a/n: Just a reminder that this is the sixth fic in a series. If you haven't read Endgame, Reckoning, or History, you might wanna check out at least 1 of them. Endgame establishes Elliot's pre-FBI career, while History delves more deeply into it. Reckoning has kidnapped Reid, and I KNOW y'all are into that shit.

Shorter chapter today, loves, because it was either this or one about twice as long, and I gotta make y'all wait a little bit.

crazy skies all wild above me now
winter howling at my face
and everything i held so dear
disappeared without a trace
David Gray, "Sail Away"

They did manage to patch together the basics of a profile: male, race unknown, healthy and physically fit. Probably mid-twenties to late-thirties, but age was notoriously hard to profile. He probably had difficulty holding down steady work, especially in the last eighteen months since the abductions started. He was charming, good-looking. The type of man who could easily attract women. He was obsessive in nearly every area of his life: obsessively neat, obsessively on time, but most of all, obsessive in relationships.

The latter, especially with women, were a constant problem for him. He might've had a high school girlfriend, nothing super serious, but since then, despite his looks and his easy charm, he never maintained a relationship for very long.

It was why he kidnapped them. To keep them. The killing was secondary, a necessary countermeasure because they'd seen his face and could ID him.
He seemed to have some connection to law enforcement, but how much was unknown. Maybe he was a frequent flyer. Maybe a former cop. Maybe just a groupie obsessed with cops who never made the cut.

"A relative of a cop," Prentiss suggested. "A sibling or even a child, someone in a position to look up to the police officer in his life."

"Good call," Hotch said. JJ made a note of it on the board. "We should think about running checks on everyone here. Quietly. Have Garcia do it."

Morgan cocked a brow. "You don't think the new Sheriff Willett runs a clean department?"

"I think he tries," said Hotch, "but I also know old habits are hard to break, and nearly anyone can succumb to temptation."

"He doesn't hate women," Jackson said. This talk of a cop's relative made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn't quite place. A nebulous feeling of dread that pulled some string in the back of her mind. "He just—doesn't care. They aren't real to him."

"Like dolls," Rossi said. "He wants one, but as an object to covet, not a person to truly bond with."

"Is that why he froze them?" JJ said, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

"I don't think we're looking at quite that level of fetishization," Hotch said. "More likely the freezing was expedient, and then at some point his freezer got full, so he had to move them."

Morgan flipped through a couple of the files stacked on the table. "According the ME's report the women didn't show any antemortem injuries consistent with beating or torture. They weren't emaciated. He took care of them before he killed them."

"Not a sadist," Rossi said. "Tracks with what Jack said about not hating women."

Hotch tapped a pile of papers into a neat stack. "It seems we have more than we thought we did. Combine this with the Red Rooster Inn connection, and I feel like we're closer to Monica Dupré than ever. Anything in those coroner reports about DNA or physical evidence, Morgan?"

"No. They've run tests on tissue samples and found traces of bleach. Seems like they were bathed in it at some point, probably after death, because there's no burning evident around their mouths or nostrils from breathing in the fumes."

"More forensic countermeasures," said Prentiss. "This guy knows his shit."

"Everything they do to confuse us just tells us more about them," Rossi reminded her. "He thinks he's being tricky, but he's just drawing us closer."

"To finding him," Reid said. "But juries hate circumstantial evidence."

"Let's worry about what juries like and dislike after we arrest him," Hotch said. "In the meantime let's get this info to the deputies—minus the part about law enforcement—and break for the night. It's late, and we've all had a long day."

They presented what they had to Sheriff Willett and his deputies, and he instructed them to start pulling sheets on anyone who sounded good. He'd already sent Mendoza home for the night, since he'd come in so early that morning, and as Jackson was packing her things her phone binged.

- Dinner?

She lifted a brow. Everyone she knew was in this room, except Mendoza. - Deputy? she typed.

- I'm off-duty

- Fine. Gabriel. How did you get this number?

- Y'all gave us all your cards, remember? Your cell number is on it

Oh. Of course. - Right. I forgot

- Is that a no to dinner, then?

- No, it's not a no.

- A yes?

She snorted. Reid gave her a curious look and she flashed him a quick smile. - Yes, it's a yes, where can I meet you?

- I'm right outside. Come on out

She caught her lip between her teeth and glanced around. No one was really paying attention to her, but they would notice if she got into a strange car. - Go down a block. I'll find you

- This's some spy shit Doc

- You have no idea, Deputy.

She tucked her phone away and sidled closer to Reid. "Hey, can you cover me?"

"Cover you?" he said, face scrunching. "For what?"

"Just—if anyone asks, tell them—I don't know. I had a headache and went back to lie down. Okay?"

"Jack…what's going on?"

"Nothing big, I promise. I just…don't want everyone in my business."

He struggled with it a moment, but then he nodded. "Yeah, I get that. Don't worry, I've got you."

"Thanks, boy genius," she said with a soft smile. "You're the best." She tugged her coat on over her plaid flannel shirt—the same thing she'd worn out to the swamp, but luckily she didn't smell like it—and grabbed her things before hurrying out the door.

Hotch glanced after her, a frown tightening his lean face. "Reid? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, she just"—he lowered his voice and leaned in—"she was getting overwhelmed. Needed some quiet time. She said she was going back to her room to lie down."

Hotch wondered why she hadn't just come to him with that. He'd thought after their conversation outside the elevator the other morning she would have. He gave a brief sigh and nodded. "Let me know if she needs anything," he said, and walked away.

They went to a Cajun place that she didn't even realize was a restaurant at first. It was little more than a weathered shack propped up on stilts out over the bayou. But when they got out of the car she heard the zydeco band inside and saw the spill of people out on the expansive deck and the smell of spicy, delicious food rose over the earthy scent of swamp.

Inside nearly everyone knew him. They greeted him by name, title, or a variety of colorful nicknames that had him cutting her embarrassed looks over his shoulder. She made a zipping motion across her lips and mouthed our secret. He grinned, the full, big one she'd seen maybe only once, and it left her a little dizzy.

He was disappointed at first to find out about her vegetarianism, but he rallied when she explained her shellfish exception. Their table soon filled with plate after plate of oysters, red beans and rice, shrimp roasted in spicy sauce served over fried corn cakes, and some of the best fried okra she'd ever had.
They ate and laughed and talked about anything but the case. He told her about growing up on the bayou and she explained some of what Paris Guerin had meant with that talk about her family.

"My mama was sick of it," she said, shouting to be heard over the raucous music. "She was sick of bein' that Aguillard girl, so she went to Ole Miss and met my daddy and that was that."

"Witchy girl," he said. He leaned in, his eyes intent on her face. "Hoo ya, I can see it. You got dem witchy eyes."

They were both drinking, though not much since he had to drive and they had an early morning tomorrow, but the atmosphere and the food and the music all combined to thicken both their accents so that she didn't sound much different than a local, and he sounded only a few degrees away from Paris Guerin.

The night deepened and the crowd thinned a bit. The noise level dropped. So did the lights. The zydeco band put away their instruments and a blues band replaced them. The singer had a deep, lustrous voice and the lead guitar put Robert Johnson on his heels.

At some point Mendoza had switched seats to the one next to her so that they didn't have to shout. Now, as he watched her watching the band, he leaned in to murmur in her ear, "They say he sold his soul at the crossroads, he."

She shivered at the feel of his breath on her skin. "Him, or Robert Johnson?"

He laughed. "Both. In the gran' tradition of the man he self." He grabbed her hand. "Let's dance."

There'd been dancing all night, and it continued now, but she'd been dodging the subject every time he brought it up. Dancing was closeness. It was intimacy. She wasn't sure that was such a good idea.

But she'd had just enough to drink, and the singer's voice was just right, so she nodded and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. A shadowy corner of it, anyway. He folded her in his arms, one palm gentle against the small of her back, their hands twined between them and her fingers on his shoulder.

It was warm and close in the little restaurant, so she'd stripped her flannel shirt off hours ago, and now she was left in a plain white tank top. Paired with jeans and hiking boots, it wasn't exactly a date night outfit—at least not for a date with a guy. But up until now it had felt like a sort of uniform, a shield between them. I didn't dress up for this, I just came from the swamp, take it or leave it. But somehow, now, with her body pressed against his as they swayed to the slow, mournful music, it didn't feel like that at all. She thought maybe she could handle him better if she were dressed up, if her hair were done and she had on makeup and heels and all the proper accoutrements for this moment.

Instead she found herself studying the tattoo that peeked out where the top few buttons of his shirt were undone. The vivid ink against his smooth brown skin was fascinating. She wondered how he tasted there, and then jerked away from that thought like it had burned her.

"Hey," he murmured.

She looked up at him. He smiled, softly. "Awfully tense, Doc. Am I doin' somethin' wrong?"

Her mouth moved in a helpless, answering curve. "No," she said. "Not at all. It's just been—a long time. Since I've danced with someone." She gave a quiet laugh, her forehead dropping to rest on his shoulder a moment. When she looked up at him again her clear eyes were bright. "It's probably not the best time to tell you this, but my last…dance partner…was killed. About six months ago. I've stayed off the dance floor since then."

His forehead creased in sympathy. "I'm sorry, cher. You shoulda told me. Do you wanna sit back down?"

She considered. The song ended. Changed. She knew this one. She met his eyes again and shook her head. "No. I think I'm where I want to be."

"Good," he said, quietly. "I'm where I wanna be, too."

It was a David Gray song, and the singer's Etta James-like voice made the lyrics soar.

Sail away with me, honey…
Take my heart in your hands…

Jackson closed her eyes and let herself relax. She didn't try to read him. Just dropped her guards and absorbed the music and the moment and whatever he might be broadcasting. Her eyes opened and he smiled down at her and his thoughts were exactly what she might expect in this moment: she felt good, she was beautiful, he wanted her. She felt the flare of heat across her cheeks but she didn't look away.

He wanted her, and with any other woman he'd kiss her right now, but something stopped him. Not just who she was, but something else. Something he wasn't broadcasting, something he was trying to bury. She wasn't going to look. This was already too much, far more than he would want her to know. She was invading his privacy but what…?

"You're beautiful, cher," he murmured, "even when you get that worry line between your eyebrows. Or maybe especially then, I hadn't decided."

Sail away with me, what will be will be…
I wanna hold you now, now…

He leaned in closer, his eyes magnetic and the full bow of his lips a drug. The music wrapped around them, a sensuous glide. Her mouth softened and the warm lassitude of desire poured through her like honey. He was beautiful too, someone she could drown in if she weren't careful. Someone who could see into her the way she saw into him. Even without reading his mind his thoughts were written plainly on his face, a pillow book open for her to read and peruse at her pleasure.

Except one chapter, the pages glued shut, and she could see the shadow of it lurking in his eyes.

Abruptly, like a spell breaking, she snapped her guards back into place and as the song wound down she took a step back. "It's late, Gabriel," she said, her voice unsteady. "I should really be getting back."

He let out a quiet sigh. "What happens when you do that?"

Her head tilted. "When I do what?"

"You were here with me. Right here. I felt you. Then it was like some sorta curtain came down and you were gone. Is that something they teach in the FBI?"

"The CIA, actually." She turned away. "We should go," she said over her shoulder. "If I'm hungover tomorrow my boss will kill me."

He followed her to the table, brow furrowed and full mouth twisted into a frown. He'd already paid, so they collected their things and made their way to the door. He said nothing on the walk through the chilly parking lot. Nothing as he unlocked the car and opened her door for her. Nothing as he settled into his seat and buckled his belt. Finally he looked at her, a deep and penetrating appraisal that left her struggling not to squirm.

"There is a whole lot more to you than I'm seein', ain't there?"

She huffed out a sardonic laugh. "You have no idea."

He started the car, and they didn't speak again until he parked just outside the B and B's closed gate. "I had a really good time tonight, Elliot," he said. His accent softened the syllables of her name, made it sound musical, almost delicate. "I really hope you did too."

"I did," she said. She twisted in her seat a bit so that she faced him. "I think we both know we're treading dangerous territory here. If something happens between us, and it compromises the case…"

"If?" he said. "Cher, I don't know how to tell you this, but I think we left if behind 'round about the time I picked you up outta that boat and you didn' smack my face."

It surprised her into a laugh. "I should've," she said. "Then maybe you wouldn't have asked me to dinner."

"Nah, I still woulda. I'm that stubborn kind. A beautiful woman smacks me in the face, I come back for more."

She snorted, and his lips moved in a slow, lazy grin. "Not into that kinda thing in the bedroom, understand. But standin' in the bayou on a sunny November mornin' it feels kinda like foreplay."

"Then I guess I'm glad I didn't after all," she said.

Her hand rested on the center console between them, and he reached out to trace a pattern along the back of it. He dragged his finger up the line of her wrist, then his palm along her arm, to her shoulder, until he cupped her neck in his big hand. He searched her face with his mismatched eyes and when he leaned in she found herself drifting toward him.

He smelled good, spicy and earthy and a tiny bit boozy. His nose brushed her cheek. Her nose. She tilted her head and his mouth slotted against hers and her fingers came up to curl into his shirt and for a moment she was overwhelmed with the soft, gentle heat of his lips and his breath. The taste of him, the electric, heady buzz of being thoroughly kissed by someone patient and intense and so goddamn delicious.

Her lips parted and his tongue flicked against hers in a soft tease. She might have lost herself then, might have forgotten all the reasons this was a bad idea and even the fact that they were parked in front of a building with her entire team inside, but the kiss had overwhelmed her guards and from his head a warning flashed, so quick she almost missed it. But then it came again: stop can't stop must stop if she finds out WHEN she finds out—!

She jerked away, head spinning, and pressed a hand to his chest to prevent him from following. "Wait," she said. She rubbed the back of her hand across her swollen, tingling lips. "Wait, Gabriel, this is—"

"I know," he said. He looked just as kiss-drunk as she felt: flushed, mussed, pupils blown. "I know." He swallowed hard and sat back. A silence fell between them. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" she said. "Kissing me? I think that took both of us."

His brow furrowed and he tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. When he looked at her again something in his face spoke of the warning she'd heard in his head. The feeling she'd had earlier, at the station, crowded around her again. The cloud of dread. The distant chime of alarm in the back of her mind.

"I should—" She swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat and tried again. "I should go in. Get some sleep."

"Yeah, he said. He sounded weary, worn out and somehow lost. "Yeah, Doc, that's probably a good idea."

She opened the door. Hesitated halfway out and cast him a long, probing look. She wanted to ask him about what she'd seen, about the worries that overwhelmed her, but she knew she couldn't. It was late and he'd just kissed the hell out of her and the pulse that pounded in her belly wasn't entirely from need. It was also fear.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said. "Drive carefully." She shut the car door behind her and typed in the code for the gate. Slipped between the bars and hurried up the driveway, and at the porch steps she heard him drive away. She used her key on the heavy front door and tiptoed to her room. Stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and went straight for the shower.

He had a brother. A younger brother. The oldest had died and he took care of the family and watched out for his little brother. Mateo.

She can't find out about Mateo.

She scrubbed her face with both hands. Washed her hair three times. She didn't want it, didn't want to see, didn't want to know. "Out," she breathed into the steam, "get the fuck out. I never asked for this. I don't want it!"

But of course it was useless. She'd been born with her ability, born with her witch-woman Aguillard blood, and no amount of scrubbing would rid her of it.

She can't find out about Mateo.

She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. Extra lotion on her skin because of all the stupid scrubbing. She studied her reflection in the mirror a long time and wondered how she was going to tell Hotch about this. Imagined the disappointment on his face, the hard gleam in his dark eyes.

What did she have to tell him, anyway? Hey, Hotch, Deputy Mendoza has a brother. Just thought you should know.

As if Garcia didn't know that already. As if that information weren't sitting on their PDAs right now, more than likely. What had she really seen in his head?

Nothing. Nothing that mattered to the case. There were any number of things he might not want her to know about his brother. Maybe he had a record. Maybe he was a diehard MSU fan. Surely he was an LSU fan.

She gave a disgusted snort and wandered back to the bedroom to find something to sleep in. Sure. Rival sports teams. That was the issue.

Telling Hotch now wouldn't help anyone. She had to find out more. Mateo Mendoza might be a suspect, or he might just be someone Gabriel worked his ass off to protect from anyone, especially mysterious witch women with a badge, a gun, and too many .

She braided her hair and tucked herself in bed, but it was a long, long time before sleep came, and her morning alarm came much too soon.

dun dun DUN!