Author's Note: For any of you poor souls that haven't had a chance to read some of the works by DarknessIsTheUniverse on here, I highly recommend you give the chick a look-see — especially if you're a fan of angst, psychological disturbia, and graphic tales of the darkest forms of love, obsession, and, well . . . mania. Sounds odd, but the works are gorgeous, the stories addictive, and the writing impeccably interesting and exciting. I'm a compulsive fangirl, just in case that wasn't obvious. *Snickers* I've always wanted to do this; collab, I mean. Like, reading a truly amazing story by a truly amazing author, and then getting to contribute my own little piece to the overall epicness . . . And earlier last week, that dream actually came true!

Anyhoo . . . This is an 'epilogue' to my second-favorite story, "Let The Right One In," starring Aaron Hotchner as a centuries-old vampire harboring a mild fascination with human Spencer Reid . . . Too bad that newly-turned werewolf Derek Morgan feels the same way . . . and worlds collide as the two fight to keep the young genius alive, and (preferably) all to their respective selves. It's SO stinkin' good, one of the pieces I've reread on here about a dozen times, and even more so as we approach Halloween . . . And, the last time I did, as I reached the most recent chapter, I was smacked in the face with inspiration . . . and kind of vomited out this piece in an hour or so. Waaay weird, for me . . . But I actually liked this piece. It's styled as a sort of 'what if?' epilogue to the way the original story has *tentatively* left off, and is my own thoughts on what could have happened . . . which, of course, means lots of drama. *Sighs* Woe is me, eh? You don't have to read the original story to understand this one, but it would certainly help — and Hell, do it anyways, if you have time. It's a very entertaining story!

Warnings: Kidnapping — or, really, the continuation of kidnapping. Hints of previous harmful thoughts, more if you squint hard. Angst, psychodrama, vampiricism, tears and broken hearts . . . I'm a ruthless bitch, sometimes.

Kudos: Isn't it obvious? I am so, SO totally, completely, and externally grateful to the wonderful DarknessIsTheUniverse, both for her fantastic AU "Let The Right One In" and her generous permission for me to get wild with a veering epilogue. In every way, this wouldn't have happened without her, and I'm never going to stop being thankful for that.

Disclaimer: Criminal Minds isn't mine, vampires aren't mine, werewolves aren't mine, coffee isn't mine, this AU isn't mine . . . I'm the opposite of those stupid seagulls on Finding Nemo, aren't I? (Not) mine! (Not) mine!

Let Me In

"The bruises on your thighs —

like my fingertips . . .

And this is all to match the darkness that you felt.

I never meant for you to fix yourself."

— Fall Out Boy, "Centuries"

The life of the captured man is not entirely one of distress, but more mere eustress. One would think that he would be weeping for the life of old, this fair man — but no, for 'tis nay so! He loves his life of the capture, this damsel-in-distress aire upon which he is thrust. And this is because of one truth, and that truth only — Man falls in love with his conquerer. Power is vital, as is sex — and lust can be twanged from but a single hair, down to penetrating eyes and firm hands, warping through every inch of a smooth, solid chest.

Spencer Reid cringed, shuddering violently as his eyes stopped scanning the page and slammed shut, trying in vain to wipe the images — and the feelings they stirred — from his mind.

They hit far too close to home. Were far to similar to the situation that had become his own Hell of a reality for months he'd long lost count of, and stirred feelings he was disgusted to acknowledge. They dug deep inside of him, hooked painfully, and wouldn't free him. It was their design, of course.

Everything Aaron did had purpose.

Aaron.

Even the name made his heart drop and stomach clench, nausea tied with hatred tied with sadness bound in lo —

. . . loathing. Yes. Only that, and not . . . the other thing.

Reid breathed in deeply, drawing in a much-needed breath though his nostrils, mouth still clamped shut as if to keep from whispering the name itself.

It was still too painful. Aaron was still too painful. And too complicated.

Spencer's hands tightened on the book.

"Disgusting," he ground out, feeling the rough leather digging painfully into his palms, hissing suddenly when the spine scraped against his wrist, breaking open old scars. Biting down a yowl, the genius dropped the book onto his lap as he brought his hand up to his face, examining the wound. A long scratch separated mere centimeters over his veins, painfully visible through pale, mottled skin. The red on white and blue was almost striking.

Barely superficial, Reid concluded immediately, watching as a single drop of blood carved a path down his arm. Nothing to get upset about — Aaron would take care of that himself.

Slowly, ever slowly, the blood inched down his arm, almost making his eyes cross as it neared his elbow — before suddenly curving off, veering down the lean muscle of his bicep and dripping onto the blanket gathered around his lap.

For a moment, Reid stared at the spot, a dazed expression twisting his soft features and making him look even younger as he thought to himself that Aaron wouldn't be pleased.

A waste of blood.

Reid shivered again, shaking his head clear of the thought. Even if he knew that there was no way to displease Aaron so much that the man he'd once called friend would harm him maliciously, the thought of attracting any attention at all from Aaron was frightening enough.

Smooth, firm hands, handing him coffee before he knew the truth, tearing off heads of men he'd never even know, holding him close, pinning him down and telling him he could never leave ever —

Refusing to dwell on events he'd long since accepted his lack of control over, Spencer swallowed tightly, clenching his hand to stifle the blood flow. He counted to ten, breathing out, forcing himself to stay calm, and keep his heart-rate low. His eyes landed once more upon the book in suspect, and the genius was immediately overcome with the urge to remove it from his sight.

Shaking slightly, Spencer unfolded his long legs from beneath him, and made to move towards the bookshelves in the corner of his room — another peace offering from Aaron, of course. Something that might have seemed so sweet in a Disney cartoon was, of course, rather marred by the fact that Aaron had absolutely no clue what captured Spencer's interest, and instead bought him books that weren't as subtle as the vampire might have thought. Bobby Singer's Guide to the Supernatural, The Inevitable Acceptance of Grief & How We Process It, The Inner Psychology of Rejection . . . Sometimes, when Reid was in one of his slightly lighter moods, he was able to gather the energy to look over the tomes and snort to himself. Who did they think they were kidding?

No matter how profound his knowledge of the human mind and kind, no matter the depth of any of his feelings for the man . . . Aaron was still the vampire who had taken him away from his family, from his home, all those months ago, and held him here in this basement ever since.

Yes . . . He was taken care of. Facilities were within reach, and the selection of books on his walls was ever-changing. And he was well-fed. Exquisitely so, actually — Aaron cooked decadent meals for him, and even sat at the table sometimes under the pretext of them having a normal conversation and just living their regular lives again.

Aaron took very good care of his pets.

Reid rolled his eyes, keeping the tears at bay a little longer. Aaron may be in love with him — may, because Spencer still questioned whether someone with the man's level of psychosis really knew what proper love felt like — but in the end, the truth was undeniable, inevitable. He had no freedom here.

The slight clinking of the chain around his ankle served to remind him of that, bringing the genius crashing back to reality any time he started to think even slightly positively of his situation.

Looking at the silver encased over his limb — of course it would be bloody silver, Aaron and his hatred of werewolves — Reid felt another wave of hopelessness wash over him. It was getting to be a normal feeling, after so long in the man's captivity.

Of course, Aaron didn't need to restrain Spencer in any manner — Reid had already seen demonstrations of how superior the vampire was to him; faster, stronger, and far more wiling to be lethal. Deep down, with his past classes in the human mind in his thoughts, Spencer reasoned that Aaron probably didn't even realize that the chains were just another passive-aggressive display of dominance on his part. Another way to show the genius just how truly powerless he was in his own destiny, how powerful his captor had become.

Another way to further break him down.

Too late for that, Reid thought with a grimace, hand stroking over the old wound on his neck.

For a man so smart, Aaron truly had no idea what the inside of his little prize's mind looked like anymore. Spencer Reid as his friends had loved and known him had long since perished.

"And I'm the pieces of what's left," Reid murmured, eyes scanning over the selection of titles at his fingertips, hoping against hope for something to pop out that he hadn't already read and subsequently memorized . . .

"Enjoying yourself?"

He no longer even jumped at voices behind him — there was only ever one person who came down here, only one person who could glide so soundlessly over the steps and whisper as soft as silk against unwilling ears.

Biting back a shudder, Spencer composed his face before turning around. If Aaron ever sensed any distress in the younger man, he was apt to try and comfort Reid with tender touches and soft words — all things that though the genius craved, he absolutely no longer desired from Aaron Hotchner.

When their eyes met, it still sent a spark through Reid's veins, alighting him in a way he hated as much as loved. The dark, probing eyes, the stern expression, those hands, that voice . . . Reid thought he was better off not analyzing the chills Aaron's presence always sent down his spine.

He took a step back, fingers fluttering over the bookshelf behind him. "You smell like . . . like . . ."

Blood.

One side of Aaron's mouth quirked up, somewhat abashedly. "I had to hunt tonight, Spencer — I am sorry, I didn't think to tell you."

As if Reid would have felt better knowing — whether Aaron killed good or bad people had never made a difference to the younger man; murder, delivered with a velvet glove or an iron fist, was still murder.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Aaron frowned. The vampire took a step closer to him, and Reid fought not to flinch.

Aaron sniffed the air. "Spencer," he said, voice growing dark suddenly, "Why do I smell blood?"

Reid swallowed tightly. "I just told you — "

"No," Aaron growled. "It's not from my feeding tonight. It's coming from here. From . . . from you."

In a blink, the man had vanished, leaving his shadow chasing after him. Reid sucked in a deep breath before turning, completely unsurprised to find Aaron at his side, staring intently at his hand.

"Let me see," the vampire commanded.

Reid's voice was strained. "It's n-nothing, Aaron. Just a scratch — I'm fine. Really."

Aaron's eyes were filled with tenderness, but he ignored his prisoner's pleas nonetheless. Lightning fast, large hands curled around slender wrists, and he pulled gently, yanking Spencer's whole body towards him, ignoring again the shudder that went through the human when there was barely an inch of space between them.

Aaron took his time looking at the scratch, taking softly. "It's already clotted," he murmured, something like relief in his voice. He looked up into wary hazel eyes. "Why didn't you call me, Spencer?"

Reid choked back a laugh and a sob. Aaron was one of the strongest, most intelligent men he'd ever met in his life — even if he was far from a man. He had cared about him so, so much, had even been falling in l—

He blinked, washing away the thought. There was no point in thinking such things, not when they only made him sad. Because when Spencer Reid looked into the eyes of Aaron Hotchner now, he no longer saw the sharp intelligence and softness of the person who had been there to catch him in his time of need.

All he saw now was calculation, obsession . . . madness.

It frightened him more than anything to look into those eyes and think that he would never see the truth he had preferred ever again.

But the genius didn't say any of this. "I . . . I clotted it myself. It's fine, A-Aaron, I told you already."

"I could have helped you."

Reid choked out a laugh, stifled immediately when Aaron looked on him with eyes that were so earnest and wantful, it actually hurt. But he didn't answer; his eyes merely flickered down to the bindings around his ankle, and then back up to the vampire, who watched every move calculatingly.

"I didn't need any help," Spencer ground out.

His breath hitched when Aaron moved inhumanely fast once more, on his knees and gripping the genius's leg with one iron-tight hand.

He stumbled back slightly, nearly losing his balance — only slamming into the bookshelf kept Reid upright, and it was with no ease of breath that he stared down at Aaron. He tugged to get his limb out of the vampire's hands, but futilely. All Spencer could do was stand there, stiff as a board, trying to keep his pulse under control and hope that Aaron didn't feel like hurting him.

None of this went unnoticed by Aaron, and he fought back any commentary as long as Spencer was in his agitated state, choosing instead to hold his quarry's leg as lightly as possible, and speaking in the gentle tone that the man before him had once melted into.

"Is it bothering you?"

Reid gulped, forcing his voice to remain steady. "No more than usual." As an afterthought, he added, "It would be a lot better if there wasn't a chain wrapped around it."

Aaron sighed, refusing to look up from his examination of the human. "Spencer . . . You know I cannot do that. Not until you have agreed to stay with me."

It was the same excuse he gave every time. And it never failed to incite Reid.

"You can't force me to just do as you like!" Much to Spencer's embarrassment, his voice cracked. But he couldn't help it; the gates were opening again, and all the feelings of the past half-year —the anger, the homesickness, the futility, the hopelessness and desire and wishing upon stars he could no longer see — were always boiling beneath the surface, and it was so rarely that Aaron pushed exactly the right buttons for him to let them out in.

"I am not forcing you, Spencer," Aaron's voice was soft, infuriatingly calm. "I would never want to subject you to that. I am only trying to protect you."

"And yet," Reid's words were sharp, acidic, "You've hurt me worse than anyone else ever could have."

The barb struck home, and a look of pain flashed over Aaron's dark eyes. Still, he seemed perfectly composed when he spoke again, taking mere moments to recover.

"I know that the circumstances are somewhat less than ideal — "

"Somewhat — are you serious?" Reid shouted the last word, actually startling Aaron.

Good.

"You've taken me from everyone, everything I've ever loved, to keep me here, isolated in this — this fucking basement! I haven't spoken to anyone but you for — for — I don't even know how long it's been anymore, Aaron. I don't know what day it is, or how old I am, or — " Tears pricked Reid's eyes, and Aaron, concerned, stood up and somehow took a step closer.

"Don't touch me," Spencer hissed, swiping the back of his hand over his eyes futiley.

He had felt this breakdown coming for some time, knew that it was inevitable . . . still . . . doing it in front of his captor, instead of curled up in a ball in private like he normally did, was warping all of his feelings, warping the emotions he'd long gotten used to shoving down into black and twisted monstrosities — almost as much as the man before him.

Only, he wasn't a man. And sometimes, more and more lately, Spencer was starting to feel like he wasn't, either.

"I don't know what's happened to Derek, or Penelope . . . I don't even know if my mother's alive anymore, or how much longer I'm going to be. You," he said, finally meeting Aaron's eyes dead-on, all of the power surging between them almost crackling in the dank air, "Are the worst thing that's ever happened to me, Aaron."

Something painful flashed through his face though, almost seeming real enough to have Spencer wanting to take back his words. Almost.

Instead, the genius bit back the urge to be comforting, and watched the older man, breath held, for whatever reaction was to come.

"Spencer," Aaron said, firm voice a surprising contradiction to the agony in his eyes, "You don't meant that. You . . . you cannot possibly — "

"I can. I do," Reid insisted, feeling his hands clench into fists by his side. A thought occurred to him, and after only a moment's debate, the younger man spit it out.

"I'd rather be dead than here with you anymore."

Aaron flinched back from the words, and Spencer watched him, refusing to blink.

They both remembered how bad Reid had reacted the first time he'd woken up in Aaron's apartment after watching him brutally murder three men. Werewolves, Aaron had always argued, things he'd had to kill in order to keep Spencer alive . . .

But the words and fallen on deaf ears, and then was where Spencer's revulsion for the creature before him had started to grow.

After he had let Aaron in his apartment on the night of the full moon — the last time he's ever seen his best friend Derek, Spencer wasn't entirely sure what had happened — only that he'd woken up woozy, with a tingling in his limbs and a headache to rival any migraine he'd complained of before.

He had once told Aaron, in desperation, that if the other man didn't let him go, he would kill himself. Aaron's reaction had been . . . confusing. He'd pulled Spencer into his arms tightly, so much so that it left bruises in the morning, and told him that he would never have to run again.

The next morning, Spencer had woken up with the despised chain around his leg.

And in all the months since then, his pleas and threats had fallen upon deaf ears, to the point that the genius barely spoke anymore — what would be the point? Aaron either didn't or couldn't care, not to the point where he would do anything to ever just let Spencer go.

And he was still here, after all.

And suddenly, Aaron smiled. Just a small tugging at the corners of his mouth — but obviously a smile, nonetheless. His eyes flickered over Spencer's thoughtfully, and the grin grew.

The younger man shrank back, hoping the rest of his body wasn't trembling as much as his hanse were, just waiting to see what madness had taken over Aaron now.

"Spencer," the vampire said, inching slightly closer, "You're angry."

The joviality in his voice had Spencer shuddering, closing his eyes and pressing further into the wall, trying to create any semblance of distance between the two men.

"Wha — ?" he croaked out, nausea growing in the pit of his stomach.

He couldn't see him, but he could hear the excitement in Aaron's tone, knew exactly which tight-lipped smirk would be dancing over those handsome expressions right then.

"You're angry," Aaron continued, speaking slowly as though these two words alone explained his jubilation. Inching closer, only micrometers of air separating the two of them, he repeated it again. "Spencer, . . . you're angry."

"And you seem so happy about it," the genius spat out, confusion and desperation making him cynical, clawing back and trying, however futiley, to get this man further away from him.

"But of course," Aaron breathed, soft voice much too close to Spencer's ear. "Of course I am happy, Spencer." He paused, as if waiting for the realization to sink in, for Spencer to have that 'aha!' moment and fall into his arms . . . with no luck. Sighing frustratedly, Aaron continued.

"Anger is an emotion, Spencer. A live one — one of passion and heat and desire. It symbolizes life in a human, the ability to get angry. All I've seen you display in so long is anxiety, and depression — sullenness. All of which are emotions that are tied to giving up, nearing death, homelessness . . . " He trailed off for just a moment, examining Spencer's face, that curious smile on his lips once more. "To see you snap out of your overwhelming sadness and come at me with such exuberance . . . of course it delights me, Spencer. You are not sad. You are mad. You are still here, still alive and strong, and angry — an emotion, the offset of . . . of love."

Hating the psychology student inside of himself that was pointing out the validity of the words Aaron spoke, Spencer shook his head, trying to block out the things he didn't want to be feeling, much less hear directed at him.

"I — " he said intelligently, mouth hanging open, for once in his life utterly at a loss for words.

Aaron took advantage of his surprise, closing the distance between them and running a hand over Spencer's cheek, ignoring the way the younger man flinched violently at the contact.

"I love you," he whispered.

Spencer shivered, eyes shut tight and skiing his head back and forth rapidly. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no —

"You don't even know what love is," he insisted, pushing down the bubbling feeling of dread in his gut when Aaron only tipped his chin up, waiting patiently for the younger man to open his eyes.

It was the hardest thing in the world for Spencer to meet that gaze, to see the utter lack of empty and complete madness in those beautiful irises he once thought he could have spent all day staring at.

Aaron smiled faintly. "I know what I feel for you, Spencer. And how you feel back."

Reid jolted. "I don't — " He shook his head, wrenching himself from the hypnotic grip of the vampire, flinging himself towards to corner and pressing back to gain every inch of space from the man as he stared, words tumbling from his mouth without thought.

"I don't love you, Aaron. How could — how could I possibly — as if there was some — I mean, you try to j-justify this — obsession — not even — as if there's some sort of reason — and then this — you say I — l-love?"

His heart rate was increasing, almost a hum at this point instead of an actual pulse, and Spencer could feel the blood draining from his face as Aaron turned fully to face him, a terrifying mixture of amusement and anger written on his face. He ad no idea how the older man would react —

— but when Aaron spoke, it was with a completely calm tone. Cooly so. Even.

"Yes, Spencer . . . love. I know how we feel about one another, no matter how deep down it hides sometimes. I've never loved anyone else more than I have you, and I never shall again." He took a step closer, and Reid's breathing hitched — he didn't think he could handle any more contact today. "And even if it hurts you to admit it, you love me too. We," another step closer, and oh God he was pressing into Reid's torso now, too close, too close, "are meant for each other."

"T-that's just w-what you think," Reid ground out, no longer able to keep his voice steady, fear and regret and want and anger all pushing past the facade of normalcy Aaron seemed so desperate to keep him under. "You c-can't just tell me what I f-feel for you — it doesn't work like that."

"No?" Aaron chuckled, sending a shiver down Reid's spine. "Then answer me this, Pretty Boy. You never had to let me in your apartment that night — you had more options, could have stayed with Derek through his transformation or gone running to Penelope. You never had to seek me in your life at all — you could have contacted numerous other people, or even once you had found me, you could have changed your mind, so many times." Seeing Reid's face go whiter than a sheet, Aaron smiled sardonically, knowing that he finally had the younger man's undivided attention. He continued.

"Face it, Spencer — you've been the one pushing this, pushing us, as far as we can go, making sure our paths intertwine and connect as much as possible, keeping us here and together. I've done nothing but make sure that you're safe, Spencer — because I love you. And you me."

Reid opened his mouth to protest once more, but Aaron cut him off, placing a finger gently over his lips.

"And you can't deny it forever, Spencer. It's too obvious."

Reid swallowed tightly, a single word breaking out. "How?"

Aaron leaned in closer than ever before, and warm breath tickled over Spencer's neck as he spoke.

"You've had plenty of opportunities to leave, Spencer. I can keep you chained up in a basement, well-fed and clean and entertained . . . but I can't watch you very second of every day, now can I? So, do tell me . . . if not for love, then why are you still alive by your own hand?

The last words were whispered softly into Spencer's ears, and he felt all of his remaining strength drain out of him. Legs turned to jelly, and Spencer's back scraped against the wall as he slowly sunk down to the floor.

Aaron watched for a moment, curiosity piquing, and he raised an eyebrow. "I'll go fetch you some food, Spencer. You need to keep your strength up."

The words fell on deaf ears, and Reid made no indication of acknowledgement. After a few moments, Aaron simply turned and walked out of the room, the lock clicking firmly into place behind him.

The sudden sound made the genius flinch, but barely. His eyes were locked on something invisible across the room, searching for answers he knew couldn't be found in any of his precious books — because they were already in his own mind.

Because what Aaron said was true — it would have been no easy feat, and certainly painful, and marred by the fear of punishment he would face from the vampire if he were to fail . . . but there had been plenty of options for the genius to end himself placed in the cell . . . the mirror on the wall he'd always hated, the damp air that could have caught him cold, the high rafter beams and torn sheets that could have supported his weight . . .

Somehow, instinctively, the genius had seen and taken in all of these things over the months he'd come to know this place. And yet . . .

. . . It had never occurred to him. Or rather, it had, but had been quickly tossed aside and 'forgotten' in the depths of his beautiful mind, never to be revisited in the dark crevices of concealed desires. Because . . .

. . . Because he didn't truly want to die — not really. Because he didn't want to leave this place, even if he would upon the first safe opportunity. Because it scared him so much, though was nowhere close to the fear he felt when he examined the darkest truth of all . . .

Because, as much as he hated it, the goddamn books were right. He loved it. All of this, all of it, all of everything that had to do with the life he hated and man he despised.

He loved Aaron just as much as Aaron 'loved' him.

Reid curled his knees up under his chin, wrapping his arms protectively over his body as long-pent-up sobs wracked his chest, forcing tears out his eyes and using up air he no longer had the capacity — nay, desire — to breathe or keep.

Oh, God. God. Aaron was so, so indelibly wrong . . . and somehow, he still wound up being right.

It was fucked up, and terrifying, and bad and sick and hurtful and wrong —

The truth wracked over a frame already weakened by time and trial, and slowly, darkness closed in on the edges of the genius's vision. Reid bawled.

He loved Aaron.

He had let the right one in.

And now, there was no escape. Ever.