butt in her seat and settled down with a cup of coffee.    

“Garcia, I need your help,” Hotch muttered. 

“Anything, sir,” Penelope answered crisply when she heard the upset tension in Hotch’s voice.   “How’s Reid?”

Hotch gave an unnerving gargle of sound which might have been a sarcastic laugh that he decided to muffle at the last second. 

“I’d love to be able to tell you, but it would seem Dr. Reid checked himself out of the hospital against doctor’s orders first thing this morning.  He immediately left town.  I want you to see if you can trace where he is.  I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.   He only left thirty minutes ago.  The nurse said he could barely dress himself, could hardly stand.  I don’t know how he managed to get away.  I need you to track his movements.  Did he take a cab?  Is he headed to the airport?  Which airport?  Kansas City?  Oklahoma City?  Wichita?  Where the hell is he?”

“I’m on it,” Garcia said, and her keyboard and monitors sprang to life with noise.

“When I get my hands on him….” Hotch was muttering to himself.  

“Don’t worry, Hotch.”

“Why did he leave the hospital?  How did he leave?  Why did they let him leave?  What the hell was he even dressed in?  I’m gonna kill him.”

“Hotch, it’s okay.  I’ll find him.  Hmm, that’s curious.”

“What?”

“No one has called for a cab from the hospital to any airport in the area.   You, however, appear to have checked into the Sleepy Willow Motel twenty minutes ago.  Used your FBI credit card.  The hotel clerk entered the license plate of the SUV you were driving yesterday into their system, which is why it turned up in my system.”

That black SUV that had raced by on the highway with its sirens wailing and lights flashing came back into Hotch’s mind.  Had he passed Reid going the other way?  He felt his heart leap into his throat and fear turned his stomach to water. 

“Address and directions?” Aaron trembled.   

“The motel is about fifteen miles north on I-35, a straight-shot from where you are now.  If you hit Wichita, you’ve gone too far,” Garcia added. 

“Thanks, Penelope.”

Hotch closed the sedan door and started the engine.  He might have even laughed to himself as he left the hospital parking lot and got back on I-35. 

So, Reid had stolen Hotch’s vehicle?  Maybe stolen was a harsh word.  More likely Spencer had stumbled upon it in a drugged haze and had seized the opportunity for the godsend it was.  Jesus Fucking Christ.  How goddamn fast had Reid been going when he had flown by Hotch?  There hadn’t even been time to see the driver – only the back of the vehicle had registered in Hotch’s mind as it was streaking away like a comet.  Aaron shuddered as he thought about mangled metal and shattered glass and blood and broken bones and all that might have happened. 

Hotch glanced around the vehicle he was in, and his features parted with a smile.  It dawned on him that he must have taken Reid’s rented car.  Peaches, he remembered.   Spencer had smelled like peaches in the interrogation room yesterday probably because he was drinking tea in this car, and he must have splashed some on himself while driving.  Hotch reached down and picked up the half-empty bottle remaining in the cup holder.   A wave of sadness washed over him, and he put the bottle back down. 

He was overwhelmed as he remembered how incredible and irresistible Reid had looked yesterday when he first walked into the police station.  His pale skin had turned a honeyed-amber color from being out in the sun.  There had been a hint of sunburn on his nose and his cheeks.  There had been delicious streaks of gold traced through that dark hair.  Aaron savored the touch-memory of those locks in his fingers. 

Other memories of yesterday followed:  the closeness of Reid’s body to his own as their chairs had been side by side; the line of that sinewy form as Reid had leaned over the chair to put the sugar packets down on the table; the warmth of his skin as Aaron had kissed him behind the ear;  his pulse as it fluttered; his skin as he blushed; those tiny moles which were dotted around like so many stars.  

When Reid had first walked in, Hotch had been struck dumb.  He had spent two weeks hungering for Spencer’s return.  He had wanted to take Spencer in his arms and taste that mouth, kiss that face, suck and lick along that sun-honeyed skin until he had filled every empty place inside with everything he had missed about Spencer while he was gone.   

Those moments had almost been banished from his mind by the wounded, bleeding, clawing banshee from last night.  Aaron shuddered at the stark, painful memory of racing towards the hospital with Reid’s head pillowed on his thigh.  He couldn’t remember half of the soothing things he had whispered while stroking that blood-dampened hair and petting that trembling, bruised shoulder. 

Hotch realized he had just sailed by the Sleepy Willow Motel.  He blinked himself to alertness, and did a quick U-turn on the highway.  He pulled the blue sedan into the lot and found his black SUV was straddling two spots, parked horizontally across the three yellow lines.   He could smile again.  Reid must be close.  

At the front desk of the Sleepy Willow Motel, Hotch flashed his badge.

“I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, and I’m looking for the federal agent who checked in less than an hour ago.”

The college-age girl snapped to attention, gaped at the blood all over Hotch, and checked the computer with one eye while keeping the second one on him. 

“He’s in room 215.  If you’re Agent Hotchner, who was that guy?  He looked like shit, sir.  What happened to him?”

“Can I please have a key for room 215?” Hotch answered by way of not answering.  

With fumbling fingers, the clerk programmed another electronic door key.   She gave it to Hotch, no more questions asked. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“You’re welcome.  Upstairs two flights and then to your right,” she pointed. 

In spite of not having slept, Hotch made quick work of two flights of stairs.  The door to 215 beckoned from the middle of the hallway.   Aaron set down his go-bag and slid the electronic key into the lock. 

There were two double beds in the pre-dominantly beige room.  Spencer was balled up asleep on top of the coverlet on the bed furthest away from the door.  He was barefooted.  He was wearing hospital scrubs.  He looked like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life.  Well he had, in fact, Aaron recalled. 

Hotch relaxed against the wall beside the bathroom, letting relief replace all the anxiety in his system.  He put his bag down beside the empty bed and stepped back out into the hallway, keeping the door open only a crack.  He dialed his phone with one thumb. 

“Sir, have you found Reid yet?” Garcia worried.  “Emily is getting all up my butt on the other line, demanding to know what’s going on.”

“Yes, I found him.  He’s here,” Hotch whispered.  “Tell the rest of the team I’m going to stay and keep tabs on Reid.  They can call me if they need me.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I’m putting my phone on vibrate.”

“Okay.”

“Bye.”

“Wait!”

“What?” Hotch asked, putting the phone back to his ear.

“Proof of life?” Garcia requested.

“What?”

“Take a picture.  They’re going to want to see him for themselves.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, muttering, “For the love of God.”

“One picture, that’s all,” Garcia persuaded. 

Hotch crept back in the room, stealthily approaching the second bed.  Hotch bumped the mattress, and Reid moaned in distress, balling up tighter.  Hating himself, Hotch snapped the requested picture.  He crept back to the door and out into the hallway in order to send an email to Garcia. 

Hotch was awfully glad he had taken the precaution.   Over the open phone line, he heard the *ding* as Garcia received his email, and then he heard her expel an explicative or two under her breath.  Penelope sparked with indignation.

“Aaron Hotchner, when you see that prick Mariner again, I want you to tell him for me what an unmitigated bastard he is, and that I don’t think there’s a hell dark enough or deep enough to throw him down.  Poor woobie,” she added, her voice changing tones from indignant to mothering. 

“Bye, Garcia,” Hotch mumbled, hanging up the phone. 

9

Seven full hours of sleep did Aaron Hotchner a world of good.  True, it would have taken about  seven hours more to feel right again.  But into his brain had crept the tickle of alarm which told him he was being watched.   Alertness filled his body, and he shifted from asleep to awake at once.

Hotch opened his eyes.  Reid had not moved.   He was where Hotch had left him, burrowed under the coverlet and sheets and an extra blanket.  Reid’s mussed hair was standing on end.  There were drops of blood on his pillow.  His bruises had taken on a truly frightening shade of black and purple.  He should have been at the hospital.  Hotch wondered if he should bundle Spencer up and take him back.    

If Reid wasn’t watching him, then who was?  Hotch’s stomach growled as he sat up on the second bed, pushed off his own covers, and stared around.

JJ and Emily were both standing right inside the room, bathed in late evening light.  The desk clerk must have given them a key to the room too, he decided.  JJ was biting back a poignant smile.  Emily walked past JJ to slide Reid’s go-bag under the desk against the wall.  She pulled his leather bag off her shoulder, putting it down too.  As she passed by his bed, Emily reached out and caressed the blanketed-displacement which was one of Reid’s long feet.    

JJ emptied one hand by setting down several bags of fast food and a large soda on the round table under the windows.  She emptied her other hand by setting down a plastic bag.   Bottles of tea rattled noisily together.  JJ pointed to the hallway.  Hotch nodded.  JJ reached over and stroked Reid’s foot as well before she and Emily exited the room.

Hotch slid back into his blood-streaked pants and pulled on his gore-spattered, button-down shirt.  He put on his shoes.  He took a sip from the soda, stretched his long limbs, and headed  to the door.   Across that space, he decided he was going to burn this outfit when he got home to Virginia.  If he had not taken three minutes to dress before going down to Spencer’s hotel room, he could have saved Reid a world of hurt and indignity.  Those were three lousy, fucking minutes he would have given anything to have back. 

“Dig anything up?” Hotch asked of Prentiss and JJ once he was in the hallway.  He closed the door with a quiet click.

“Four more bodies so far,” Prentiss answered.   Hotch scratched at the stubble that was creeping along his jaw line. 

“Consistent with the rest of the victims?”

“We need to wait for the preliminary test results from the labs, but there’s very little doubt that Mariner is the responsible party.  All the new bodies match his previous M.O..  He’s confessed to everything,” JJ replied.  “It’s gardening and paperwork at this point, Hotch.  Why don’t you let us handle it?  Eat.  Relax.  Sleep.  Come back fresh in the morning.”

“I should be there now doing something useful,” Aaron said.  The voice of Rossi in his head told him, ‘No, really.  You’ve done quiet enough, believe me.’ 

Emily smiled, “Now you know how we feel.  The Kansas City team arrived, but they wouldn’t let any of us even touch their ground-penetrating radar devices.” 

“The sheriff and his cousin were arguing about who gets to drive the backhoe once the Kansas City team tells them where to dig,” JJ mused. 

“Morgan wouldn’t let me or JJ even have a shovel,” Prentiss continued.  “He and the deputies wouldn’t dream of it, because it was somehow an affront to their masculinity to let us help dig.  We get to sit on the sidelines and take notes as each body is uncovered.  I’ve never felt so useless in all my life.”

“What about…”

“Rossi is busy keeping watch on Mariner back at the police station, making sure he doesn’t escape again.  He didn’t want our help either.”

“You don’t need me?” Hotch fretted. 

“We do need you,” JJ soothed.  “Right here.”

“Don’t let Reid out of your sight,” Prentiss warned. 

“How is he?” JJ asked. 

“Been asleep all day,” Hotch replied. 

“Good,” JJ decided.  “Sleep will help both of you.  A shower wouldn’t hurt either.  You stay here.  We’re a phone call away, whatever you want.  Don’t leave him alone.  He might sneak off again.”

“Do we know yet how Mariner managed to escape?” Hotch asked.  

“A lightning strike hit the transformer behind the police station, cutting all power instead of merely interrupting it.  Then a tree fell on the building too, broke out the front windows, and damaged two of their three police vehicles.  Mariner was able to escape during the chaos,” Prentiss revealed. 

“How did he find Reid’s hotel room?”

“Hotch, it didn’t take a genius.  Ted ran two blocks to the only hotel in the whole damned town.  He heard Reid’s voice from out in the hallway.  Spencer was yelling at someone on the phone,” Prentiss explained.

Hotch nodded grimly, not knowing what else to say. 

“We’re going to head back and catch a few hours of sleep ourselves,” JJ said. 

“Why not get a couple rooms here and save yourselves the trip?” Hotch suggested.

“Our stuff is back there in Atkins,” JJ refused.  She patted his arm and headed away. 

Prentiss waited.  She was poised on her toes to leave, but she couldn’t resist a last word once JJ had vanished down the stairs.  Prentiss faced Hotch and blurted her thoughts. 

“You should try touch therapy.”

“What?” Hotch asked.

“Touch therapy.  Asperger’s Syndrome patients often have an aversion to touch, but certain kinds of massage have been shown to alleviate their aversion if used routinely over time in a non-threatening environment.  Massage can also relieve emotional stress, and it can be used to reduce physical pain.” 

“Emily, I don’t think a rubdown is going to fix this.”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting.”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“Get in bed with Spencer and hold him.”

“Totally inappropriate,” Aaron gasped.   

“Now’s a fine time to worry about what’s appropriate,” Emily snickered reproachfully. 

Hotch didn’t have a reply.  He did have a scalding glare though.  Sometimes words weren’t necessary to convey the deeply-felt sentiment that one more smart remark was going to get you a punch in the mouth, even if you were a woman.   

“Would it kill you to hold his hand for a while?” Prentiss whispered, not masking her irritation one bit.  Aaron stormed back to the room door without offering an answer.  He grabbed the door handle and turned, only to find it was locked.   

“Damn it,” Hotch muttered.  Prentiss reached around him, slid the electronic key through the slot, and watched the buttons turn green.  “Thanks,” he added.

“Unfeeling jerk,” Emily told him over one shoulder as she put the key in his pants pocket. 

“Bossy, nosy shrew,” he retorted. 

Hotch surged forward into the room to get away from Emily, and Prentiss jumped back from the slamming door.  He heard her pounding footfalls echo away.  Aaron didn’t need anyone else’s criticism to make him feel guilty.  He couldn’t possibly feel any worse. 

Hotch dragged himself slowly across the room, paused at the table full of food.  He took another sip of soda.  In spite of how hungry he was, the smell of the food made him slightly queasy.   He thought about taking a bite to settle his stomach, and then felt guilty for even considering it. 

Hotch quietly slid out of his shoes, pants, and shirt, laying them over the back of a chair.  He crawled under his covers and stared across the space at Reid. 

A slit of swollen eye was open, and it watched Hotch warily.  The slamming door had must have broken through to Reid’s sleepy brain.  Or else the pain medications were finally wearing off.  It took several seconds for recognition to dawn in Reid’s face.  The eye blinked at Hotch and opened further.  The second eye opened.  Reid was coming around.  He stretched out carefully, rolled onto his back, and moaned in agony with a rush of unexpected pain. 

Hotch sprang back to a sitting position, and regretted the fast movement when he watched a horrified tremble rocket throughout Reid’s frame.  Aaron loomed over Reid, cautiously stroking Spencer’s forehead with one thumb, combing disarrayed hair off his face with gentle fingers.   

“How do you feel?” Hotch asked. 

Reid’s face scrunched up in absolute misery.  Both eyes closed.  One tear fell, streaking backwards into Reid’s temple.   Another tear followed.   More welled up.  He was scooting down and sideways, clearly wanting to escape the person hovering  over him. 

Hotch realized he was scaring Spencer, and he melted back, sitting down on the second bed, crossing his arms over his chest.  He jolted in place with helpless twitches, not sure what to do.  He wanted so badly to reach out and soothe away the silent sobs he had stirred to life, but he could not bear the thought of terrifying Reid any further.   

So it was possible after all—Hotch could feel worse.  

more to come

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