Disclaimer: Property of CBS et al.
Warnings: BDSM images. Issues of consent. Smut. The word "ravish" used in all seriousness.
Spoilers: 2x15, 2x16, 5x1, 5,9, reference to dialogue in 7x4 Painless. Plays fast and loose with early S7 timelines.
Author's Note: This must have been a zombie prompt, because it ate my brain. Chapter breaks, quotes, and copy editing added prior to publishing here. Love, hate, indifference? Please review. 5-shot. Complete.
From a prompt at the CM Kink Meme VI:
The team is investigating a ring of sex offenders, specifically, child pornography. Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss break into a house and make an arrest, and they find dozens of photo albums, dating back more than two decades. One of the team is flipping through one, and they find a suddenly very familiar face: Spencer Reid. The three of them conceal all the pictures to protect his reputation.
Ephemera
Chapter One
What ills from beauty spring.
-Samuel Johnson
They were supposed to be in Quantico, on a two week stand down.
Not here at the edge of Vegas, too busy tearing through files and photographs and stacks of video discs and less modern tape to note the Mojave shimmering in the heat outside the window. Not here, in this rusted trailer filled with glossy eight by tens in black and white and grey with half a plate of scrambled eggs darkening the sink with mold.
"I thought team three was taking those cases," Spencer had said, not saying child abduction or pedophile because Jack was between them, and the half eaten slice of pizza with the pepperoni slices picked off. They had spent the morning watching the arcs of light from the new Tesla exhibit at the Smithsonian streak jaggedly from coil to coil. Watching each the other illuminated by those flares, and-on Aaron's part, at least-wondering when friendship changed into something that had him fumbling and uncertain, as though he had never been in love before.
A crush, he corrected himself, watching Spencer's long fingers tap out some restless pattern on the seam of the table. One that would horrify your coworker if he knew. Because as far as he could tell, Spencer Reid was almost asexual save for the passing interest in slender blondes. He spent all his passions on ideas and logic until there was nothing left. For the first time, this perception brought an ache to Aaron's chest.
"Does this mean you're not coming to Aunt Jessie's picnic?" Jack had broken into his reverie, looking up from the activity sheet where he was coloring everything blue-it was his favorite color today- and pausing. Jack and Spencer were both staring at him, so much trust in their eyes Aaron was hard pressed to keep his breath steady.
"Not today, buddy," he had said, and cleared his throat. "You'll get to have a sleepover with your aunt, and the two of you will have a great time even though I can't be there."
"I know," Jack nodded and returned to his coloring, waiting for Aaron to make the calls to the team. The ache in his chest deepened. When did this get to be a routine? When did he stop asking me not to leave?
Not until they were walking back towards the car, Spencer frowning only when he heard they were going to Vegas-ah, but that makes sense, he'll probably go visit his mother-did Aaron feel something brush the back of his hand. Startled, he glanced up, and Spencer's eyes were hazel and wide and understanding, and his hand was brushing Aaron's until their knuckles interlocked like puzzle pieces. The touch was intimate in a way Aaron would not have anticipated, and not only because Spencer just did not do touch.
Something warm, amused-happy-had crossed Spencer's face.
And Aaron had realized he was not alone with this fumbling uncertain feeling.
But there was a case. Always a case, he heard the hiss of Haley's remonstrance, and the only difference was that after they dropped off Jack, rushing over to Spencer's apartment for his go bag, Aaron could tell him the boy was only 11, and there was video, and that he was dying. And Aaron could see the focus like his own turn Spencer's attention inward and grim, and watch urgency inform the flurry of motion as Spencer retrieved his bag, climbed back in the car, and told him, "Go."
So these revelations would have to wait, because the desert heat is hammering against the side of the metal trailer and Aaron has a sharp thin pain starting behind his left eye. "God," he says, when he flips to another image. This child is older, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and there is an impossible amount of blood splashed across the expanse of his stomach and on the metal cuffs binding his hands to the headboard of a bed. Spencer would know if it were possible for him to still be alive, when he's lost so much-
But Spencer is at the station, placing thumbtacks and string over a map in a frantic effort to find more places where this predator, Peter Gabriel, might be hiding the most recent boy taken. And Aaron is glad, because Spencer's memory will not have to find distractions from the awful images they are cataloguing. "God."
"I don't think God has been here for a long time," the CSI replies, her voice is low and she looks even younger than Spencer. She swallows and Aaron watches her strip off her gloves as she steps back to the door. "I can't-I can't-"
When she leaves, Aaron understands, although he cannot condone. "Keep looking," he urges Prentiss and Rossi. He tugs at the shirt plastered to his chest with perspiration and considers loosening his tie as he pulls another stack of photos close.
"Of course, Aaron," Rossi says.
"There's got to be some detail, something in the background that will give us a clue as to where he's holding these boys." Prentiss' mutter is only just loud enough to be heard as she rifles through another stack. Many of these boys are the same age as Declan. That is not enough for Aaron to tell her to rest her compartmentalizations, and join Spencer at the station.
They continue, photo after photo, until all Aaron can see is the spray of blood and cool metal, and the sun is too high to slither through the window anymore. He is about to tell them, even though this Benjamin Good, this boy they are trying to save, may only have hours left if they do not find him-he is about to tell them to take a break, get some coffee, come back with fresh eyes, when Rossi makes a low sound.
"Aaron." Grey, with worn edges and cracked old silk a violet line running over the cover, Rossi holds an album in his hands.
"That's different," Prentiss says. She takes the album, Aaron can see the same shades of grey but no details as she with casual ruthlessness thumbs through the pages. Her movements slow, though, and her jaw loosens as her gaze flicks up to Aaron. She and Rossi are both staring at him, in a way that hints this case has moved beyond tragic to personal.
He takes the bound images from them, face set. Is it a younger boy, Jack's age?
But the boy in these images is older. Older than Jack, certainly. Older than any of the others immortalized on film in this trailer.
Anger was something he knew how to control. Grief as well. So there is no challenge, really, to lifting his head when he has flipped through the last of the pictures to meet Rossi's and Prentiss' eyes. "This changes the profile," he says. His words are neutral, bland, and they make Prentiss flinch. "We need to get back to the station and speak with Peter Gabriel again."
.
"Spence is in interrogation three with Gabriel," J.J. says, abstracted as she sits in the conference room the BAU has appropriated. "I tried, but the guy wasn't going to talk to me. He keeps saying we're missing a piece of the puzzle. I've been going over the coroner's reports from the last two victims, but- Did you find something out at Gabriel's place?"
The air blasting from the air conditioner above Aaron's head, that felt tepid when they returned from the motel this morning, is almost painful against the way his skin burns from the heat in the trailer today.
"Something," Rossi agrees, as he takes a chair across from hers. Morgan hands him a bottle of water. "Aaron, do you want to close the door while we hammer out the rest of the profile?"
"But we already gave the profile," J.J. says, faltering when her gaze meets Aaron's. She darts a look at Prentiss, who only shakes her head.
Aaron makes an effort to smooth his gaze. He has the album tucked beneath his arm, and he handles it gingerly, like a bomb. Neither Rossi nor Prentiss had said a word as he removed it from the scene, without labeling or bagging or any of the other procedures necessary to have the item eventually logged as evidence. If it came to a trial.
Perhaps there is some wishful thinking that Gabriel would choke on a bagel, and die, or accidentally get shot, and die, or any number of equally fatal misadventures.
The thought is not amusing at all.
"I need to speak with Dr. Reid." Even though his voice sounded far away, he is calm, and the alarm in J.J.'s face fades. "Interrogation three, you said?"
He turns and leaves, while behind him mutters from Rossi and Prentiss crescendo against the interjections from J.J. before he closes the door. The only sound left is the impersonal chatter of the LEOs and ringing phones. Aaron straightens his tie.
He is not surprised to discover the camera and voice transmission turned off when he stands behind the mirrored glass for the interrogation room where Gabriel sits. Even if the slim line of Spencer's back were not towards him, Spencer could not know he is here.
Gabriel does not look like a monster. He is, Aaron judges, two or three inches shorter than Spencer, and broader, dressed in a pale green polo shirt with heat and sweat dampening brown hair against his forehead. His left hand is cuffed beneath the table, leaving only the right free for gesticulations.
In contrast, Spencer's shirt is blue and dark, and his cropped hair curls over his scalp like flame.
There is an aborted lift of Spencer's arm, as though he wants to run his fingers through his curls, or tap a Fibonacci sequence against the side of his chair, but refuses to display any uneasiness to the man he interviews. Not until Spencer's left hand wraps into a fist, beneath the table where Gabriel cannot see, does Aaron turn the voice transmission back on.
"-Didn't do it," Gabriel is saying. "You know I could never hurt someone, not so it would last. There were never any scars. Don't you, Spencer? Spencer-"
"Dr. Reid," comes the low correction, cold. "If you didn't murder those boys and abduct Benjamin Good, why did we find evidence of said abductions at a property listed under your name?"
"Spencer, I don't know!" Gabriel explodes out of his chair, reaching-lunging-for Spencer.
Before Aaron can pull SAIC Aaron Hotchner around himself and burst in, demanding Gabriel sit down as he ensures Spencer is safe, Spencer has eeled back out of his chair and is facing Gabriel. He stands just out of arm's reach and lifts his chin as Gabriel stops, panting and frustrated.
"Spencer, you're still beautiful," Gabriel says, and Aaron would have thought he imagined the faint shudder that traveled up Spencer's back, if not for long association and years of experience as one of the country's most elite behavior analysts. "I know you never thought so, but you are-"
"You told J.J. you would talk to me. I'm here. Did you have anything to say, or-"
Gabriel falls back into his chair with a huff. Something glints in his eye, not laughter. "I didn't do it. But I think-but I know who did. You want Benjamin Good? Show me, Spencer. Show me what a beautiful boy you are."
There is a pause. "The power dynamic at this juncture indicates-"
"That's my deal. Take it or leave it. Spencer." The last word is a whisper, a caress, obscene.
When there is no immediate response, Aaron realizes he has let this go on for far too long. There is a second, barely perceptible shudder that courses through Spencer's frame; he bows his head. Enough to tell Aaron that pain or memory has blurred things too much. Of the strategy trees cascading through Spencer's mind, he is considering that this-whatever Gabriel wants-may yield the most favorable outcome.
What Garcia has termed Aaron's Glare of Death is almost as substantial a shield as his suit, as sharp as the retort of a gun. He invokes that now, and he turns the doorknob of the interrogation room with movements that are abrupt in their precision.
"Dr. Reid," he says.
Another pause, as though Spencer does not hear.
"Dr. Reid, we need you in the conference room."
Raising his head and turning, Spencer turns a serene visage on Aaron. "Of course, sir.
Aaron holds the door for Spencer to precede him out of the room, and the door closes behind them on Gabriel's laughter.
Spencer raises no protest when Aaron ushers him, not to the conference room, but to a small empty office at the side. Aaron closes this door also. Silence folds around them.
"Have a seat, Dr. Reid."
There is no response. Spencer's attention is fixed on a crack in the wainscoting, and he runs the fingertips of his left hand over his lips while his right arm coils around his waist in a self-hug.
Aaron sighs. "Dr. Reid," he begins again, sitting in one of the chairs beside the desk, "Would you explain the difference between a hebephile and an ephebophile?"
Spencer's eyes flick up. "Oh. Um, hebephilia denotes an individual who feels sexual attraction towards adolescents in early puberty, generally between 10 and 11 for female victims, 11 and 12 for males." More focused now, although he will meet Aaron's eyes for only a few moments at a time. He perches on the edge of the chair next to Aaron's, right knee bouncing.
"They may range in their preferences to adolescents as old as 13 or 14. However, at this point, one needs to distinguish the hebephiliac from the ephebophiliac, who experiences sexual desire targeted at adolescents in late puberty, generally females aged between 14 and 16, and males between 14 and 19."
As the lecture continues, Spencer calms, until his hands still, the remnant of a stutter diminishes. Aaron has mastered these techniques of playing out the tangents of intellect against the abundance of energy. Gideon's technique was endless rounds of chess. If Gideon was an asshole, what does that make me?
Not until the topic has veered from a biography of Oscar Wilde to an analysis of the symbolism in "Ode on a Grecian Urn-" "The point of the poem is that the lovers are immortalized as images on clay, yearning and following one another with an affection eternally reciprocated-"
"Reid," he breaks in, gently. Despite his efforts, there is a sharp click as he lays the album he has been holding beneath his arm all this time out on the desk beside them.
Spencer shifts and glances at the grey cover and the violet cracked silk of the ribbon across the front.
Were it not for the reactions of Rossi and Prentiss earlier, Aaron might have doubted his memory. If this meant anything at all surely there would have been more expression than-
Abruptly the color drains from Spencer's lips, and his nostrils flare, and his head dips forward slightly.
"Reid, Reid," but there is a hand, balanced in the air between them, and after what he has seen the last thing Aaron will ever do is touch Spencer without permission.
They are silent while Reid breathes, and flexes the fingers of his left hand, and regains a little of the color in his face.
When he has recovered himself, somewhat, Spencer reaches out and flips back the album cover. The images captured here, Aaron cannot help but note with a pang, are very different from the "fair Attic shapes" of Keats' Ode.
"Did you know," Spencer breaks the silence at last, and his voice has the brittle edge that Aaron heard first after Georgia, "That 62% of individuals engaged in prostitution report being raped?"
"You should have told me this case would be a problem for you before we flew out here," Aaron begins. "We could have had you stay in Quantico with Garcia-"
A sharp glare makes him stop; when Spencer speaks, though, his voice is quiet. "I never told him, No," and Aaron chokes.
"Could you?"
"It was a transaction." Spencer takes a breath. "I was over the age of consent, you know. But it wasn't even, really, about sex. He got something he wanted, I got the income for another semester of my chemistry program and three months' mortgage for my mom."
There is something Aaron is supposed to say, here, but SAIC Aaron Hotchner envelopes him in bureaucracy. "We can have you fly back commercial and join you when we-"
"Aaron," and the brittle edge is more pronounced. "I can contribute on this case. I didn't know about that," a long finger angles to the grey album, "But that is a variable in the profile that we now have sufficient data to account for. Gabriel may still talk to me, and the geographic profile will be better here and now rather than through a Web camera tomorrow morning.
"I told you these things," Spencer continues, his eyes a challenge, "Because, Aaron, I thought you needed to know."
And it is true, Aaron had given him ample opportunity to conceal what he could, and there were more chances Spencer could have taken on his own.
Spencer runs fingers that scarcely tremble through his hair. His exhale shakes. "Do the others know?"
"Rossi and Prentiss found this. They've probably told the others."
"Okay." He nods to himself, stands, stops. "Okay."
The fear that Spencer will say, I'm fine, if Aaron asks keeps him silent.
"We'll talk more when we get back," Spencer says as he moves to the door, and for a moment the memory of pizza and Tesla is resurrected between them.
"Yes," Aaron agrees, and the moment is gone.
This time Aaron is left behind the closed door. He is left alone with the grey album that seems the manifestation of every human ill laid out beside him.
This is the only image where the boy is not bound. He looks impossibly young. It is the last of the images, and the suffering of all the previous pages is writ on his flesh in raw and weeping letters.
Above the spot where he is crumpled to a concrete floor, heavy manacles dangle at a height that would have kept him stretched and precarious. Lacerations and welts writhe around the portion of back and flank visible, littering across the concave dip of his lower abdomen and mixed with streaks of ejaculate. The right side of his face is pressed to the ground. Around his eyes, there is, as of yet, no faint tracery of smile lines to inform the watcher of his character. And from both corners of his mouth, creases run where a gag has been removed.
The boy's eyes are closed. He looks as though he will never open them again.
Aaron rubs a hand across his own eyes, unsurprised to find that he is weeping.
