Note: This was co-authored with the amazingly awesome terriblycontrite!

Chapter 23

Magnanimous

What Spencer thought would be humiliating, turned out to be more indicative of just how committed Hotch was to caring for him. Without asking for an explanation he lifted Spencer from the bed and brought him to the bathroom to clean up, while he went to retrieve new sweats. Dressing Spencer with a gentle touch, he led him back to the darkened room tucking them into his own bed together.

"Your sheets are sweaty. Housekeeping can change them tomorrow." Hotch whispered by way of explanation.

Under the clean blankets, close enough to Hotch to feel the heat from his body, Spencer can't think of a time he felt this safe. The closest he'd ever come was when his mom would let him crawl into her bed, while she read aloud from Faust and Dickens, letting him tuck himself up next to her to soak up her warmth. She would pat his back absently, or brush a soft kiss over his crown, barely pausing as she rambled out the familiar words of books they had read dozens of times before. It was the only bit of acceptance he could count on from her, and it meant the world to a lonely, awkward, little boy who needed his mom to be something she wasn't...but maybe it didnt mean as much as Hotch's firm grip when he reaches out to pull Spencer tight to his chest, wrapping a protective arm around him to keep him close.

"It's nice to hold someone again. Been a long time." Hotch says softly, jostling Spencer lightly, careful not to dislodge him from where he now lays on his chest. "It feels right."

Spencer breathes in, the closeness as welcome as it was unexpected.

"That's because the physical touch is increasing production of serotonin and dopamine in your brain, which are both neurotransmitters known to relieve stress, and promote relaxation." He supplies the information in a matter of fact tone. "You are understandably worried about the case, and probably having trouble sleeping, and having me close is stimulating your brains pleasure center. Just the repetitive motion of stroking my back is reducing your anxiety, and just 20 seconds is enough to trigger the release of oxytocin, which is the hormone associated with feelings of contentment and connection to another human being, and that counter acts the affect of cortisol that was likely-" Spencer is cut short by Hotch pulling him closer still, giving an easy, appreciative laugh. Hotch doesn't take it personally, but he does wonder if Spencer realizes how neatly he just reduced their blossoming relationship to science and chemical reactions.

"What about you? Are you experiencing the same rush of hormones?" Hotch asks, rubbing a thumb over Spencer's cheek, smiling fondly down at him.

The comment isn't meant to touch a nerve, but Spencer has never had a chance to form a secure attachment to anyone, so it does. His mothers mental illness rendered her unpredictable, and his father abandoned him to face it alone. His high IQ meant he understood his mother's limitations, but his inexperience told him it was his fault. If he could be easier, smarter, better then he would be loved…the mantra of the insecure…so, while yes, he experiences the rush, it is tainted by anxiety.

"Yes…" Spencer responds, fingers plucking at the front of Hotch's t-shirt. "I used to love climbing into bed with my mom. If she was distracted with her books, she would put her arm around me and read aloud. It felt…safe. Like this."

Hotch swears he can feel his heart break, imagining Spencer as a little boy, so clever he could label his mothers shortcomings in psychological terms. Most kids would curl up and cry out their loneliness, but Spencer was afflicted with a mind that understood what his emotions couldn't process, driving him to search for a solution. The confusion must have been stressful, and his aversion to touch a result of his enduring fear of rejection. Hotch shifts the younger man, fitting him more tightly to his side, unable to resist kissing the top of his head, veritably vibrating with the desire to fix every hurt Spencer had ever been forced to endure.

"Spencer…" Hotch starts, trying to put his feelings into words. "You know I-"

"Aaron, you don't have to," Spencer objects, turning his face further into Hotch's chest. "I'm in pain and vulnerable and that's bringing out your protective instincts. It's another affect of oxytocin. It's fuels the instinct animals have to care for their young, and the strong in general, to shelter the weak. I get it, I have a degree in psychology."

Hotch has to contain his hurt at having his feelings so neatly packaged and diminished. No matter how practical Hotch is, or how in control he seems, he believes in love; in something bigger than a release of hormones telling your body to hug someone.

Hotch sighs deeply. "Spencer, when you cut me off did you think I was about to explain how undependable I am?"

Spencer stiffens, but Hotch refuses to let him pull away. Instead he moves the hand that had been rubbing Spencer's back, up to his hair, pulling his fingers through its soft length, pausing to ease out the tangles. He doesn't do it with a purpose, just let's himself enjoy the feeling. He's rewarded when Spencer moans softly, his fingers stilling where they had been worrying at Hotch's shirt.

"I am going to earn your trust, Spencer Reid. Whatever it takes." Hotch whispers tenderly to the top of Spencer's head, where it's become nestled under his chin. "What I was going to say, before I was interrupted, is that I know I'm not good at expressing my feelings, and I'm sorry if I confuse you…but I want you to know that losing you isn't something I could live through."

Spencer's eyelids start to droop, the gentle tugging at his hair relaxing his body, even as his overactive mind processes Hotch's short speech; and maybe it's because he's tired that he misses Hotch's point. "You won't lose me." He murmurs, not pausing to think about Hotch's marriage, and how much it hurt him when Hayley left; or how her murder nearly broke him.

"I might," Hotch exhales ruefully. "And it terrifies me."

With a minute shake of his head, Spencer disagrees. "Impossible."

Hotch lets it go, opting to hold onto the moment, alternating between rubbing Spencer's back, and smoothing his wild mop of hair. Life is full of risks, and up until now Hotch hasn't come across more than a few he wouldn't take on, but there was a lot to be considered with this one; the compromising of their professional relationship, the sacrificing of their current dynamic, and the Amelia Porter case that could taunt them for a lifetime.

Settling further back against the headboard, Hotch realizes from the deep, even, sound of his breathing, that Spencer has fallen asleep, and decides to do the same.

Hotch startles awake at the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand, the irritating noise impossible to ignore no matter how groggy and fresh from sleep he is. Disoriented and not fully awake, he reaches for it, catching it deftly when he almost knocks it on the floor.

"Agent Hotchner," he answers, even as he works to gently extricate himself from Spencer, who has curled around him in his sleep. Hotch knows he will have to wake him soon when he hears the Sheriffs voice on the line, but Spencer is far from healed and Hotch would rather not startle him.

"Where?" Green's van has been located, and the sheriff is asking them to go take a look. Spencer's eyes open slowly as Hotch manages to slide out from under him, and he watches Hotch stumble to the desk to grab a pen and paper. With a glance over his shoulder he asks into the phone, "While I have you, I need to ask if you could lend us some men."

Hotch moves to the bathroom to give the Sherriff the rest of the details, before dressing quickly and returning to the room. It's just after 8, and they have a new lead to investigate, so there won't be anymore sleep for them today.

Spencer is where Hotch left him in the bed, and Hotch hates how wrung out he looks even after a decent amount of sleep. The persistent pain, the nightmares, and preoccupation are draining them both, but for now they will have to persevere. Spencer won't want to miss searching Green's van, even if Hotch were willing to leave him alone in the room.

"What did he say?" Spencer asks as he observes Hotch, who is rooting through their bags.

"A van was found at a storage facility in Sandy. Plate matches Professor Green's." Hotch tosses pants, shirt, sweater and socks onto the bed at Spencer's feet. "The Sherriff thought we might want to take a look. It's about 20 minutes from here."

"And the Jordan River Trail? Are they going to patrol it? I would like to brief them first." Spencer struggles to sit up, wincing, but waving Hotch's helpful hands away.

"We can talk about it in the car. I'd like to see this van." Hotch puts him off firmly, glad for the distraction of his phone ringing again.

"It's Garcia." He says, picking it up he motions for Spencer to start getting dressed while he takes the call.

Sandy Self Storage turns out to be a somewhat defunct looking facility that had certainly seen better days. That said, it has abundant space where it's located at the very edge of town, bordering a thick stand of trees on one side, and a locally owned trucking company on the other. Inside it's 10 foot high chain link fences, sits a massive drive shed, and what Hotch estimates is around 200 storage lockers, laid out in rows, behind the small building that serves as an office.

They are allowed through the massive entry gate, that grinds and squeaks as it slides on its track, after buzzing the office to announce they're arrival. Checking out the premises Hotch is hard pressed to figure out how the van was abandoned here, unless it was by a renter who had the gate code. Hopefully, Jesse, the employee who called in the stolen van, will be able to clarify.

Hotch exits the SUV, Spencer opting to stay inside for the time being, sullenly watching out the window. The conversation on their way here had been tense after Hotch informed him that the locals weren't keen on policing the Jordan River Trail. He had been intrigued by Garica's information, but it had only provided so much distraction, since it didn't amount to an effective lead yet.

Turning his full attention to Jesse, who is watching him closely from where he stands on the steps up to the office, and who appears to be all of 18 years old, Hotch offers his hand to shake.

"I'm Agent Hotchner with the FBI," he introduces himself, nodding toward the SUV. "And that's my partner, Dr. Reid."

Jesse takes the offered hand with a wary smile. "Jesse Lang. My Uncle owned this place, but he died recently. I've been looking after it since then, while the family sorts out what to do with it."

Hotch takes another look around him. The parking lot is unpaved, the office building is no more than a glorified shack, and the outdoor storage scattered around adds to the derelict appearance of the place. He doesn't note the presence of any security cameras, though he fervently hopes there are some cleverly hidden.

"It was you who found the van then?" Hotch inquires, eyes back on the kid who is studying him critically now.

"Uh yeah," Jesse replies, looking uncomfortable. "I didn't really expect the FBI to show up, though."

"The theft of the van in question, is related to our active investigation. That's why we're here." Hotch explains, giving the kid a reassuring smile.

"Ok," Jesse says dubiously, pushing his floppy hair back out of his face. He points toward the back of the expansive property. "It's all the way at the back. I'll take you to it."

"Can we drive in?" Hotch hesitates, knowing Spencer won't appreciate a long walk on uneven terrain.

Jesse agrees to take his own car and let them follow. There are well laid out gravel paths to drive on, though they are riddled with potholes, and the locker turns out to be backed up against the fence that separates the far edge of the property from the woods beyond. They stop in front of the row of 10 garage sized units, all sporting bright red roll up doors, one door already standing wide open. Hotch gets out first to grab Spencer's cane, then lets him take his time sliding down and out of the vehicle. The patchy ground is a challenge for him, so Hotch stays just ahead of him in case he trips, as they make their way along the line of lockers, to the open door near the far end. Jesse is already out of his car waiting, looking as though he has better things to do.

"What happened to you? You get shot?" He blurts at Spencer obtusely as they join him. "And they make you keep working?"

Spencer grunts in irritation as he sidles up beside Hotch, close enough to lean on him for stability. "No, I did not." He grouches at the kid, then changes the subject back to the matter at hand. "Care to tell us who rents this particular locker?" His eyes are locked on the van, which is fronted in, displaying the personalized rear license plate "GREENRY".

"Someone named George Porter. I looked it up after I found it like this. Thought someone had been here and just forgot to close the door." Jesse supplies. Hotch and Spencer keep any reaction from showing on their faces as they process that. "My Uncle wasn't so hot at keeping records, he was just working on switching to computer so I'm going by what's written in his ledger. Dude rented the locker in 2010, paid yearly, in cash, it looks like."

Both Spencer and Hotch do a double take at the name, which presents a whole lot more questions, and all the more reason to talk to George. Maybe there is more to his relationship with Amelia than he let on to the police years ago.

"This is exactly how you found everything? Did you touch anything?" Spencer asks, his tone haughtier than Hotch thinks is necessary. This kid is just the middleman passing information, he isn't part of their larger investigation, and there is no need to be combative with him.

"No, I didn't touch anything." Jesse retorts, annoyed. "I'm not dumb. I saw the news yesterday and I recognized the plate. It's weird that whoever brought it left the door up like that. If they had closed it, I would have never known it was here. People bring their own locks, and we respect their privacy. We don't know what's inside once the lockers are rented." Jesse comments, and Hotch has to conclude that whoever left it here, intended for the van to be found.

Spencer moves over to take a closer look, while Hotch asks, "Did you ever meet George Porter? Accept payment from him?"

"I didn't, but my Uncle might have. Like I said, whoever he is, he paid cash once a year, so he likely came in person. But it's a self storage, people pay their money, they get the gate code, and they come and go as they please. They don't want to get to know us." Jesse provides in a snarky tone. "I can give you the address and phone number he left, but Amelia Porter is the lady all over the news, right? The one everyone is looking for? Thought that was an odd coincidence, so I didn't try to call him. Figured I would leave that up to the cops."

Hotch appreciates that, because he would like to ask George Porter himself why his storage locker now contains a stolen van, and what it contained before.

"What about security?" Hotch asks. "Camera's?"

"There's a camera on the gate. You can monitor it from the office, but it doesn't record. The fence is in good shape, the units are locked, and I come every morning to check the place out. It's secure enough, and anyway people know what they're getting when they rent here." Jesse crosses his arms defensively.

Perfect, Hotch thinks, at least for Amelia. "So, you don't know what was in the locker before the van was put here, and anyone with the gate code could get in and put the van in the locker unobserved, except for the hour or so you are here every morning?" Hotch sums up earnestly, Jesse grunting a grudging affirmative.

Hotch turns when Spencer calls to him from inside the locker, where he must have found something in the van.

"Thanks Jesse." Hotch tells the youth, dismissing him kindly. "We can take it from here. We will take a quick look, and there's already a tow truck on the way to pick up the van if you could wait around."

Jesse agrees, and promises to meet them at the office on their way out, then heads to his car, leaving Hotch free to join Spencer.

There is no more than enough room in the locker to accommodate the van that has been parked there, left unlocked, and remarkably clean. There is nothing cluttering the floor, the seats in the very back have been folded into the floor to leave a large flat space for cargo, and only 2 bucket seats remain in the middle row. The carpets are meticulously vacuumed, probably shampooed as well, and a brand new air freshener hangs from the rear-view mirror. There is nothing tucked in the visors and the console in front is empty, except for the van's own keys, conveniently left for anyone wanting to drive it. Great care has been taken to leave no evidence of any kind, but Spencer already knows that the local forensics team will process it and find nothing of value.

Huffing a breath, he is disappointed without knowing why. He hadn't known he was expecting anything, but another dead end feels like a loss regardless. He picks up the keys, thinking he will make sure the van starts, so Hotch can back it out into the light for a second look. He's glad he did.

Even in the dim light, the ring in the cup holder sparkles and, interest piqued, Spencer plucks it out, holding it delicately between two fingers, careful not to touch the diamond. His memory supplies the words from Derek's briefing…

Platinum band…princess cut diamond…Tiffany setting…

Jewellery isn't an area of particular interest for Spencer, but he has a talent for picking up facts, statistics, and general knowledge that serves him now. The diamond is high quality, minimum 1.5 carats, the colour and clarity appear flawless, though he would need to check in better light. It is a simple ring, but the cut is excellent, the setting elegant, and it matches Derek's description perfectly.

He calls for Hotch, excited because this has to be the ring; the missing ring from the truck, Amelia's ring, that she kept next to her Father's locket. He searches for an inscription as Hotch slides into the passenger seat beside him.

Hotch glances over his shoulder, taking in the barren interior of the pristine van, then focuses on Spencer who is holding the ring up to his face, squinting at it.

"What's that?"

"Look at it, Hotch!" Spencer finishes scrutinizing, and presses the ring into Hotch's open palm. "It's the ring! It has to be. The one Derek originally found in the truck, the one that vanished with the locket and the safe. And look at the inscription! Look, Hotch!"

Hotch does as he's told, holding the ring up to catch the light from the open door behind them.

CR for SW Always

"CR and SW…" Hotch reads out loud, though Spencer obviously knows what it says already. "Cole Rainville and Sarah Ward? Is that what you're thinking? Ok…well I agree, big coincidence if it's not the same ring from the truck. Where did you find it?"

"Cupholder, under the keys." Spencer tells him, holding out his hand to take the ring back. "That's all I found. The van is cleaner than it has any right to be. I doubt we will find so much as a stray hair in it."

Hotch acknowledges that with a noncommittal noise, opening the glove box, and finding only the registration and insurance information; nothing else, not even an old receipt or some napkins.

"Amelia kept it all this time, then risked going back to her truck to get it," Spencer ponders, turning the ring between his fingers. "Then she just left it here for us to find. What do you think it means, Hotch?"

"Maybe nothing." Hotch shuts the glove box, swiveling in his seat to face Spencer. "Maybe she was in a hurry and left it by mistake."

"I don't think Amelia does anything by mistake." Spencer objects distractedly, never taking his eyes off the ring.

"Don't start thinking like that, Spencer." Hotch warns seriously. "No one is infallible. Everyone make mistakes."

"Cole Rainville said that he proposed and then she ran. It has to be the ring he gave her. She must have cared about him to keep it all this time." Spencer continues, ignoring Hotch's warning.

"She didn't keep it. She left it here." Hotch stonewalls, not nearly as impressed with the find as Spencer.

"You know what I mean." Spencer pursues, frowning as his mind races. "She hung onto it a long time, kept it with her Dad's locket. Why keep it, after you left the man who gave it to you? Unless you still loved him. Maybe she didn't want to leave."

"Money?" Hotch suggests, taking another look around him. There isn't even any dust on the dashboard. He see's what Spencer means; it's too clean. "If it's real, it must be worth something."

"It's real." Spencer insists. "If that were true, why leave it now?"

"I told you, by mistake. We are going in circles here, Spencer."

"What about the inscription?" Spencer asks stubbornly. "Always…Cole Rainville saw something in her that he loved. We need to talk to him, Hotch."

Hotch sighs. He doesn't really want to insist that 'always' is a common inscription, just a pretty sentiment that fits with the limits of engraving. Concise and meaningful. But the truth is, relationships devolve, people grow apart, and 'always' all too often turns into a gross overestimation.

"Sure, at some point, yes. Right now it's more important that we talk to George Porter and find out if he's been keeping better tabs on his cousin than he let on." In his gut Hotch doesn't believe that George Porter knows where Amelia is now, the locals don't believe he does, or that he did back then, after Miriam's death. Still, he may be able to tell them something about her, what motivates her, and where she might go now.

"Of course." Spencer looks up now, eyes boring into Hotch's. "But don't you think there's more to this? If she was in love with Cole Rainville, then she might not be a sociopath, and our profile might be all wrong, Hotch. Sociopaths don't fall in love and keep their lover's ring to remember them by…she wouldn't have emotions that deep, right?"

Spencer is waiting for an answer, and Hotch truly doesn't have one. He could guess, but guesses are dangerous and could potentially add fuel to a fire that Hotch would rather put out. He reaches out to take Spencer's hand.

"Let's ask George Porter. He knew her, maybe he can shed some light on what makes her tick."

Spencer gives a solemn nod, moving to slide carefully out of the van on his side. "We can tell the locals about the ring, but I'm hanging onto it." He shoots back as he does.

George Porter lives in a nice, but simple log home, with a red front door that matches the red steel roof. The house sits on a good sized lot, roughly ten acres, most of it wooded with only a small patch tamed into a yard of sorts. It isn't derelict, but it is carelessly maintained, not entirely unusual for a bachelor living on his own. Spencer and Hotch stand outside taking a moment to process that this is where Amelia grew up, her childhood likely spent playing in the woods that came practically to her doorstep.

There is a beat-up Jeep in the driveway, the kind that people tend to admire no matter the condition, but other than that there are no signs of life. Hotch is vaguely worried that George Porter may have been on Amelia's radar after all, and that family is not off limits.

They climb the steps to door cautiously, Hotch's hand on his gun, the place making him increasingly wary. He feels watched, but it could be his mind trumping up charges against a quaint rural property that's only crime was unwittingly housing a killer in the making. All the same he nudges Spencer, hyper aware that the younger agent is unarmed and using a cane. "Stay close to me." He orders.

Hotch knocks heavily on the door when they reach it, and when it's not immediately answered he shouts, "FBI, open the door. We are here to talk."

A man of average height, and medium build pulls the door open surprisingly quick. He has dark hair and shockingly blue eyes, and the resemblance to the pictures of Amelia is eerie. Hotch feels Spencer stiffen beside him so he knows he must see it too. The man holds his hands in the air letting the door swing wide, and Hotch draws his gun with practiced speed when he realizes the man is armed.

"Don't shoot! I'm putting it down, just don't shoot!" The man, who is without a doubt George, gasps out. "I have a permit, this is my home. I'm not doing anything illegal."

Motioning with his own gun, Hotch gives George the go ahead to set the gun down, safety engaged, on a small table just inside the door.

"Sure," Hotch growls. "Just don't point it at federal agents. I can holster my weapon? You're not going to give us any trouble?"

George Porter shakes his head frantically, but his eyes dart over Hotch's shoulder as he steps aside to allow them in, closing the door with a bang behind them.

The house is cozy inside, furniture old but not badly worn, throw rugs covering large parts of the floor in the living room to their left. In front of them a staircase leads to the second floor, and on their right a huge eat in kitchen is laid out, complete with wood stove that's cold despite the chill outside.

"Come on into the kitchen. I can make coffee." George offers, leaving the gun by the door and waving them after him.

Not entirely at ease, Hotch stays standing while George fusses with the coffee maker. Spencer eyes are traveling over the room with avid interest, Hotch notices, taking in details that will all be committed to memory. The room is cozy despite its large size, painted deep buttery yellow, frilly curtains covering the windows, a frog sponge holder by the sink. It is entirely normal, if a bit outdated, and Hotch bets it hasn't changed since George took over.

"The cops have been here already, twice." George's voice cuts into Hotch's thoughts. "She isn't here. Amelia."

He has turned around and is leaning back against the counter, nervously watching Spencer move around the room exploring.

"Ok." Hotch replies, marveling again at the similarities between the man and his cousin. "We want to hear whatever you can tell us about her."

George sighs, his body language relaxing marginally. "I told the police what I knew back when she killed Miriam."

Hotch scoffs at that. "If you know she killed Miriam, you know more than we do. Is that something she admitted to you?"

George is instantly defensive. "Everyone knows that!" He claims adamantly. "Her and that crazy kid that was always hanging off her."

"Benton Farland?" Spencer clarifies, seating himself at the table, folding his hands on the table. "Is that the crazy kid you mean?"

George turns to gather mugs and sugar to place on the table. "Yes, he was young, but she liked that."

"You said that in your original statement. You didn't say much else, though." Hotch points out, already mistrustful. George's jerky movements, the way he needs to keep his hands busy, and his head down give Hotch the impression he has something to hide.

"Were you and Amelia close?" Spencer interjects, genuine in his curiosity.

"No, not at all really." George shrugs, moving to the fridge for milk. "I was 12 when I came to live with them, and she had just turned 16. Amelia wasn't a friendly person, sometimes she was downright mean, but it was pretty normal, I guess."

"Tell us what you remember about her." Hotch says, joining them at the table when George grabs the coffee pot and sits down across from Spencer.

George gives some real thought to his answer. "Well she was always hanging out with Uncle Gordon. They were real close at first, always out in the woods hiking, hunting, or just camping. I mean it was odd for a teenage girl, but then she wasn't your average girl." He barks a humourless laugh. "A lot of times they'd shoot for fun, you know? She was real good at it, like guns, bows, anything you put in her hands. Scary good. Give her a rifle and she could hit a target at 1,000 yards every single time." George pauses to pour the coffee, offering sugar and cream which Hotch declines and Spencer accepts.

"She never said it, but I don't think she liked me tagging along." George continues recollecting. "Uncle Gord would always include me, and she would give me the coldest looks. She laughed every time I missed a target, and she would say things like, 'better luck next time, Georgie Porgie,' or 'good thing you don't need to shoot to eat, Georgie boy'…I mean, I wasn't good like she was, but I was decent for your average 12 year old."

Spencer nods at that, and Hotch thinks he might be sympathizing, thinking of his own high school experience with the jocks.

"She had friends that dropped in and out, though I don't remember anyone spending a lot of time, except Miriam. They would go camping together on the weekends Uncle Gord was away." George smirks as he passes along his next bit of information. "Rumours went around that the two of them were more than friends, if you know what I mean?" Hotch suppresses an eye roll. "Course no one said it to Amelia's face. She was gorgeous, the boys loved her, and I think the other girls were just jealous."

"You said she was close with her Dad, at first," Spencer reminds George, trying to keep the story moving. "What did you mean?"

"Oh ya. Well, a few months after I moved in, she got real distant. With everyone, but you noticed it most with her Dad. Before that she really adored him, but she was sweet to her mom too. Aunt Claire really was the nicest person." George tells them, clutching his mug tighter. "Then one weekend her Dad went away, which wasn't unusual, he did it a lot, and she disappeared too. That wasn't unusual either, she liked to be alone, loved to be outside, and like I said she would camp alone or with Miriam. But when she came back this time, she was…just different. Colder, harder, meaner. Missed a lot of school. I never saw her friends after that. She didn't hang out with Uncle Gord anymore, wouldn't even answer him when he talked to her. It was just me and him going shooting or fishing then. I know it bugged the hell out of him, but he never said anything out loud."

They all take a minute to sip their coffee and think over what's been said. What had happened to Amelia that weekend…was it the stressor that turned her into a killer? Or just teenage drama? George made it sound like Amelia had never been what you would call 'normal', but did that mean she was mentally ill, or just different?

"Anyhow, things went on like that for awhile. It really hurt Uncle Gord. She would take off and he would just stare after her, looking sad. Then, toward the end of her junior year there was an incident, and shit hit the fan." George says this last part softly, almost as if he's hoping they won't hear, and he won't have to explain.

"An incident?" Hotch repeats.

"Uh, ya, don't know what else you'd call it. I heard about it, of course, even though I wasn't at the high school, but no details. Uncle Gordon and Aunt Claire wouldn't talk about it, not to me." George swirls the coffee in the bottom of his cup for a moment. "Rumour was Amelia nearly killed a kid…Thomas something. He was running back for the football team. Hard to imagine, but I heard them fighting about it one night."

"Them?" Hotch questions, wanting to be clear.

"Amelia and her parents. I listened from the stairs." George says, pouring more coffee, looking troubled. "Aunt Claire cried, Uncle Gord yelled. I had never heard him yell before. Amelia asked them what they expected her to do, and her Dad shouted, 'you nearly goddamn killed him', and she said, cool as can be, 'you fucking taught me how,' and I don't know if he grabbed her or what, but she told him not to touch her, ever, and she stormed out. Didn't come back until the next morning. After that she was there, but not there you know? She came in and out, but she didn't talk to any of us. Next thing you know, she graduated early, and enrolled in University."

Hotch sat back in his chair considering all he just heard. It wasn't overly surprising, teenagers test boundaries, they want to grow up too fast and they stop taking their parents word as gospel. Fighting is normal, but the school incident doesn't sound like it was average teen behaviour.

"So she went to University, what happened after that?" Spencer wants the conversation to continue. Hotch knows he thinks the case will be solved with an accurate profile, and Hotch wants to believe that too so he doesn't interfere.

"She moved into the dorms. She came home when she chose. Thanksgiving and Christmas." George tells them, shrugging. "Then she got her degree in economics a year early, landed an awesome job at the bank, and bought her own house, all before she turned 22. She would still come by, it was never the same, but I don't think Uncle Gord ever stopped hoping it could be."

It's food for thought, all that George has told them, but it's not much more than that. Hotch doesn't trust this man enough to value his opinion, and the possibility remains that he's loyal to his cousin.

"You need to tell us if you know where she is, Mr. Porter. It will be bad for you if we leave here and find out later that you didn't." Hotch fixes the man with his most intimidating stare.

George's head snaps up, eyes wide and frantic. "No! You've got me wrong. I'm afraid of her, just like everyone else. My stove isn't lit so she doesn't see the smoke and know I'm home. I don't leave the house, or move my jeep, I just sit in the dark and wait for you lot to find her." He insists, and the fear in his voice leaves Hotch inclined to believe him. "No. If she comes here, it won't be for any good."

Spencer contemplates George, who thrusts his chair back in the guise of making a new pot of coffee, to replace the one that's still half full.

"Is there a reason she would want to hurt you?" Spencer asks, both curious and concerned.

"What?" George squeaks, then he checks himself and lowers his voice. "No. More like I don't think she'd want to buy me a drink and reminisce. There was never any love lost between us."

"What about your storage locker in Sandy?" Hotch fires at him while he's off his guard.

Incredulous, his mouth drops open. "What? No, I don't have a storage locker." And at Hotch's dubious stare, "I don't, I swear!"

Spencer's eyebrows draw together, the kitchen is quiet for a long minute, then he asks.

"Do you mind if we look around?"

Spencer is adamant that they visit Amelia's greenhouse after leaving the Porter house, insisting that he wants to see it again before the locals start moving the plants out, touching and changing everything. Hotch isn't sure what he hopes to get out of it, but Spencer had whole heartedly immersed himself in digging around George's house, Amelia's former home, as if he hoped he could find a way inside her head. Hotch suspects that the greenhouse is more of that. Hotch has his reservations, but it is early in the day and the exercise is probably good for Spencer as long as he doesn't overdo it, so Hotch goes along with the plan.

"We'll go, but do me a favour and let's be cautious?" Hotch raises an eyebrow at Spencer on the drive.

"I don't try to be reckless, Hotch, geez." Spencer retorts.

Hotch is inclined to disagree, but that's how they end up pulling into the Appleby farm where they greet the cop posted by the house, then continue on to the hulk of a greenhouse about a quarter of a mile down the gravel drive. Hotch helps Spencer to the door, but just as he puts his hand on the knob, his phone rings, and he frowns as he looks down at the screen.

"It's Jack, I have to take it. Just a sec, ok?"

Spencer waves him on, and when Hotch steps away, he continues inside by himself. By now he's leaning heavily on the cane, his leg protesting every step, the pins and needles in his arm hard to ignore. Still, he's determined to take another look at the plants that Amelia so carefully nurtured, and maybe gain some insight into what she was trying to accomplish.

The greenhouse is warm, filled to bursting with greenery everywhere you look. It is peaceful and quiet beyond the low hum of the lights, and the trickling of water. Spencer admires the multitude of exotic leafy plants, not for the first time, and the skill and tenacity that went into growing and preserving them. Some of the poppies and other species have been taken for analyses, but many more are still here, clustered under the warming lights that simulate longer days and better growing conditions, and Spencer spares a thought for the intentions of the woman who brought all this to fruition.

Standing where he is, in the main aisle that traverses from one door to the other, rows of tables fan out in tidy lanes to his left and right. A low file cabinet sits directly beside the door, but it was empty when the police searched and it is empty now, all the drawers standing open. There is a safe on top of the cabinet, also empty and open, and in all likelihood, Amelia doubled back for its contents after stabbing Spencer, and long before anyone thought to search it.

Shivering he shakes off thoughts of that fateful day, the shed, and the cruelty that Amelia is capable of, to focus his attention on the task at hand, deciding where to start.

"Do you have the tea I sent for?" A voice behind him breaks the near silence and Spencer jumps, barely suppressing a yelp at the sizzle of pain in his leg.

Spinning on his heel as fast as he dares, Spencer sees it's a uniformed cop who spoke; not the cop they met on the way in though, and while the uniform is right, Spencer highly doubts this man has good intentions. For one thing, he shouldn't be here, the officer they passed on the way in would have told them if someone was up here already; for another he is already stalking Spencer like a cat who just zeroed in on a mouse, matching his every step back, with an equal step forward. His eyes are narrowed and predatory, fixed on his prey, calculating and determined. If he pounces, he won't miss, so Spencer stops, stands his ground, and hope's that will buy him some time.

"Who are you?" Spencer asks, keeping any waver out of his voice. "No one is supposed to be in here."

"Hmmn…" The man's eyes rove over the length of Spencer's body, lingering on his injured leg and the cane in his hand. "I could say the same for you. You didn't bring my tea then?"

A question meant to identify the person he was hoping to meet. It has to be.

"My partner has it. He's right outside." Spencer tells him in as sure a voice as he can muster.

The man, not a cop Spencer is damn sure now, never even glances at the door. "Oh, no partners. We agreed. One on one or done." He responds in a mocking tone, smile spreading wide across his face. "But then, I would bet you aren't the one I'm looking for. Which means you are just in the wrong place, at a very bad time."

Spencer gulps and looks to the door, praying for Hotch to appear, then forces his eyes back to the man who is moving again. He holds up his hands. "Don't come any closer!"

There is only a scant 10 feet or so separating Spencer from the fake cop, who he can see now is carrying a very real gun in his holster. Spencer is unarmed, unsure where the hell Hotch has gotten to, and this man is between him and the door he came in. Spencer forces himself to move slowly, taking a step back toward the other door behind him, even though in reality he has no hope of reaching it in time.

"It isn't personal," the man drawls, unsnapping the holster at his waist, hand closing on the gun there. "But I have business here and you are going to be in the way."

He draws the gun slowly, eyes never leaving Spencer who hates the feeling of helplessness and curses himself for not carrying a sidearm, for not waiting with Hotch, and for needing Hotch in the first place.

"Wait," Spencer refuses to let his desperation show. He is a federal agent, and he can negotiate. "If you shoot me, you're going to have to deal with my partner outside. We are just here to pick up the plants, we don't want any trouble. Let me walk out, we will leave, and I will forget I ever saw you."

The man has the gun in hand now, pointed at the ground as he clicks the safety off. "Right, the FBI is going to walk away and forget they saw me." He laughs, as he chambers a round, and raises the gun. "Funny."

"I'm not FBI! I'm a doctor, just a consultant. I'm only here for the plants. My partner won't even know you were here." Spencer reasons, taking another step back. "As far as I know, you are just a local cop who asked us to come back at a better time. It's your best option. As soon as that gun goes off the cops stationed here, and my partner will come running. You won't get away, then."

That man seems to consider it, but then he smiles wickedly. "Let them come, I'll shoot them too. I don't mind." He takes aim and Spencer wants to scream, but it won't do any good, and it might get Hotch shot too.

Just as that thought crosses his mind, as if summoned, the door opens, the one Spencer is facing, and Hotch steps in taking in the scene faster than any human should be able to, reaching instantly for his gun. The man spins, and Spencer hollers.

"No!" Spencer shouts, launching himself at the gunman, covering the distance between them in a split second, cane falling to the side. The gun fires just as Spencer collides with his back, and Spencer registers the shatter of glass, and sees Hotch fall, before it's just him wrestling with an assassin for his weapon.

Ducking the fist aimed at his face, unable to even register the pain from his previous injuries, Spencer grabs for the gun, by the grace of God knocking it from the man's hand, but his luck is limited because he doesn't see the uppercut that catches him in the chin, knocking him off balance. There is a kick to his injured thigh before he can regain his stance, and he howls in agony, falling back into the table behind him. He hears objects clattering as the side of his face connects with a hard surface, and then he's on his back and the rogue cop is on him, hands closing around his throat, and Spencer sucks in a breath, bucking up in an attempt to free himself. The man's face looms over him, leering now, looking absolutely villainous as he presses his thumbs down hard, compressing Spencer's trachea, as he gasps desperately for air. Spencer's vision swims as the oxygen in his lungs is depleted, and he uses the last of his strength to push, claw, and slap at his attacker. He knows he's losing but he fights anyway because that's all he can do, it's the only thing. Fight like hell and try not to die.

Any hope he has is falling away and being replaced with acceptance… the other man is too strong, this is how he's going to die, and how foolish was it to come here, to drag Hotch here…now they will never get a chance to go home together…Hotch's son will never see his father again…his vision is fogging and all he can see is the lights above him, and they are making his head pound along with his heartbeat, which is slowing alarmingly fast…

Then the pressure is gone, and Spencer thinks it's over, he's dead, except it's strange that he can breathe again. His throat aches, gurgles, as he instinctively, greedily sucks in, feeling his lungs expand. He blinks wildly, trying to see…he can make out the man's face, still above him but contorted, and the gurgling sound isn't coming from Spencer, but from the man whose throat is cut wide, gaping like a sinister second mouth, blood drenching his front as he slumps to the side, all the weight leaving Spencer's chest at once.

He closes his eyes, knowing he shouldn't, but his head is throbbing, the light is so bright, and he can feel blood congealing on his face…and someone is leaning over him, reaching for his wrist…checking his pulse?! Spencer moans, struggling to open his eyes, to latch onto a coherent thought…and a cool hand is on his chin, turning his head to the side, assessing the wound there he thinks, and that smell…new like the first days of Spring, fresh flowers, sunshine and warmth, but earthy with the promise of rain… oddly familiar.

"Amelia?" He manages to slur through his haze, his own voice raspy and unfamiliar, the effort hurting his head, his throat…there's nothing but pain.

Laughter is his response, and this laugh is a sound he knows for sure. He will never forget because it lives permanently in the recesses of his mind. Every night he hears it in his nightmares; deceptively sweet, melodic, with a rising cadence, so separate from the memories he associates with the sound… he wills his eyes to open again, but it's like he's seeing through mist. He feels the presence leaving his side, stepping away, and he knows he is losing consciousness, he can feel the rising dark and welcomes its comfort even though he knows he isn't safe, he should stay awake. With no choice but to give in, he offers one last atheist's prayer that he will wake up again, and that when he does, Hotch will be ok. Everything will be ok.

Notes:

Isn't Hotch adorable when he's all mellow and trying to be sweet? I love Spencer, but I can definitely see his awkwardness ruining an intimate moment like that.

Mwahahahaha! Did you really think our boys would get out of Utah without further incident? Of course not! They don't have luck like that, come on! But the picture of who exactly is Amelia Porter is becoming a little clearer and I'm totally on Spencer's side, I think that an absolutely 100% completed profile is their only chance at catching this femme fatale.

As always, please leave a review they feed our souls!

I will not give anything away with what's to come so you'll just have to hit that follow/fav button so you can be notified when we update and read for yourself!

~CC~

Side note! After all this time I'd like to kind of introduce our team! ...kind of, our roles in this Aftermath adventure anyways. TC will likely argue my description of our roles, I will be receiving some texts once this is up, but I post so I can say what I want! Nahnahnahnah boo boo!

I am Callie_Cat (CC) and I get all of the easy stuff. I post and do most of the technical stuff that goes along with it, formatting and what not, I love playing around on the computer so it was an easy role to fill. I am also the beta reader for this story, so grammatical and spelling errors are my bad, I know there are a few I've missed, I'm only human! Now while I do help with research, the plot and timeline and stuff and TC bounces ideas off of me, I do not write. I can write, not well, but it's been known to happen, as you can see on here. My main contribution I would say is that I threw the plot bunny of this story at TC way back when, I love throwing plot bunnies at people! haha

terriblycontrite (TC) on the other hand is my best friend who lives way too far away from me and who does all of the actual real writing for this amazing story! She does a ton of research (I'm sure she's on some sort of watch list because of her search history), and spends endless nights writing and rewriting! If you love the writing, and I mean, who wouldn't? it is to her that you can give your thanks!