For readers of Watcher, don't ask why I'm starting a new story. Let's just attribute it to the "Story-Hopping Syndrome." I promise I'm working on it (but I won't promise when the update is coming *twitch*)!

For new readers... Hello to you all! =D

This story is AU, and I don't believe it will have any pairings. I haven't really planned anything out, but since Criminal Minds is taking over my mind (and my TV), I really really wanted to write something for it.

As always, I don't own Criminal Minds. I'm not too sure who does (Mark Gordon?) but whoever it is... You are a wonderful person, but man you have a love for the gruesome =P

Chapter 1

"Spencer? Where are my notes?"

"They're on the table by your chair, Mom."

"When will the ride be coming? It's already five minutes late."

"I'm sure that they'll come before too long. Just be patient."

"Stupid fascists. They're always making us run by their unreasonable, exacting schedules…"

"Mom, they're not fascists. I'm sure it's just a … a traffic jam or maybe construction work. They'll be here any minute now."

"Mm…"

A perfectly normal conversation in a perfectly ordinary house.

Except for the fact that there was no lecture. There was no car coming to pick them up. And within another five minutes, his mother, who was currently meticulously writing her "lecture plans" in her notebook, would forget all about the conversation and begin asking him when lunch was going to be served.

And then this would be repeated day after day, week after week, and, as he knew from all his personal research about the illness, year after year for the rest of her life.

It wasn't actually these things that bothered him. He considered these her "good days." No, what unsettled him were those days when she didn't recognize her own son despite the fact that he spent almost ten hours at a time, everyday, standing in the same room as her, talking directly to her in an intelligent conversation (despite the fact that the topic of their talks were usually fantastical). Or perhaps the worst were the days when she would believe the world, including him, was out to get her. Exactly what "get" entailed, he didn't know and she was too busy screaming protests against capture to tell him, but sufficit to say it was extremely difficult convincing his neighbors that his mother had a sensitive temperatment and was easily scared.

Let it never be said that he was a good liar, but it was enough, thank God.

Seeing that she was once more immersed in writing, he removed his hand from her shoulder and set the cup of tea he had brewed where he had said the notes had been. He checked to make sure that the windows were indeed closed and that the stove with off before he left the house.

Dr. Spencer Reid, age 24. He was considered a genius, having earned three Ph.D's, two B.A's and was working on a third. He had an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187, and he could read 20,000 words per minute

In short, he could have gotten any job he wanted in the world – the only areas of expertise he didn't have seemed to be with computers and languages, both of which were better learned emperically than theoretically – but lawyer? Professor? Scientist? Heck, he probably could have been a medical doctor if he wanted to apply himself into the area of the sciences. However, he didn't hold any of those occupations.

Spencer wasn't quite sure what to classify his current job status as. He worked on papers in his spare time, and while they certainly did help justify his various academic credentials, they did little in the way of providing income. He also gave a few talks at the colleges he had attended, both when he was a teenager and after. His former professors often remembered him as the enthusiastic boy who sat in the front row and had to practically be reined in so that others in the class would even have a chance to open their mouth. Luckily, he imparted his knowledge just as readily as a temporary TA or a guest lecturer.

Mostly, though, he worked a part-time job anywhere he could find to earn some meager cash to try and staunch the bleeding from the little nest egg his father had left them before he had left.

To say that Spencer wanted to use that money was a gross mistake, but he had decided long ago to swallow his pride and allow his father to provide for most of the necessary finances to support them. After all, it wasn't like the man was poor. He was the head of his own company. And with this arrangement, the son could stay with his mother without leaving her for long periods of time to try and sustain both of them.

But for all that he helped financially, he was never there physically for them. As a result, Spencer preferred to use his own hard-earned cash for personal expenses. (What? Grudge? What ever are you talking about?)

"H-hello. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"That item is … ah … I think down in aisle 5. I can lead you there, if you want."

"Are you sure you don't need any help with that? The basket… It's tilting to one side."

"That will be $5.26, please."

When it came down to it, he liked the human interaction. It was a menial job, one that could be done by anyone, but he liked talking to the people and generally being friendly even though he was about as socially savvy as a hippopotamus wearing polka dot pants. Sometimes he accidentally insulted a little old man by offering to carry his purchases for him; hurting the pride and all that. And sometimes he met someone that just made him so nervous he kept stuttering over words (a bad habit of his he had once tried to stop); but overall, people responded favorably to him. His manager had said that there was this "charm" to him – actually, the exact words were "puppy dog eyes" – that made others appreciate his earnestness.

Today's shift was only three hours. It was actually originally his day off, but one of the girls had decided to go off on an impromptu vacation and the store was short on personnel, so he had volunteered for the slot. A bit of extra cash couldn't hurt, and he was starting to get restless staying cooped up for so long.

The day ended without much fanfare. The people were nice, and other than one man who looked like he could snap Spencer's neck with his bare hands, the day was generally unexciting in a peaceful sort of way. It was his favorite kind of day.

He was in a good mood on his way back home, which was why it was all the much worse when he opened the door and found the living room in a mess.

Papers were strewn all over the floor in a white carpet, and his mother's precious notebook was lying haphazardly on the floor. A few pieces of broken glass were on the floor, but thankfully there was no blood. She hadn't accidentally injured herself in her fit. The windows were still closed, but the curtains were shut and the lights were off, covering the room in darkness. Other than the sound of his own breathing, he couldn't hear anything, which was a good thing. There were no neighbors barging in when he wasn't here to explain just what had happened.

He refrained from sighing at the sight – half from exasperation, half from relief – instead immediately heading upstairs to where he knew his mother would be curled up at the headboard of the cushy queen bed in her room. This wasn't the first time this had happened, and this certainly wouldn't be the last, but each time he felt his heart pound at the possibilities of the "what if"s. What if someone had heard her? What if she suddenly burst out the doors and ran down the streets, despite the fact that he locked the door from the outside? What if the mailman came, needing a signature?

He went to the bathroom and grabbed the necessary medication and a glass of water. He would clean up the mess downstairs later. He had originally wanted to read a few more chapters in the hefty criminal behavioral analysis book he had recently purchased and then write a few more pages in that philosophy dissertation of his with the news in the background. Law was more an interest to him rather than an aspiration for him now anyways, but he still tried to keep up with current events.

Admittedly, despite the gruesome and harrowing nature of the cases, he liked reading about those handled by the FBI the most. It actually got to the point where he knew most of the FBI's behaviorial analysis team by name (On that specific day he had decided to look up their names, tired of having nothing to call the faces that constantly appeared on TV, he had to repeatedly tell himself that, no, he was not acting stalkerish). He admired the way they practically appeared all the knowledge they knew to catch these criminals, to help others. He had even thought about applying once.

But, when he was filling out the form, he realized just what would change in his life if he went through with it, and now it looked like the opportunity would never come again.

He shook himself from this contemplation of the past – there was no point in thinking about spilt milk – and opened the door with a ready smile on his face.

"Hello, Mother. It's OK. There's no one here that'll hurt you. You know I'll never let them get near you, right? Come on, here's your medicine…"

It was a normal day for Spencer Reid, the local prodigy bound to his hometown of Las Vegas.

Please review! I love comments, good and bad, long and short =) (I think all authors do, but some just don't say it out. I do! =D )