Tears stung at the back of my eyes, they burned in contrast to the cool air, but it was nothing comparable to the pain I was about to feel in my heart. "Hotch?"

"Reid. Are you okay," he implored, his eyebrows knit together in concern despite the fact I didn't deserve any of it. All I could do was stare before eventually giving the smallest shake of my head as negation.

"I need to tell you something."

1996

I laid my head against his chest as he lit a cigarette, partially burying my head in the crook of his neck because of the smell of smoke but mostly because I loved the scent of Irish Springs soap mixed with sweat. It smelt like him, something about it was so undeniably his that even years later anytime I came in contact with the scent I couldn't help but be assaulted by memories of him.

The smoke didn't bother me all that much. Nothing really did. Plus, within a minute I'd probably get up and grab the pack of the nightstand and take his cigarette and push the tips together like our lips had a thousand times and then shove the newly lit cigarette back between my lips and return his to him.

"You're too young to smoke," he'd say with a fake stern expression.

"Oh please," I'd chuckle before tucking my hair behind my ear, mimicking the pretty brunettes he'd sometimes lay his eyes on when he momentarily forgot I was his, or at least that I was his boyfriend, because he'd never forget I belonged to him. "I'm also too young for you, but you don't seem to give a damn about that."

"Smoke all you want," he said before tossing the pack at me, which I caught despite initially fumbling.

1996

The silence was like a dagger to the ribs, as ironic as it sounds. My lips were drawn tight as I sat silently in the hard plastic chair of the hospital room, the harsh scent of sanitary products and the shiny floor reminding me of where my mom would inevitably end up.

"Spencer," he said quietly. "You won't leave?"

I felt trapped. I was a good person and good people didn't leave people in a time of need, in a time of tragedy. But my heart hurt, and it was worse with him there, his presence forcing my cheeks to turn red in embarrassment. I knew I wasn't good enough, but he told me he loved me and I blindly believed it.

My mom told me we accept the love we think we deserve.

"Of course not."

2009

He told me we were fated to meet, that the stars aligned just right, that we almost missed each other but somehow we ended up together like perfect puzzle pieces. After all, to him I was an enigma, his picture perfect love that he never thought he'd have. Everything about me astounded him he said.

I read Romeo and Juliet once. I don't think they were truly in love.

Maybe we were fate, but fate doesn't equate to a positive outcome.

1994

When we first met, I thought he hated me because I was his competition. He saw me as an enemy. But I wasn't the enemy here, and I wasn't a danger to him. He was a danger to me.

2009

"Don't make me kill you." The gun brushed a piece of hair out of my eyes, and for a minute I thought of our first kiss, when he did just that but with gentle hands.

I swallowed. "I'm not scared."

"If you tell them, I'll kill the boy."

"You will anyway."

"I promise you, I won't. Just keep quiet."

He never broke promises. Even now, he never broke a promise. I wonder if it was chance or a byproduct of my compliance, but I'll never know.

1998

When I found out, when it shattered through the haze of love, it was like a hand in a mitten. It fit perfectly, but was hidden.

For a moment, I was calm. It didn't cross my mind to be scared, or worried, or to feel stupid for not realizing sooner. It felt like nothing. But the minute I saw him, anger burned at the surface and splintered into every emotion possible.

I should have told the police. I didn't.

1998

His nature outweighed his threat. It was just my life, just my mom's life. She's brave, she would want me to do the right thing. But I wanted my cake and to eat it too.

I'm a gambling man. "Stop, and I won't say a thing."

"No."

"What will it take? I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes."

"Marry me."

I said yes, for all the right reasons. But here's the thing...some part of me said yes for the wrong reasons. And that part? It scares me ten times more than he ever could.

1998

I smiled on our wedding day.

2007

As much as he considered me an enigma, I would never size up to how bewildering he was. It wasn't the fact he married me; I know he didn't love me, that he was just obsessed, that I was just his fixation. Frank and Jane were him and I, and I knew it plain as day.

But the fact that he chose me over what should have been his more important obsession, that confused me.

The fact he stopped because I said so, that confused me.

The fact he could even marry me at all, that he could have any sort of close relationship, that confused me.

1995

I knew from the beginning it'd end in hell fire. I knew he was predatory, but I loved attention just like every teen boy who had gone his life feeling unloved did. I convinced myself, 'hey, at least it's me and not someone who doesn't want it.' But I knew. I knew it was wrong.

I never cared. It gave me a rush, a thrill. So what if when I was older, and had the life I planned for myself that didn't involve him, if he ended up in jail or with his career ruined because I decided to fight fire with fire, to advance on him. After all, he held the power as the adult. There was nothing manipulative about the way I used his attraction and threw it back in his face.

Maybe my life was fated to end in Satan's cage instead of hellfire.

1995

"I'll be a doctor."

"You already are," he chuckled.

"You know what I mean. I'll research schizophrenia. Maybe I'll save people."

2001

"The FBI? Seriously?"

"Mmhmm," I mumbled.

"Wow. That's bold, if I do say so myself. I mean, considering everything." I narrowed my eyes at him. We never spoke about what he did, and that moment was certainly not the time. "At least you can save people."

2009

My heart stopped when we were briefed. I thought it'd work out in my favor, but then again: in a deal with the devil, you always get burnt.

1998

On my eighteenth birthday I got married. I couldn't do it in the legal sense, but I was married in every other sense. I committed myself to a man, a man who did despicable things, and I knew that.

On my eighteenth birthday I got married. And I smiled.

I don't know who I hate more, George Foyet or myself.

"I'm sorry." My voice finally cracked and all I could do was look down and escape Hotch's eyes on mine.

A/N: Okay so this was a little different but I really liked writing in this style, it actually reminds me of the first story I published here so it was a nice little reminder. Hope y'all liked it! xoxo walkthepathofdaydreams.

EDIT: After a recent comment, I've realized I left my ending too ambiguous. Just to clear things up: A) This is NOT meant to be seen as romantic in any way, it's simply that Spencer has been manipulated to feel that way. B) THE BOYFRIEND IS NOT HOTCH. IT'S FOYET. I'm so sorry my story was so vague and it caused this misunderstanding.