And the day is long. The day has
such empty places in it.
-Naomi Shihab Nye, "Praying for Wind"
After love, no one is what they were before.
-Catherynne M. Valente
once upon a time a young woman visited Fairyland. she believed she returned a poet. a genetic predisposition for madness shone through several years later.
"I don't believe in fairytales. Do you?"
"That's the thing George, this isn't a fairytale. You don't have to write this story, you don't have to do any of this."
That's when Spencer knows. Subconsciously, perhaps, but some part of him knows how this will end. He's a genius after all. And a profiler.
Hotch is speaking with Foyet. Tries to persuade him, tries to turn him away from his family. Spencer is listening, but the words are echoing in his mind.
I don't believe in fairytales. Do you?
He knows the power of wishing. Knows that there are always consequences. But even so he's contemplating something that he hasn't seriously considered before. Not really. Every case, every serial criminal, especially when children are at risk and the criminal is still running free, there is the guilt. 'If only I was smarter, faster, stronger. If only I had been able to stop this earlier. I could stop this now, but I'm sorry, so sorry, there are consequences and perhaps this one person would be stopped one, two, three victims sooner. But then that would be it, and any future contributions I could make to other cases would be gone. Even the good I've done in the past might disappear. Or something worse may take place. Sometimes the consequences are too great.'
I don't believe in fairytales. Do you?
'I'm selfish, I'm sorry, but I can do more good as long as I am here, in the bureau. In the BAU.'
Excuses. The truth doesn't make them less so.
He knows that Foyet is not a child, knows that he has no authority over him, no guardianship claim. None of the requirements are fulfilled. But Spencer also knows that his godfather is always listening.
There are always consequences. Some are more severe than others.
He's selfish, sometimes. This is selfish. Because this is different. This time Spencer doesn't care about consequences. Because Jack's life is on the line, and Haley stands no chance. Jack might not be Spencer's godson, but that doesn't make him any less a part of this ragtag family. He'd been there when Jack was a newborn, had answered all of his curious questions, and even begun to teach him a little science magic and sleight of hand. Like Henry, the little boy had overcome the Reid effect, sees him now as a comforting, safe presence, and the thought of that child being hunted down by this monster makes him more furious than he can ever remember being.
And even if none of this were true, even if he barely knew Jack, he would do it anyway. Jack is Hotch's life and Spencer knows that it will kill him if his son becomes a victim.
"I want him to believe in love because it is the most important thing. You need to show him. Promise me."
Love. That's why he's doing this. That's why this is personal. For love.
"I promise."
And in the back of a speeding car, listening to the halting, agonizing last words of Haley Hotchner as she speaks to Aaron, a serene Spencer Reid says the words.
"I wish the Goblin King would come and take the Reaper, George Foyet, away. Right now."
once upon a time a man fell deeply, irrevocably in love. and he forgot. but you can never truly forget the ones you love, and so he lived with an aching, desperate emptiness in his heart, never knowing why.
A pall hangs over the BAU team, lingering long after the Reaper incident. Too long, Aaron thinks, and he can tell that his team agrees. That is why Dave is hosting a barbecue for them. To shake off the melancholy and fear, to encourage normalcy.
So Aaron makes an effort relax, loosens his shoulders, and tries not to cling to Jack, watching from the kitchen as his son runs around the yard with Dave's dog. He's thankful to Haley for being so understanding, for letting Jack stay with him for as long as his free time lasts. It helps, to have his son in his sight, to greet his ex-wife whenever she drops Jack off or he does. But his heart still flutters with a muted sort of panic, and his chest aches in quiet moments. He needs closure. Needs it, and doesn't know how to get it, because he should have it. The villain is gone, his family is safe. What more is there? Why hasn't life returned to some vague definition of normal?
The doorbell rings, interrupting his introspection. "I'll get it," he says and heads for the front door.
"Bossman," Garcia greets with a grin, a bowl of fruit salad in her hands and Kevin hovering at her shoulder.
"Garcia," he nods. "Kevin. Come in."
He leans against the doorjamb, observing as everyone in the kitchen does a round of greetings.
"It's nice to see you Kevin," JJ is saying as she rummages through the cupboards. "I didn't realize you were coming. Let me see if I can find a glass for you."
"Oh, ah, sorry for the trouble," the tech says a little sheepishly.
"Oh, don't be, it's no trouble. I – "
"You set out an extra glass," Aaron says abruptly. He's counted them off, twice, while JJ was searching the cupboard. "There's enough." He doesn't understand the faint edge in his tone. At the slight uncertainty and discomfort that descends upon them, he feels chagrined and softens in unspoken apology for his tone.
The team has been thoughtlessly miscounting things recently – mostly meal settings, mugs, and the division of files. Aaron is no exception, but the field becomes exponentially more stressful when his mental tallying of his agents seems off…wrong. The brief panic triggering a surge of adrenaline through his body as he double- and triple-checks their placement. So far, he hasn't actually forgotten anyone, but it seems a part of him can't quite believe it.
No one says anything. Not when Morgan sometimes returns from a coffee run with what looks like half the sugar packets the coffee shop provides for its customers. Not when Prentiss occasionally orders more entrees than the team can comfortably eat in one sitting when they're away on a case. Not when Garcia can be heard muttering about someone changing her computer settings and what a pain it is to find all of those statistics sites she had bookmarked.
They don't bring attention to others' missteps, because they don't want attention brought to their own. Because if someone asks why…what can they say? Nothing is wrong. But something might be, and it doesn't make any sense.
Aaron pushes those thoughts away and joins Dave at the grill, where they bicker amiably over the correct way to barbecue. There might be a certain desperation for an ordinary, worn routine, at least on Aaron's part. Dave kindly doesn't point it out in either action or word. Possibly, it's something he needs as well.
The barbecue was a good idea. It's nice to get away from the office, to talk without serial crimes looming over them. They are more relaxed than they've been in a while. It feels a little like they can breathe a bit easier, with this break.
Jack wows them with a magic trick, making a coin disappear. It isn't perfect, but for a five-year-old, it's extremely impressive.
"Where did you learn to do magic?" Aaron quietly asks afterward as Jack helps him put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. The others are putting away food and cleaning up while Dave supervises with a satisfied little smirk.
Jack gives him a look, like it should be obvious and he doesn't understand why his dad is asking. "From Doc Spence," he says. "He promised to show me more when I could do this one."
"He's a new friend of yours?" Aaron asks a little absently.
His son frowns. "Daddy." It comes out as a whine, confused and edging towards upset. "Daddy, you know him."
Aaron suppresses a curse when his phone interrupts. At least he and his team hadn't been called away in the middle of the barbecue. He gives everyone an hour to get to the jet and apologizes to Jack as he drops him off with Haley. Jack just hugs him and says that it's okay, but he watches him leave with a worried expression. Sometimes Aaron thinks that Jack is mature beyond his years, and it hurts because he's afraid it's his fault, his work that has done that. He knows that Jack's nightmares are his fault. That Foyet's presence in his son's life and nightmares is because of him, and he thinks he'll carry that guilt for the rest of his life.
He mentally boxes away his personal life as the team studies and disseminates the information provided. "JJ and I will get set up and check in with the local sheriff. Prentiss and Rossi, head to the dump site, and Morgan, you and – ," he cuts himself off. There's no one else, why does he keep thinking they should all be in pairs? "Morgan, you go meet with the coroner." He meets their eyes, and knows that they caught his stumble. But that's business as usual, for all of them. Sometimes they'll automatically – briefly – turn to empty spaces, and when they give a profile there are occasional pauses between turns that only they notice.
Aaron knows he should look into hiring another agent, but he can't bring himself to do it. He has tried, several times, but he can barely get through even one personnel file when everything that he is screams that they're wrong, wrong, wrong, and he just wants to throw the entire stack of files away from him. Strauss brings it up as well, suggests hiring another profiler for his team, and Aaron struggles to swallow his illogical rage throughout that entire meeting. When he mentions Strauss' concerns to the team later, stressing that they would not be replacing anyone, he catches the micro-expressions that give away their feelings of anger and betrayal.
Well, Garcia doesn't exactly attempt to hide her dismay at the news.
And then there are the dreams. Strangely clear dreams of a young man, tall and slender with graceful, distracting hands. Someone who can sit with him in silence, or converse – lecture, really – on a wide variety of topics with obscure and esoteric facts. He even hypothesizes about motives, locations, and behaviors on those occasions when Aaron describes whatever case he and his team are currently pursuing. On those days Aaron wakes with new, promising avenues for his team to pursue, or some way to narrow down the possibilities.
Logically speaking, this is simply his subconscious sorting through all of the data he is bombarded with throughout the day. But it doesn't feel true. His mind does not, maybe even cannot, work the way his dream man's does.
There are other dreams with this man as well. Hazier, with little conversation and none of the clarity present in the others. Created solely from his own mind, although that does bring up an obvious question he prefers not to consider.
It has been a long time since Aaron has felt attraction towards another man. And there is no doubt that the hard, slender body pressed to his is entirely male. Those days he wakes helplessly aroused and aching, grinding against his mattress with a name trapped in his throat. It is as if a barrier has disappeared, as if he has forgotten to guard against deep feelings and hopeless longings.
All this, and Aaron never manages to see this man's face.
For him, it comes to a head at the next team dinner, which have recently become more frequent. Possibly in an attempt to fill the empty space none of them acknowledge, more likely just to be around others who understand. The only others who understand. Aaron has looked closely at the people in the department, outside of his team, but none of them are behaving any differently than usual.
Jack is the one who forces him to face the situation by throwing an uncharacteristic tantrum. He grimaces apologetically at the others as he leads his son to an empty guest room for privacy, murmuring an apology to JJ and Will when Henry begins wailing in response. He closes the door and turns to Jack, taking in his bright red face streaked with tears and snot, the way he stomps his feet and shouts broken phrases between heaving gasps for air.
"He promised, he said he'd teach – magic trick – why isn't he – nobody will t-t-tell – where is – why does everyone think Uncle Dave's Henry's g-godf-f-father-r – "
Aaron kneels and holds his son close when the tantrum fades into sobbing, murmurs soothing words as he strokes Jack's hair. "Jack," he says when the sobs have tapered off, pulling back to look him in the face. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong?"
Jack's lower lip trembles. "Is Doc Spence gone? Forever?"
Aaron knows he means 'dead' and he wants to reassure him, wants to immediately say no. But he doesn't want to lie, and he doesn't know who Jack is talking about. He had never gotten around to asking about his son's new friend who teaches magic tricks.
"Who's 'Doc Spence', and why do you think he's gone?"
His innocent question elicits another round of tears. "He's Doc Spence!" Jack says a little shrilly. "He catches bad guys with you, Daddy, and you said he's the smartest person ever, and he always knows the answer when I ask him things, and he's baby Henry's godfather. You can't forget, Daddy, you can't."
Aaron just holds his son close, closes his eyes, and breathes. It doesn't make any sense. Nothing does anymore. He should be furious and scared, doing everything in his power to catch whoever this stranger is that has approached his child so soon after the Reaper threatened everything he holds dear. Except that's not what is happening here. Jack is convinced that he and his team know this man, that they've talked about and to him.
Empty spaces, he thinks.
The next day he has Anderson pulling major case files from the past five years.
As if to reinforce his decision a letter arrives on his desk that afternoon. It is addressed to a man no one knows, care of the BAU. His fingertips brush the inked lines of the name, as if doing so will help him understand. Spencer Reid. 'Doc Spence', he presumes.
The return address – Bennington Sanitarium – does not fill Aaron with confidence in regards to his own sanity. Is he really contemplating…what? That someone or something erased his memory of this man? His team's memory? And any trace of his presence, excepting what his five-year-old son remembers?
He even brought up the name 'Doc Spence' with Haley when dropping Jack off the night before, and she has never heard of him.
To hell with it, he thinks, and opens the letter. If he'd hoped for answers, he is disappointed. The contents invite more questions. There are little details about daily life and, presumably, caretakers and fellow patients. But what it all boils down to is that Diana Reid is worried, and wondering why she hasn't heard from her son. She, like Jack, remembers. Why? And how cruel is it, that her son is gone and forgotten and she doesn't know?
Diana Reid. Bennington. Las Vegas. There's something very familiar there. He frowns at nothing in particular, lost in thought for several moments. Finally he sighs, returns the letter to its envelope and reaches for the stack of files Anderson left on his desk. He wonders if it will be better to start with the most recent and work his way back, or vice versa.
In the back of his mind, Aaron considers when would be best to take time off to fly to Las Vegas. For now, he focuses the entirety of his attention on the files.
It takes him over a week to go through all of them. At first glance, there is nothing strange or unusual about any of them. But he forces himself to examine every detail, no matter how small. To not disregard or write off anything, to not dismiss little things as unimportant.
It is a little alarming, the number of things he wants to dismiss as coincidental or irrelevant. He doesn't know how much he might have overlooked, but what Aaron does catch helps him to build up a better picture of what has been affected. He wants to have as much information as possible before meeting Diana Reid.
There's the Philip Dowd case. He can hardly imagine deliberately attacking JJ, even for a ruse. If he concentrates he can just barely picture it, but it wasn't so long ago and his memory isn't that bad. It seems almost impossible in hindsight that Dowd hadn't immediately noticed her slipping his spare gun from his ankle holster, and then he thinks about Jack's recent interest in magic tricks.
Tobias Hankel. One of the local law enforcement had been taken, and had quit the force almost immediately after his rescue. Which is understandable except as far as Aaron can tell he just disappears with no contact information, no online activity, and no worried friends or colleagues, as if he has never existed. And his file, what little he can access, is so deliberately ordinary as to be easily forgotten or overlooked. On top of that, it's unusual that they sent JJ out to question a suspect without another member of the team.
It makes no sense that Owen Savage had not gone out as a suicide by cop, and even less sense that Morgan would break protocol in the way that he did. He can feel a headache developing trying to think about why, about how the two could have connected because even just physically Morgan appears to be exactly the sort of person who would have tormented Savage. He searches Morgan's file thoroughly and can't find even a hint of a reprimand, and Hotch would damn well have reprimanded any agent who took the risks he had. Supposedly had.
His interview with Chester Hardwick wouldn't stand out – barely stands out – except that his memory is not as clear as it should be. Rossi didn't exactly act out of character, after all, in distracting Hardwick and keeping his attention until the guards returned. Hotch might have expected him to say something before they'd arrived, to halt or delay the proceedings since it was obvious that his head wasn't exactly in the game. The memory, unclear as it might be, still shames him. But he doesn't think Rossi would have reacted much differently than the reports say, so it is harder to be certain whether this is truly related to what is missing.
And he still has no idea how they managed to outmaneuver Ted Bryar on that train. Subtle questions directed at Morgan, JJ, and Garcia do not yield any answers.
At least now he knows why Diana's name had seemed so familiar, although it does bring up more questions. These, however, he suspects he knows the answers to. Now that he's looking for it, it's a wonder that no one thought to question how she knew so many little, intimate details about a group of strangers. She had no way of stalking them from Bennington, nor did she have the skill or equipment to track them online. There is no way she could have known them so well.
Unless her son knew them, spoke with her about them.
Hotch runs a hand through his hair. The only thing that makes sense is impossible, and he can feel a headache building in his temples. What he has to do is focus on the facts. Throw away his notions of impossible, for now at least.
The night before he leaves for Las Vegas it seems almost fitting to find himself lucid dreaming. Aaron and the other man – Spencer – simply sit in comfortable silence for a while, interspersed with conversation about nothing in particular. There is no active case at the moment, unless he counts this mystery, and so Aaron attempts to study his companion. He has no trouble communicating with him, no trouble knowing when eyes widen in surprise or brows furrow in confusion. He can tell when the young man is upset or happy, that he is a young man, that he is not short or stocky. But the actual details, the color of his eyes, the length of his hair, what his expressions actually look like… It all slips from his mind like water through a sieve. The harder Aaron tries to remember, the more frustrated he becomes. The questions escape him before he can decide if it is a good idea to ask.
"Where are you? Why aren't you here? With –" me "– us?"
The other man tenses in confusion. Aaron knows he does even if he doesn't remember what that looks like.
"I don't understand what you mean," he says cautiously, and Aaron cannot hang onto the memory of what his voice sounds like.
He holds that gaze and cannot tell if his eyes are dark or light. "Spencer Reid."
His companion jerks and lets out a sound of shock or denial. "How? No! You can't remember, you can't – "
The dream trembles, and the pair stumble with it.
"I don't," he admits. "I don't remember, but I know…"
The scene is crumbling, fading, and Aaron lurches for the man he has confirmed is Spencer Reid. He grasps a wrist, yanks him close and holds tight, as if he can keep him. As if he can bring him back like this. "How do I find you?" he demands.
"Hotch – Aaron, you can't. I wished – "
He jerks awake with a gasp that is almost a sob and presses his hands to his chest, as if that can stop up the gaping hole in his heart. He knows instinctively that the real Spencer will no longer – perhaps can no longer – visit him in his dreams, and that is a loss he can hardly bear to think about.
He doesn't think it's worth it, really, just for confirmation of a name. Wants to shout or hit something, because the least Spencer could have done was give him something, anything, that could have helped to find him.
His hopes all hinge on Diana Reid, now.
Aaron spends the flight across country attempting to figure out the best way to start the conversation. How do you tell someone that their son has disappeared and been forgotten? Never mind that someone being institutionalized for schizophrenia, and their extreme paranoia of the government and government figures. Will she even know or listen to what he's talking about? Will she know how to help him?
By the time he arrives at Bennington, it is late in the afternoon and he still has no idea what he can say to Professor Reid. Aaron hates improvising to such an extent, and on such little information.
He doesn't have any trouble getting in, at least. The receptionist greets him with the standard smile common in most customer service providers and directs him to the lounge. "Professor Reid gets so few visitors, it's nice to see she has more recently," she says as she checks his ID.
"What do you mean?" Something different, recent changes. He's been so focused on scrutinizing old files for even a hint of anything out of the ordinary that his attention is automatically caught by this shift in the norm.
"One of Professor Reid's old friends is with her right now. You'll probably run into her, I didn't notice her leave. She's been here a few times, I can recognize her on sight now." The receptionist chuckles.
"Thank you," Aaron says with a nod, and heads to the lounge. It is a little inconvenient. He wants to speak with Diana privately, but he doesn't want to kick her friend out. Hopefully she won't be too much longer.
He scans the room for a familiar face as he hovers unobtrusively to the side of the door. And, there. Diana Reid sits near a window, hands resting on the book in her lap as she leans toward the woman sitting before her. For a moment, he studies this blonde former professor and wonders, masochistically, which of her features her son had inherited.
But that is hardly productive, and so he shakes himself and glances over at her visitor. She is slender and pale, long dark hair spilling over her shoulder, and she reaches up to tuck it behind an ear as she speaks. Her eyes dart up to meet his almost as soon as he begins studying her, before returning her attention to her friend. She reaches out a hand to cover one of Professor Reid's, briefly, her lips moving as she stands. It is obvious that they are saying their goodbyes, so Hotch follows the wall toward them feeling a little relieved that he won't be interrupting. The woman reaches him just out of Professor Reid's earshot and slows to speak, so he follows suit.
"She's having one of her good days," she says. "It should last long enough."
"For what?" Aaron wonders, mystified and leaning towards suspicious.
"For you to conclude your business."
A brief pause as he wonders how to respond. "I don't believe we've been introduced." He strives for some normality to ground him. "Agent Aaron Hotchner." He reaches out to shake her hand.
"Sarah Williams," she responds with a smile. There is something just a little sad about it. But her grip is firm, chin tilted up slightly in defiance, or determination, or maybe just stubbornness. "Good luck." And she is gone before he can question her further.
The interaction is innocuous enough, but he thinks she knows something. What she knows is the question, and he frowns after her before continuing to Professor Reid's side. One problem at a time. He is still unsure how to begin, or even what to say.
She is staring into space, brow furrowed, when Aaron clears his throat. "Professor Diana Reid?"
Diana starts a bit and looks up at him. Her gaze sharpens as she registers his appearance and her lips thin. He crosses to the newly vacant chair, uncomfortable with looming over her. "I don't know if you remember me. I'm Agent Aaron Hotchner."
"I remember," she says.
Aaron holds himself still and hides his discomfort as she scrutinizes him. The silence stretches. "About your – "
"I can't decide if I'm surprised or not," she interrupts.
"Pardon?"
"That it's you. That you're the one who came, instead of one of the others."
He hesitates. Honestly, she could be talking about anything. Especially considering where they are and why. He doesn't think so, thinks he knows exactly what she is referring to, but it pays to be cautious. "What do you mean?" he asks.
Diana makes an impatient sound. "My son," she says, "is gone. You don't understand, and I can't bring him back. You will have to be the one to find him, now."
"You know," he states, fighting back the first stirrings of his temper and temporarily overlooking her confusing statement. She knew. This whole time? Knew and was, what, manipulating him? "You know he's gone and that nobody can remember him. You know why. But you still sent that letter."
Her grip tightens on the book in her lap. "I didn't know then, when I wrote it. I found out not long after I mailed it, and I suppose it was lost or waylaid. I had nothing to do with its conveniently timed arrival."
"But you know who does," he extrapolates.
This, of all things, causes the faintest of smiles. The atmosphere is suddenly and inexplicably less tense. "Perhaps you'll do. You might be sharp enough."
"For what?"
"To bring him back."
The words almost seem to ring in the quiet between them. Aaron's chaotic heart shudders with hope.
Diana shoves a book into his hands, bound in red leather and embossed with faded gold. He looks down and reads its title. 'Labyrinth'.
"Your required reading," she explains without actually explaining anything at all. "I'm giving a lecture tomorrow at two on the culture, history, and behavior of the Fae. Read that beforehand, and if you have any questions about the book, come find me."
Aaron is many things, but he is not a fool. "Impossible." He shakes his head, struggling for words. "Don't…" toy with me, but he knows that Diana would never, not with her son on the line. "There's no…" such thing as fairies and magic, but that is no way to speak to someone with mental health issues. Never mind that he can't afford to alienate the only person he knows can help him.
Diana simply raises an eyebrow. Her eyes are perfectly clear and focused on him; she is undisturbed, sober, and believes utterly in what she is saying. This woman should not look so sane, particularly to a trained and experienced profiler.
"Have you come up with a better explanation?" she asks. "Someone or something was able to erase or alter all memories and evidence of my son's existence, Agent Hotchner. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this world, as a whole, would deny that possibility because technology is certainly not that advanced. And if it were, why Spencer, of all people? They would also deny that magic exists, of course. But the very fact that I am not blaming the government should tell you something."
Aaron's hands clench hard around the book as he dissects her words. He doesn't have a better explanation. He doesn't have any explanation. That's why he came to her. So the question now is, does he believe her?
No, is his automatic response. No.
But.
Look at the facts. Everything is impossible. Either magic exists or he is mad. They both are.
If he doesn't believe, if he walks away, he loses…well, not everything. But something important. Something essential. He won't ever recover from it, but he will learn to move forward because he must, and so will the others.
With a sort of grim fatality, a reckless plunge into the unknown, he accepts magic and madness. There isn't really another choice, is there?
She reads his acceptance on his face and nods sharply. "I will see you tomorrow, then," she dismisses him. "Be prepared to take detailed notes."
"Will there be a test?" Even he isn't sure if that is meant to be sincere or dryly humorous.
"That is entirely up to you, and whether you can persuade Himself to do so." The look she gives him says that he had better be damn persuasive.
Aaron leaves for his hotel soon after that, clutching the book Diana had given him. Answers are within his grasp. This is something that can be fixed.
He spends the rest of the day reading in his room. The book is fairly slim, and he reads it once for an overview, and a second time for the details. Diana had suggested he take notes at her lecture so he takes that a step further and writes down observations, important information, and questions about the 'Labyrinth'. He's missing something. It is incredibly frustrating to receive information in bits and pieces when he knows at least one person involved knows everything. He tries to work it out, like any other case.
Aaron is reasonably sure that these hints lead to Spencer Reid having been wished away. However, from what he's read only children can be wished away to the goblins. So either the book is wrong in that respect, or Spencer hasn't been abducted in that particular fashion, but the Labyrinth is somehow involved. Will he have to run it? He didn't make the wish, but if the one who did refused to run the Labyrinth, perhaps Aaron is meant to convince the Goblin King to allow him to do so instead.
His blood runs cold at a sudden thought. Was he so certain he didn't make the wish? How would he know if he couldn't remember?
Except, was his position as supervisor similar enough to that of guardian to give him that power? And what would possess him to say anything about goblins, never mind out loud as a wish?
Fear isn't logical. Nothing will completely erase that fear of fault until he remembers for certain what happened.
There's a certain timing to it all that he doesn't want to contemplate.
Aaron stares up at the ceiling late that night, and tries not to think that he's mad. He feels like he's missed a step, like the ground has disappeared from beneath his feet and he is freefalling. But it is an improvement over the trapped feelings of before. At least he is moving now. He is learning something, doing something.
The next day Aaron shows up early for Diana's lecture. He pays close attention to what she says, making detailed notes, and thinking that, surprisingly, his experience as a prosecutor will be very helpful. He lingers after, to neither of their surprise.
"If fairies are incapable of breaking their word," he says quietly, "and only children can be wished away to the Goblin King, then how was it that your son was taken?"
"Spencer wasn't the one wished away, Agent Hotchner," she says. "Not this time. He was the one who made the wish and knowingly broke the rules. He had no guardianship claim, the wished away was not a child, and he appealed directly to their king."
"But," he protests. Pauses to gather his thoughts. Tries again. "But then, surely nothing would have come of it? It wouldn't have been heard. There shouldn't have been a response."
"Ordinarily," Diana sighs. She looks tired, pained. "But his godfather will always hear his wish. And all wishes have consequences; no exceptions."
"His godfather," Aaron repeats. And then, "You said this time. Someone wished him away. As a child?" A fairytale king as a godfather. William Reid is estranged. Diana Reid knows far too much of magic and goblins. Which of them, he wonders, or another altogether? Babysitter, perhaps? Too many pieces that don't quite fit yet.
The woman studies him for a long moment. "The Fae," she says, "prize children because they have so few of them. Humans who have been wished away and not won back become part of the Underground forever. The ones who have been the worst abused, who cannot recover become goblins. Others, unwanted, unloved, are adopted. None can return Aboveground once the magic has set."
He nods in acknowledgement.
"But even in a culture that prizes children as a whole, it is possible for a child to be unwanted and wished away. It's rare, very nearly unheard of, but it happens. The Goblin King takes special care of those. They cannot stay anywhere in the Underground, so he must find a home for them here. He came to ask me years ago, because I was one of the few who had been to the Underground before and remembered."
Aaron is stunned. "Spencer isn't…human?"
Diana glares fiercely, baring her teeth. "He is completely human. He is my son. There are even memories and pictures of my pregnancy, paperwork for his hospital birth. Any DNA test will prove his parentage. Spencer became – he is one of us, forever."
Hotch holds eye contact, puts his hands up, open palmed, in submission. "I was only surprised. I didn't mean anything by it.
"It doesn't change anything. Not for me." He tastes the truth in his words as he speaks them.
She studies him, slow to relax, slow to trust. But she settles.
"He knew?" he asks.
Diana nods. "He knew. He needed to know where he came from, and to be careful of his words. The Goblin King chooses foster parents who know of the world the child comes from. For their well-being."
Aaron considers this. "He isn't quite the villain his portrayal might indicate," he comments.
"No," she says. "But you can't judge the Fae by our morality either. He might not be a monster, but that doesn't make him good or kind."
He dips his chin in acknowledgement, and a thought occurs to him.
"Do you know why my son, Jack, remembers when everyone else forgot?" he asks.
His companion hums thoughtfully. "If he isn't powerful magically," she muses to Aaron's brief alarm, "and you'd have noticed if he was – most likely he is a wished away as well."
Aaron's world tips on its axis. "No," he croaks, registering that, once again, he had been so close to losing his child. His pulse is pounding in his ears. "Who?" Incandescent rage, breath-stealing terror, self-flagellation – what kind of father is he that he fails so spectacularly to keep his son safe?
"There's no telling," Diana says, empathy in her eyes as he struggles to control himself. "But he's still here, with you. He was won back, and he can't be lost that same way twice."
Whereas her son is still gone and Aaron has only one shot at getting him back.
He stays only long enough to clarify a few points she raised in her lecture, and then catches the next flight home. He comes in to work the next day and takes Garcia aside.
"Can you do me a favor and compose a list of scholarly articles and books on the topic of fairy and supernatural abductions?"
"Uh. For…a case…?"
"Something like that."
"Yeah, um, yes, sir. I can do that."
Hotch rather wishes that he were in the mood to enjoy his tech's discombobulation.
One more week. One more week of research, of struggling not to cling to his son when he sees him. One more week of coping with the ache of Spencer's absence from his life and his dreams.
The only relief is Jack's cheerier disposition, and when he sees him struggling with some sort of trick with scarves, he suspects someone new has appeared in Jack's dreams instead. His breath hitches at the realization, part wonder, part envy. The latter shames him.
"Hey, buddy?" he says softly, crouching down. "I have a question. About Spencer."
"Yeah, Dad?" Jack is immediately attentive and, he thinks, a little too expectant.
"If I wanted to find him," he picks his words carefully, "if I wanted to go to where he is, to meet the person he's staying with, how do you think I could do that?" Because at this point he thinks he is as prepared as he can be, but he hasn't been able to figure out how to access the Underground. He eyes mirrors contemplatively, looks up the nearest standing stone circles, keeps an eye out for mushroom rings, feeling faintly ridiculous all the while. But there's no reason to think that even if he does manage to use one of those entrances to Faerie, that they will lead him anywhere near the Labyrinth and its king.
"Um." He tilts his head to the side and squints in consideration. The sight makes Aaron's lips twitch.
"Why don't you make a wish?" Jack says.
Aaron stares for a moment. Out of the mouths of babes. It seems obvious in hindsight.
"In a mirror is best," his son concludes.
He pulls him close and bends to press a kiss to his forehead, murmuring, "You're a genius, Jack."
"Daddy," he says, laughing. As soon as Aaron lets him go and stands, Jack grabs his hand. "You're gonna get Doc Spence, right?"
"I'll do my best," he swears.
That night he stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom and tries to feel confident. Tries to have faith. It all comes down to this; to how well he has prepared, and to the generosity of a king.
"I wish for an audience with the Goblin King, at the mutually agreed upon conclusion of which I will be returned unharmed to my home after an equivalent time period, or no longer than 13 consecutive hours."
Nothing happens, just long enough for Aaron to feel the first stirrings of embarrassment. Then he blinks, and the mirror no longer reflects the bedroom behind him. He turns, and finds himself standing in an enormous room of glittering stone. Light flows through tall windows, a reddish orange that he is quite unused to seeing. A glance over his shoulder confirms that his vanity and mirror are gone.
"It has been quite some time since I have been given the challenge of a barrister," a voice drawls.
His head snaps up, and at last he registers three figures upon two thrones.
"Give him back to me." The words are ripped from his throat without his meaning to, hoarse and desperate, and he wishes he could bite them back. That is not what he meant to say at all. The complete lack of any sort of vertigo or turbulence to mark the shift from bedroom to throne room is far more disorienting than it might seem. Not to mention that while he has theoretically accepted the existence of magic, this is the first time he has seen it. He doesn't yet dare to take a step, certain that any movement will send him tumbling. Instead he remains still and attempts to project confidence, tries to lock away his fear and shock and awe, as a mocking laugh catches his attention.
"Perhaps not such a challenge after all."
His gaze is drawn automatically to the man who can only be the Goblin King. He sprawls with careless arrogance upon his throne, his wild hair feathery and pale. He is inhumanly beautiful, almost painfully so. Angles, bone structure, and body language are just a shade off, so that it is almost jarring to examine him. There is no crown, no fancy robes as he might have pictured, but there is hardly a need. The man – being – king all but radiates power, and the cut of his white shirt draw attention to a silver crescent moon emblem. A symbol of his office, perhaps?
The Goblin King's wife is far less unnerving, and strangely familiar. It takes him a moment to place her as Diana's friend, the one who had been visiting when he stopped by Bennington. She looks different now, in a dress instead of jeans, drawn up straight-backed with an impressive poker face.
Aaron wonders, ally or accomplice? Hostage or accessory? He meets her dark eyes and there is warmth there, where he can only see calculation in the Goblin King's mismatched gaze.
At Sarah Williams' feet there is a young boy, head resting in her lap. One graceful hand settles on his head, fingers carding through shaggy brown hair and what looks to be actual feathers. And perhaps it is the light, but his skin appears luminescent, stretched thin over bone. He is almost too slender with high cheekbones and dark circles under his eyes. He is certainly too still, especially for a child, unmoving except for his breaths as he stares blankly at the ground.
Aaron tries to keep his body language neutral. Their son, he wonders, or a wished away?
"You come here to make demands of me?" the Goblin King says, and there is a certain menace behind the amusement. Or perhaps it is the other way around, a derisive amusement behind the menace. Either way, he has already misstepped.
He suspects an apology will be taken as a sign of weakness, and he isn't entirely certain that he would mean it. Any attempt at lying, whether or not it is deliberate, could see him forfeiting this one precious chance. So Aaron moves forward. Clarifies.
"I'm here for Spencer Reid."
"And what would you sacrifice in return?" The tone is light and careless, but his expression is shrewd.
Aaron knows better than to say 'anything', knows to be cautious and specific. "It is my understanding that running the Labyrinth is the standard practice for the return of a wished away."
"True."
"Then I will run the Labyrinth for him."
"That," says the Goblin King, "will not be possible. There may only ever be one runner per child."
"But no one has ever run for Spencer," Aaron points out. "I would be the first and only." He has done his research. He hopes it will be enough. "And you cannot keep him here. He was wished away from here; he could never return after that, never again set foot in the Underground. It was, essentially, a banishment. Our world, Above, is the only place he can exist." His voice is tight with suppressed emotion. He's learned so much; this isn't just his one chance to get Spencer back, it's the only chance to save the other man. Surely his godfather will not keep him here when it must be slowly killing him.
"You are correct in that Spencer's mere presence here is – shall we say corrosive – for himself and, occasionally, those around him. But neither can he be simply released back to his life Above without similar consequences.
"And that was a bit unclear," the other admits. "I should say, the offer to run may only ever be offered once on behalf of any child. And it was offered to Spencer's first mother. She chose her dreams instead." The sharp-toothed smile is darkly satisfied, and Aaron suspects that the Fae mother, despite knowing better, had not gained quite what she had hoped for.
He puts it from his mind as unimportant now. There are other offers he had considered, but it would be foolish to offer blindly. He needs to know what the ruler is angling for.
"Then, what would you ask for?" he says. His heart is racing at the confirmation of Spencer's peril. He tries not to think about the implications of the term 'corrosive'.
The Goblin King examines him for a time, as Aaron struggles to remain stoic.
"You desire to undo Spencer Reid's wish. For things to return to what they should be. For him to have been present, one of you, remembered."
"Yes."
"Then you must sacrifice your wife and child."
Aaron stumbles, cries out as the words strike him like a blade to the heart. "You – you can't bargain with lives. They aren't someone's playthings. This isn't a game." He's furious because it's easier than anything else he might feel or think.
"Is that not what you do, in your work?"
"No!" he protests. "That's different. That's…" He can't think. It's wrong. That's all. It's wrong. "You're asking me to murder my family!"
"I am hardly asking you to stab them yourself, Agent."
"But I'll be choosing to let them die." His fists clench helplessly at his sides.
"Or you'll be choosing to let Spencer die," the Fae says carelessly, and in that moment Aaron truly hates him. The barest thread of control keeps him from doing something so foolish as attacking him, regardless of how much he wants to. He clenches his jaw, and the monarch continues when he sees the man is beyond words. Forces him to face what he has been avoiding.
"You won't be a killer, Agent. That would have been someone else's role. Will be, should events occur the way they were meant to without supernatural interference."
"Foyet," Aaron whispers in defeat. His shoulders sag. This was his fault, after all? And whatever choice he makes, there is no winning.
"Jack, too?" he says plaintively.
The Goblin King hesitates. "His mother will not survive, but your son… He has a chance."
"So either Spencer dies, or Haley does."
"No. Either Spencer ceases to exist, or your once-wife dies."
Aaron tenses. "What do you mean by 'ceases to exist'?"
The Fae makes a twisting motion with his wrist, and a ball of clear crystal appears perfectly balanced on the back of his hand. "I mean that he will be rejected by Above and Below, and with nowhere else to go, his soul," an elegant sway of his hand, a twist to bring the ball to his fingertips, "will be annihilated." He blows and the crystal pops like a soap bubble.
The sound that escapes Aaron's throat is indescribably heartbreaking. Perhaps that is what prompts Sarah to say, "Surely there's another option, Jareth. There has to be."
The agent flinches at her voice. He had completely forgotten that she was there. He turns to her, eager for a distraction, a delay, another option. She holds her husband's gaze, and while her attention is elsewhere he notices that there is a tightness around her mouth, an air of exhaustion hanging about her slender frame, and it might be his imagination, but the subtle glow about her child seems to be dimming.
"To undo what has been done, events must be reset to the moment of change. You know that, dearest," says the Goblin King.
Sarah sighs, deflating as she flicks a glance at Aaron before turning her attention to her child. Not his imagination, then, he realizes as the glow strengthens. But he's distracted by a niggling thought. Something that had been said. Something she had wanted him to notice.
It hits him, blindsides him with hope.
"No," he snaps.
Jareth raises a brow.
"No, I don't want to undo the wish. Let it stand. I just want to bring Spencer back."
"Well then." He thinks he sees a hint of satisfaction in that angular face, and hopes it bodes well for them. "That would require a different price altogether."
Aaron's pulse is racing so quickly, relief and triumph warring with apprehension, that he feels a little ill. Another challenge overcome, one trick avoided. He can do this.
The Goblin King drums his fingers on the arm of his throne, head propped on the other fist. "I am not unreasonable," he says, "and I am feeling generous." He ignores Sarah's near silent scoff. "If you can pick out the real Spencer Reid," he waves a hand expansively, and a crowd suddenly appears in the empty space behind Aaron, "then you and he will be free to return Above."
Aaron turns and it feels like the wind has been knocked from his lungs. So many nights straining to remember what this man looks like, and now here he is repeated again and again, with only slight variations in hair style and clothing. Brown hair with a curl to it, some longer, some shorter. Hazel eyes. Tall and slender, only slightly shorter than himself. Sweater vests, or dress shirts, or waistcoats.
"But I don't remember him," Aaron murmurs. "How will I know which is real?"
"That is the challenge," says the Goblin King with casual cruelty. "It's hardly a price or a sacrifice if it doesn't require effort. And I should warn you that none of them can speak, either."
"Generous?" he says in disbelief.
"You see into the hearts of Men, do you not? That is your profession. I am merely eliminating a few distracting components, shall we say."
There is no use protesting, and this is certainly the better option. He straightens in determination and moves among the crowd of doppelgangers.
Aaron does not know how long it has been when exhaustion drags at his limbs and his sight grows blurry. He presses the heels of his palms into his closed eyes and tries to swallow his frustration.
He doesn't know. He had thought, or maybe simply hoped, he would. But he doesn't. At best, he thinks he has eliminated a few, which still leaves at least a dozen copies. If only he had his memories, he's sure he would have known the true Spencer immediately. Known his expressions, their shared histories, signs and signals of familiarity.
But that's the point, isn't it? A paradox. He needs to know him to find him. Needs to find him to know him.
He sighs and blinks away the blurred edges. He isn't giving up.
Just as Aaron steps forward to make his way down the first row again, a flash in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He turns, but it's just the reflection of the strange orangish light off of Sarah's bracelet. He watches passively as she lifts her hands to rub at her temples.
The child's glow noticeably and immediately dims, and the queen hastily returns her hand to his head.
Why is the child here? Something...something important. He is important. Why? Why here? And why is Sarah here? Or, why has she participated so little? If something is wrong with either or both of them… There must be a reason.
"Giving up?" asks the Goblin King.
"No," he replies firmly. But he doesn't move. Sarah seems to be on his side. She has helped him before, in any case.
He studies the child, traces his features.
"Oh," he breathes. Strides across the room, gaze fixed, blind and deaf to everything else. Aaron kneels, almost collapsing to his knees. "It's you. Of course." He reaches out to touch the cool skin of his cheek.
For the first time, the child blinks, and his eyes focus.
The room around them darkens, stone fading away, but Aaron pays it no attention. As the boy lifts his head he ages into a familiar young man. "Spencer Reid," Aaron whispers as his callused hands frame the smiling face.
Aaron Hotchner jerks awake, alone, at his office desk.
Alone.
No, he thinks. No, no, no. He can barely breathe for the pain of it, and he yanks at his tie as if it will help. He had been sure, so sure that he was right. But he's alone, and his memories are still gone. His one chance. Tears threaten and he swallows them back.
A knock at the door interrupts. It takes him a moment to reply.
"Come in," he calls.
At least his voice is steady. Normal.
He gasps silently when his visitor enters, a stack of files in his hands. Spencer – no, Reid, is here, probably with his write-up from their latest case. And Hotch remembers…except, he hadn't actually forgotten. How could he forget? Reid has always been here, has been a part of all of their recent cases. Essential, as always.
It was a very vivid dream, though.
Strange he doesn't remember falling asleep. He doesn't usually do so at his desk.
He doesn't quite remember standing either. And he has no idea what his expression looks like, but it causes Reid to release an understanding little, "Ah," before turning to close and lock his door.
"I wondered if you would remember," the young genius murmurs. "The others were unusually happy to see me this morning, but they didn't know why."
Aaron can't quite suppress the pained sound that escapes him. "It was real," he says. "You were gone."
He fidgets. "I was."
This reminds him of the nightmare that was Georgia; Reid – Spencer – once again taken away and slowly dying. Except this time it's Aaron who reaches out, flayed open and desperate and wrecked by hope. He clutches him tightly, reassured by his warmth and solidity, the play of muscle and bone beneath skin as Spencer returns the embrace. The younger man is very nearly his height, though far slighter of build, and still a pillar of strength.
Aaron's pillar of strength.
He's very grateful that his blinds had already been closed.
He remembers everything he has learned about this man since Gideon recruited him. He remembers weeks of not knowing what was missing, not knowing to maintain his shields against the temptation this man presents to him. Aaron is helpless before him, unable and unwilling to distance himself when he is so raw from everything that has happened.
So he slides one hand up to the back of Spencer's head, presses the other to the small of his back, and kisses him. It's awkward at first, the younger man tense with shock – perhaps, Aaron thinks, he doesn't want this – but instead of being pushed away he is pulled closer. Spencer's mouth softens, opens to him, the angle adjusted minutely, and then it's slick, languid, and intensely pleasurable. He never wants to stop, can't understand how he resisted for so long. They part only to breathe, before diving back in again.
"I love you," he whispers against Spencer's lips.
Aaron cannot miss the way the man in his arms suddenly trembles. When he pulls back to see what's wrong the sheer depth of emotion in his gaze, conflicting, confusing, and intense, stops his breath. The doctor is not as calm as he first appeared. It takes him only a moment to realize the cause, now that he knows – remembers – this man.
Spencer is far more accustomed to being left behind. He knows abandonment, expects it to a certain extent.
But Aaron came for him.
When it should have been impossible, Aaron found him. When he should have given in, Aaron instead brought him back.
And now, what was implied by those actions has been declared out loud.
He gives him time as they pant for air, but can't quite bring himself to let go. Not yet. He can't. Won't, unless the other man wants him to.
"But how did you know?" he says at last. "How did you realize I was gone if everyone's memories were taken?"
"Because we knew…we could feel that something was missing. We didn't know why, but we kept making space for an extra person. And Jack remembered you, as did your mother. I couldn't let it go, even searched through the team's files, and they didn't make sense. Looking back now I can see that your actions were rather haphazardly attributed to others or glossed over altogether. Even some of my memories, where you should have been were…unclear."
Spencer frowns, staring off into space as his mind turns over this information, but making no move to escape Aaron's hold. "That doesn't make any," he says as if to himself.
"Spencer?"
He looks up. "That sounds like extremely amateur spellcasting," he explains. "But the Goblin King has had centuries, millennia of experience with magic, and memory spells in particular. His work would never be so sub-par."
Aaron rests his forehead gently against Spencer's. "Unless it was deliberate," he says at last. "Unless it was to save you. From what I understand, he cannot break the rules, but he and his kind are very good at bending them."
The doctor smiles, at both the intimacy and his words. "My godfather does care, however well he plays the villain. Not to mention… Well, Fae have a certain weakness for love stories."
"Is that what this is? A love story?"
Spencer hums and says with a mixture of private amusement and absentminded melancholy, "We're all just stories in the end." He hesitates. Ducks his head and looks up at him through his unruly fringe. "And I do love you."
Despite its tentative utterance, it is stated as a fact. As true and certain as the statistics the doctor so often rattles off.
Aaron is helpless to do anything but kiss him again, immerses himself in Spencer's taste and touch. There will be challenges and risks, problems and practicalities to negotiate. But later. Now, he celebrates and gives in to what he has wanted for so long. His shields shattered unknowingly when Spencer was lost, and he cannot find it within himself to build them back up again.
"And I you," Aaron murmurs against his love's skin.
once upon a time a child was wished away. it is almost unheard of for a Fae to wish away one of their own children, precious and few as they are. but if human children are wished to the Underground, what then becomes of that Fae child?
So, this idea came to me about 2 years ago now, I think. I was finally motivated to begin writing it in November with the influence of it being NaNoWriMo. I didn't get very far so I thought, OK, I'll finish it over the winter holidays. Nope. How about by the new year. OK, I'll post it on New Year's. Never mind, by the end of the month. No, maybe I'll aim for Valentine's Day, just because.
...By March?...
Finally, I sat myself down and finished it. Eventually. I know I used to write a lot more a lot faster than I have been. I would procrastinate schoolwork and write instead. Now that I don't have schoolwork I guess I've moved on to procrastinating writing? Or else, I might have intimidated myself, since I thought this could be a really beautiful fic if I did it right, and I really wanted to do it right. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.