I thank you so, so much for your patience as I tried to really cinch this chapter to bridge the gap to what follows—both for Spencer and with the rest of the team. These few extra days were pivotal in helping me tighten further chapters, too :). I'd like to take the time to thank you for your reviews, likes, and everything in between. I thank my silent readers as well. Chapter 30 will be updated as regularly scheduled this upcoming Sunday :) Please enjoy this chapter.

.

.

.


WEDNESDAY, JULY 24–FRIDAY, JULY 26, 2013

Since the additional find in Stokes State Forest was publicized by a thru-hiker, a small portion of people had become more interested in the case—as if the perils and the previous victims' lives were only now catching up to the locals of northwest New Jersey, a previously unremarkable place on the map. Some wanted to go to the forest, see if they could find their own body, and get their blog-worthy fifteen minutes of fame.

Youths spread campfire stories about boogey men who would take men, keep them tied up, collect their teeth to make their own dentures or to wear as jewelry, eviscerate them, and eat their innards—nothing at all to do with the crimes apart from the tying up and tooth removal.

Some people—men and women besides—had a sense of self preservation and they stopped camping or hiking alone, or didn't go camping or hiking at all. Others from surrounding towns or counties came to check out the forest, touring some of the more popular areas just beyond the trails in a form of brash bravado.

Some took their dogs with them to sniff out the smell of rotting human flesh, never minding that cadaver dogs were specially trained for those things.

Walter, an old-timer, was one such person—except he did have a specially trained dog. He recently moved east about a month ago to live his later years with his daughter and son-in-law, and loved exploring the outdoors with his dog, an aging bloodhound named Angie that had as many years on her as Walter did.

Walter was a fit old snapper, though—an independent, avid adventurer. And he decided to go to this Stokes State Forest place and to live out his youthful days, just hiking and climbing with his trusty old bloodhound.

He enlisted in Vietnam in the early seventies and left wan and weary from the trauma. In recompense of the things he was forced to do there, he volunteered constantly, and was part of the search and rescue team back state-side. He trained all of his dogs over the years to assist with search and rescue and had seven finds under his belt—whether alive or unfortunately dead.

Although he became disillusioned with the government due to his time in the war and the continued struggles he dealt with stateside, knowing that there was a supposed law official who was missing got under his skin. The feds were just here about two and a half weeks ago for a few days, asking the public for help on a case that got him thinking.

And he was bored over here. So, so very bored.

So he got his own grid of the forest and set about the task of combing through it from dusk to dawn everyday with Angie to see if there were any more bodies to be found, anything that could help law officials get closer to solving this case.

Today, nearly a week later, Angie the Bloodhound did just that. In the early evening, just when Walter was getting ready to finish up before the sun could dip away, he and his dog had come upon a lovely birch grove that was littered with flowers he knew well. Angie got antsy in a way that he was familiar with.

"You got something, Angie?" Walter asked, being wrenched around by his dog.

Surely enough, Angie sniffed around a spot, bayed, then sat near it.

"You think there's someone down there, girl?" Walter asked, petting his dog on her belly and giving her a treat. "You've done a good job finding people before. I think I trust ya. Look at this earth, girlie. It's dippin' a little. I'd say there's a body down there alright."

Walter pulled out his map and a red marker, found where he was according to his grid, and checked it off.

"Not on my watch, Stokes State Slayers."

"It's looking like another body was found at Stokes," Aaron said to the team, who was gathered in the conference room.

"Another fallen tree?" David asked, unable to bite back the sardonic lilt.

"Mm, no," Aaron answered. "Apparently this man, a Walter Stotters, has been a part of search and rescue for a few decades, now."

Derek's expression showed his dubiousness. "Do we think it's the unsub inserting himself in the case?"

"Walter doesn't match the purported age of our unsubs," Aaron began, shaking his head. "He's in his late sixties."

"Age wouldn't preclude him. It could be a father and son dynamic."

"Yeah, it could be," Aaron agreed, "but he only just recently moved to New Jersey. He's lived in Wisconsin most of his life and moved east in mid-June. He's got a clean record. He's also black, and we know that per the nature of this case—and outside of Vic D—these unsubs have been consistent about their victim's race."

"So this could be real?" Jennifer's voice came out softly.

Aaron straightened his lips into a grim line. "Well, the body's in a birch grove, so Sheriff Reiner's quick to believe that this might be a genuine find. He's deployed a CSU team to at least do GPR, and they found imaging over four feet deep."

Penelope sucked in a breath.

"They've started digging. We've been here before. We know that . . . it might be Reid, or it could be a previous victim. Strauss is already in the know. One of us will be going up to see about this."

Alex sighed and blinked, straightening in her seat. She nearly spoke, but David beat her to it.

"I can go up," David said, volunteering himself.

"Alright. I've called in Agent Stevens from the Newark Field Office to assist you," Aaron said. "In the interest of covering all bases, I'd like to have their division get refamiliarized with this case. The rest of us will wait to hear back from you for anything significant."

Apparently, Walter Stotters was a man of discretion.

As David arrived at the precinct in the early Wednesday-morning hour, there was no swell of reporters or townsfolk itching to get information on this latest find—just the sight of a tan-capped woman at the grounds who was digging the earth with a trowel in her gloved hand before the sun would oppressively crest above in the mid-summer heat.

The Sheriff was bent near her on his haunches in a relaxed and friendly stance, kicking his head back in laughter.

"Sheriff."

"Agent Rossi, hey," Sheriff Reiner said congenially. He stood, stuck out his hand, and shook David's. "Agent Stevens got to the site a little earlier. One sec, yeah?" He looked down at the bent woman. "I'll see you around, yeah? Gotta work."

"Not a problem, Sheriff. Justice awaits." She looked up at him, glanced at David, and spared him a stiff smile before shifting back to the ground below her. "Um, might just come by again soon to see after these. Make sure they're doing okay."

"Sounds good, Rainie. See ya around. And tell the guys I say hello. Haven't seen 'em in a while. Make sure that kid of yours is doing okay."

"Will do!"

David walked into the building after the Sheriff. "What's the latest on this new one, Sheriff?"

"It's almost done being dug up, Agent Rossi. I was there earlier and there's no other body around that GPR or cadaver dogs are finding."

Sheriff Reiner's phone rang. "That's Agent Stevens. One sec."

David gave the man time to pick up the phone.

"What's the latest, agent? Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Alright, we'll see you soon." He turned to David after hanging up the phone. "Looks like the crew is ready to let us take a look at the scene.

"Let's take a drive, then."

"Dave, we're all here and can see the burial site."

"Ah, good."

David was currently on-scene and using his phone to video conference the team, as official photos weren't yet available. "Apologies in advance. Still getting used to this. I'm Italian and we talk with our hands, so if the camera starts jumping around . . ."

"We'll let you know," Aaron said. "Show us."

And David did just that. "So it took a good while to get here—pretty remote from trails or the nearest entry. This body's in situ. Dr Bates is determining that this victim's been down here for a good couple of years based on flora above this grave and the near skeletonized state of this body."

There was a palpable relief. And yet.

"Is the head not with the body? Is that what I'm seeing there?" Alex asked.

"Correct," David answered. "Completely dismembered and nowhere in the vicinity." He zoomed in.

"But dressed similar to the later victims," Alex continued.

"Mm-hmm. Wrapped in white," David confirmed. "White t-shirt and boxers."

"Is there evidence of stabbing, Dave? Like with Victims D and E?" Aaron asked.

"So far no visible striations, no. But the unsubs seem to've hacked at this victim a few times to take the head—there's significant bone trauma in the neck. Dr Bates, would you be able to point to these for the team to see?"

Dr Bates did just that as David once again zoomed the camera.

"The complete removal of this victim's head can be partialist, or an outright forensic countermeasure," Alex said. "There might've been something distinctive about his skull—a metal plate, skull reconstruction, a burr hole—that could possibly lead to his identification."

"What about the hands?" Derek asked.

"Also missing," David answered, zooming in to show them. "And there seems to be bone trauma with the wrists that's inconsistent with the cleaner cuts of Noah, Zachary, or Victim C—signs of using a saw. The missing hands weren't wrapped."

"So this may have been the first victim where the unsubs removed the hands," Aaron suggested. "And where the unsubs were coming upon his signature."

"And the unsubs learned what might work better," responded David. "Probably graduated to the axe after this."

As they had theorized, their unsubs were ever evolving.

"So then this means that we can probably establish a better timeline," Jennifer suggested. "From newest to oldest, Marion, Noah, Zachary, Victim C, Victim F, and Victims D and E."

No one missed the exclusion of Spencer's name.

After clearing her throat, Alex spoke up, sitting straighter. "I'm keen to believe that Marion, Noah, Zachary, and Victims C and F had a similar signature because something changed between them and Victims D and E."

"What kind of change are you thinking?" Aaron asked.

Alex's eyebrows flew up and her eyes fluttered. "I mean, the possibilities are endless, honestly. In one scenario, D or E could have been a former accomplice and the partnership fell apart when one of them started to grow a conscience. In another, D and E could have been victims of just one of our unsubs before he ever got a partner. And there's a plethora of other variables in between."

"The rage isn't there for this newest victim like there was with Victims D and E," Derek tacked on.

"Perhaps, like Reid had thought the night he was abducted, they didn't take D and E's hands because of the striations," Alex suggested. "Maybe that's why Marion's hands hadn't been taken—because of that broken finger?"

"Well what if after D and E, the unsub or unsubs had another victim who, like, escaped or something?" Penelope asked. "Or what if that's when the unsubs—I dunno—started working on a bunker or something?"

Everyone paused.

"Did I say something wrong?" Her face fell, and her eyes were unable to meet the rest of her colleagues' gazes without bouncing to another person. "Isn't that why we had JJ reaching out to potential victims in the last press conference?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong," Derek said emphatically. "We're establishing some sort of timeline, and there's definitely room for that. For either of those things really. Right between F and D or E. It's believed that the latter two have been buried for about four years now. F's burial is only a couple of years old. So there's a gap in between that —unless there's another victim buried somewhere—could account for time taken to do something like that—work on a bunker or somethin'."

Penelope searched for records of repeat renovation or contracting jobs done—whether large or small—in the past five or so years, concentrating on the New Jersey, New York, and Pennsylvania areas. It yielded a slew of results that various local PDs would be checking into per their jurisdiction.

David, along with Agent Stevens, called them with any updates throughout the day.

Rapid DNA testing didn't point to this being anyone in the Missing Person's database. Phenotyping suggested that this victim was white and blond; and according to Dr Bates' team, this man was likely in his twenties to early thirties. Cause of death hadn't been narrowed down yet, but fractures in this victim's ribs and sternum also suggested that CPR was performed at varying intervals.

These things only highlighted to the unit how much more consistent and diligent their unsubs became with each new victim. It gave them nothing more.

The inevitability at slowly reaching another dead end was discouraging.

"Ugh, we should be there—with Rossi!" Penelope groused, taking a break from her monitors.

It was Alex who reasoned with her: "Honestly, we're not yielding much to warrant a whole team of us to be up there investigating what local investigators can do. They're churning over the same evidence again and again."

Though she hated thinking this way, she could understand why Erin Strauss had made such a decision regarding Spencer's case moving forward. Unless there was significant activity to spur on a case, it wouldn't be feasible to expend excessive resources where they weren't needed.

Penelope moaned. "I know, I know. It's one of my doves, and it seems hopeless. I don't like how these kinds of cases usually end."

Alex sighed, unable to voice anything consolatory that would dismiss Penelope of her worry.

Aaron decided to take this to the public in a nationwide press conference "I'm regretting not having you go up with Dave, JJ," he lamented.

"A little offended that you don't think I can handle a few reporters, Aaron," David joked.

"So far since the beginning of this case, public reaction has been more receptive when JJ's gotten in front of the camera," Aaron reasoned. "Sensationalism besides, humans are visual creatures. We know why the general public would be more rallied to solve this crime if these victims were children or women, or if JJ were holding the press conference instead of you, David."

"Oof. I'm washed up and old news," David said glibly.

"It's that triad," Penelope groused, ticking her fingers as she listed. "Blonde, baby blues, and boobs to boot. Throw in JJ's amazing brain, too, and people are hooked. Guess it's a tetrad, then."

Jennifer rolled her eyes but understood where Aaron and Penelope were coming from. "Never mind the fact that I'm fully competent in the role," she murmured with the wrinkle of her nose. "What matters is getting information out so that we can get closer to closing this case."

A new nationwide press conference was held in the early evening. In New Jersey, the public's response wasn't as fevered at knowing that a new body had been found. Outside the state, however, there was an explosion of leads that would be meticulously followed up in the days to come.

Within a mere two hours, the media frenzy swelled as theories were thrown out left and right.

"It's one of them damn cases, man," Derek lamented, peeling his eyes away from the various social media he'd opened to gauge public reaction.

"The kinds that have you scratching your head for months?" Jennifer handed him a coffee as she sat at the conference table full of papers, photos, and cold food.

Derek shook his head, sighing out. "Months or maybe even years. It hits different when you're not just on the outside looking in, you know?"

"Mm." Cradling the mug in her hand, she spoke in a softened voice. "I don't want to say this and throw it out into the universe, but it might only be sheer luck that gets us any closer to solving this."

The writing was on the wall.

David burned the midnight oil and didn't leave New Jersey until nearly one in the morning before driving to his home in Bethesda.

Agent Stevens was apologetic: "I'm sorry, guys. We've got a slew of people from varying states who sent their local PDs some items. Those were submitted to their local FBI labs and were subjected to Rapid DNA testing that's ongoing. When I tell you that the labcoats are on top of this, I'm not kidding. They're around the clock. We got some tips here and there. We've been following up on all of it. A few of the tips were bogus—some women calling us and telling us their exes or husbands were one of the perps just to stick it to those guys. It just—it looks like the well is drying up again."

Everyone accepted the update with cool resignation.

"We have multiple jurisdictions working at it. Keep your eyes peeled."

Once was enough to dishearten everyone. Twice had sapped them.

It was just as well that David had returned. The following day, before noon even hit, the unit had a new case that took them no more than two hours north of Quantico to Baltimore. While the case in itself was unremarkable, the John Doe whom they dealt with touched them more than they would have expected. Lobotomized and tortured, he'd been unable to communicate with Derek beyond blinking and later using a communication board.

Through the course of the case, they came to understand that he—along with his girlfriend—had been missing for over a month, and that they had both been kept in squalid conditions during that time: they were given adult diapers, had been kept restrained, and were underfed.

It hadn't been easy following that up with the case in Jersey. David felt it appropriate to pop by everyone's sequestered corner and boost morale, and he started with Penelope.

"Um, Agent Rossi, sir?" Penelope asked him before he reached the door to leave her office.

"I kind of want to . . . to keep this—well, everything, even, you know, the support group I've been going to more often and this thing with Diana, um . . . a little mum? For now? If that's okay with you? JJ's the only other person here who knows about the letters and she and I have been trying to work some things out over the past couple of weeks and—"

"Hey hey." David waved his hand at her. "This'll stay with me, kiddo," David responded. "Let me know if I can help, though. Because, you know, I can."

"Thank you, sir."

"Mm." He turned and wrapped his hand around the door handle.

"Oh, and sir?"

"Mm?" Upon turning around, he saw that Penelope was holding an open metal tin toward him.

"I know you're not crazy about my vegan oatmeal cookies, sir, but I keep—I can't stop baking them because Reid—I was gonna have a new batch ready for him back in April when you guys were gonna come from the case originally 'cause he was just so sad, and I just—can't bring myself to stop making them. It's helping me to cope."

"Garcia, are you offering me a cookie?"

"I'm offering you as many cookies as you want, sir. Please. Take."

And so he plucked one and he took a bite out of it. "There's no better taste than something made with love, Garcia. Keep your chin up, kid, ey?"

And then he popped over to Jennifer, who told him about Henry's near nightly request to know if Spencer had found his way back yet. She was coping with this as well as she could be, and she had support in Will, who kept encouraging her, and often spoke with Emily.

"Is it wrong, Rossi, that . . ." She averted her eyes and her fingers twiddled at her necklace, "half of me wanted this new body to be Reid so that I was positive of closure, positive that he's not somewhere suffering where we can't reach him? The other half of me just . . . I just got a surge of hope that he might still be out there and we can get him back. But it won't be the same."

David sighed and took her hand. When she clasped it, he thought it better to say nothing at all.

"It's this constant whiplash, Rossi," she sighed out. "Is that wrong? It hurts to know that if he's gone, we'll have never gotten the chance to be okay with each other."

"Hey now," David chided. "I doubt that this is what was or is percolating in his mind. What about this?" And—without letting on that he knew anything about her and Penelope's involvement with Diana Reid—he gave a suggestion. "Do right by Reid in whatever capacity you can."

And then Alex, who often had to put on her sling by the time she returned home from work, and who was doing physical therapy alongside her husband.

"James is gonna start teaching at Harvard in a few more weeks."

"That'll be nice, having him closer to you then a faraway country, yeah?"

"M'yeah. He's looking for a place over in Boston to settle. I, ah, may go with him this weekend to look at a couple of brownstones."

"Ah."

"Mm-hmm."

David quirked his brow at her. "Is there something you're not telling us, Blake? They've got a good field office up there in Boston. Are you thinkin' of . . ."

Alex tilted her head. "There was actually a position available for me to take up at Harvard back in May."

"Get outta town."

"Yeah." She drawled, sighing and straightening her lips into a thin line. "I turned it down. It's still there if I want it."

"Oh? One woulda thought after you were attacked . . ."

Alex looked up at David, who was sitting at the edge of her desk, and she shook her head. "Not after what they did to me, David, no. And what they've done to Spencer." She shook her head again. "Not until we catch them."

"That might become a white whale, Alex. Not all of these cases get resolved."

"I know."

"And you'd jeopardize being able to teach at Harvard or being closer to your husband to chase after something that might never see an end."

Alex shrugged a shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere, David. I'm not."

David ticked his head. "Atta girl."

And then Aaron, who looked worse for wear and seemed to have dropped a couple of pounds since the beginning of the month. He was juggling quite a deal—trying to maintain the team's proper standing in front of the director, was having misgivings lately with Beth, and the inevitable truth:

"I've been going through a few agent files in the past couple of weeks. It's not happened yet, but I feel like it's drawing nearer. They're going to want to fill in his desk."

David rolled his eyes. "We have an image to maintain."

Aaron sighed and nodded.

"How's Jack holdin' up?"

"He's been good. Doesn't know about anything going on and"—Aaron sighed—"I'm going to figure out how to tell him soon, because he'll eventually ask at some point about Reid, but with Haley's murder, he'll inevitably think of death, and I just . . . " The words fell away from him and he shook his head.

"You've got a lot on your plate, Aaron. I imagine these are not the easy conversations for a parent to have with their children. Reid, Beth, Jack, the director, a potentially new agent—hell, even The Replicator."

Aaron gave an aborted moan. "Don't wanna think about him, Dave. But, yeah. That's still in the back of my head."

And then he rounded over to Derek, who was doing little more than staring at his desk. He knocked on the door, but Derek hadn't responded.

"Look any harder at that invisible spot and I think that desk is gonna spontaneously combust," David said to cut into wherever Derek was.

Derek's eyebrows ticked up in acknowledgement of David's voice, but it took a couple of seconds for him to actually turn to his colleague.

"Mm?"

"You thinkin' about the kid or Sam Carter?"

Derek sighed. "A slew of people, really."

David tilted his head down, stepped beyond the threshold, and closed the office door behind him. "Lay it on me, Derek."

Derek sighed and swiped his hand over his face. "Remember that case we had back in March up in Hamilton?"

"Oof, yep. With Daria?"

"Yeah. When I was by this kid's side today, tryin' to help him out, it made me think of her. I thought to myself that I've been at the side of two people who've been messed up by their abductors and damn if it isn't a lot in just a few months."

"Mm."

Derek then folded his hands into each other and tapped them against his desk. "Say he's alive, Rossi. Say he's alive. He's been missing three months now, right?"

"Mm-hmm. Almost to the day."

"Daria . . . she was in such a state that she participated in those stabbings, man. There's nothing to indicate in Reid's case that there's any overlap with the victims, and I'm not saying that his captors make their victims complicit in any of their crimes, but . . ."

"But?"

"Hankel did that exact thing to him. Not only did he make Reid unwillingly complicit in his murders, not only did he beat him more than once, but he drugged him multiple times—and that was in the span of two and a half days. But three months?"

David tutted.

"That's a long time, man. It's a long time to be under the control of someone else and not form some type of attachment to the person who's dominating your life—what you eat, probably when you eat, and other things besides. It's a long time to be beat, abused—like Noah was, like Zachary was—until you're submissive and doing whatever's demanded of you. They shattered Zachary's knee, broke his ankle, and pulled out seven teeth, man. They could have killed him, but they tortured him instead—probably into submission. Our brains are hard-wired to want to survive in any way that we can, to escape pain, to cling to any kindness, to"—he swallowed—"to fracture or go somewhere so that we can endure our trauma. Back with Daria's case, she projected the horror, dissociated herself from it all. Until Sam can recover more of his speech, it's hard to determine if he did the same thing—went somewhere." He double-tapped the side of his head.

David swallowed around a dry tongue. "It's a primordial defense mechanism."

"And Reid—he knows this better than anyone. He uses that—that metathinking, so he'll know what's happening as it's happening. He'll see the signs of adaptation beyond survival, that emotional component, 'cause that's what he does—he empathizes with people. So what does he do?"

David shook his head. "He's a stubborn punk. His mind is one of the things he'll protect to his dying breath. He'll fight it."

"He'll fight it." Derek agreed with a grave nod. "He'll do whatever he can to stay sound of mind. I know he will. But that resistance . . . they'll beat it out of him or worse. We don't know what kind of threats have been thrown out at him. We don't know what degrading things they've made him do to assert their control over him, what kind of mind games they might play. What happened to Daria, what happened to those other victims back in Jersey, the rape—"

"It's happening to Reid."

"It's torturing me, man. It's torturing me, and I can't shut—it—off. That's gonna happen to him until he has nothing left. Until he's bonded with them 'cause of everything—the drugs, his own history of addiction, the abuse, his past abduction, whatever fantasy they're creating and any brainwashing that it might include, and the fact, Rossi, that he was already emotionally vulnerable before he was abducted. They plucked up the perfect victim to play into whatever fantasy they're creating."

David sighed heavily. "Derek, if he's alive, and if we ever solve this, we'll be here for him, just as Daria's sister is there for her, just like I'm sure Sam and Dana are gonna be there for each other. The foundation will still be there. So we rebuild him. We support him. We keep workin' at him no matter his condition. But don't spiral. You dwell too much on the what-ifs and they will drive you mad and consume you. They will. Don't do this. I'm not telling you not to grieve, but I'm telling you to grieve healthily."

Derek's sigh was heavy. "What kills me is that we were just starting to really help him overcome Maeve's murder. I feel like he was actually starting to come to terms with needing to address his trauma. Like he was getting ready to dive deep into all this. Now this happens." Derek shook his head. "He won't recover from this. A person doesn't. Foundation or no, he's not going to, Rossi."

David straightened his lips. "He's stronger and more resilient than we know, though. This year has been unforgiving on him. People don't recover from these things on their own. Not fully, at least."

"Not just this year. His life, man, was no breeze. You know he once told me that the reason why he started coaching his high school basketball team was 'cause they'd promised they'd stop bullying him if he'd get them to win their games? And he believed it would raise his status with his schoolmates?"

"Oof."

"He's pretty much lived his life on high defense. I had my mom, and I had my sisters, even though they didn't know what was going on. They were an anchor. Reid had what? A runaway father and a mentally-ill mother, and then us. The only solid thing outside of that was this person in letters and on the phone—and let me tell you—it kinda helps to have someone outside of this box that we're in. Fear of rejection, lack of visual confirmation, fantasy fulfillment, I dunno, but I won't invalidate what he and Maeve had, 'cause it was something for him. She was real for him. And even that was taken away from him."

David's face scrunched. "Morgan, I don't say this lightly, but do you think you might need to speak to a grief counselor? Someone outside of us, beyond your siblings or your mother—if you've even spoken to them about this—who you can talk to under an objective lens? What's your outlet been, kid?"

Of all the ones David had spoken to today, they each had someone or something they were doing to help cope.

Derek was silent, staring down at his loosened hand.

David's expression softened. "There's the problem, kid. There's the problem. You're compartmentalizing. It's not healthy, and it's not balanced. Grief is natural. But balance—not obsessing—is always key. What you're doing is putting a lot of thought into what Reid might be suffering. The mind supplies us with a lot of graphic garbage to wade through and obsess over, and it can take us to dark places."

Derek opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Don't feel like just because Reid is somewhere suffering that you should be, too." David gave him a gentle squeeze on his folded hands, then patted them, standing up.

It was after David spoke with Jennifer that she resolved to move forward with this. And maybe, after things ironed out, Derek might want to help, too, and it would help him to begin overcoming his own grief. She had caught David going into his office, and though she didn't know of their conversation, she could see—as the blinds weren't closed—Derek's comportment. He wasn't taking this well.

Penelope's concerns those many few weeks ago were genuine, and the stress of it was acute. She had unloaded on Jennifer everything she was feeling, her worries, her ultimate grief, all to the point of nearly vomiting. Her breaths had come up short, and Jennifer had to push Penelope's head between her legs and guide her through breathing exercises.

It shouldn't be this way. One person shouldn't have to bear that burden alone—not for someone they all cherished so much.

So she had started helping Penelope with the letters, taking that yoke along with her. They were now on a three-day rotation, wherein she would drop off letters, then Penelope, and so forth.

She did her best not to read the contents; they weren't her business at all. But her eyes skimmed over them from time to time in passing, and she caught Spencer's unfiltered thoughts—worries, adulations, mild irritations, and other things—that he'd penned mere years ago.

At times when dropping off a letter, she wondered what Spencer and Maeve wrote to each other. The letters he'd shared with the team—they were only relevant to the stalking. There was a plethora more, she knew.

Penelope's greatest worry weighed on her. 'How can we just let that happen to Mrs Reid?' she'd asked Jennifer. 'I don't feel right eventually shuffling her off to some state run facility if Reid never comes back when she's in such a good place right now.'

But then Jennifer started thinking of what might happen even if they did eventually find Spencer alive. What if he was non compos mentis? What if he could never function again and would need permanent assisted living due to physical injuries or—god forbid—he had brain trauma like it was understood Noah had? What of his care then, and what of his mother?

It all sent her spiraling, and she was able to get a taste of what Penelope had been suffering by herself.

She thought about it over and over until she expressed her worries to Will. And then she, Penelope, and Will had a late dinner together to talk over things. But it wouldn't do to move forward with any decisions without finding out if he had a legally authorized representative. He may already have other things working in the background in that aspect; he may already have directives in mind.

That was how she found herself, now, standing in front of Aaron's office to knock on it. Aaron's voice hailed her to enter, and she stepped into his office, closing the door behind her.

There was a slew of paperwork on his desk. "What's up, JJ?"

"Hotch, hey. You got a few minutes or are you wrapping things up to head out?"

He placed his pen down and became more attentive. "Have a seat."

Jennifer nodded and as she sat, she glided her hands down her thighs. She sighed. "So. Penelope and I have been talking lately," she began, "about Spence."

He blinked. "Okay?"

"I have something I'd like to talk to you about, because it ultimately has to do with his—well, with his mother."

Aaron's eyebrows quirked. "Oh god."

Jennifer shook her head, putting out a hand to allay his worry. "Before you even panic, Spence had a fail-safe set in place for a few years now. Almost four years."

"Of course he did." Aaron sighed. "What was it?"

"Well, I'll explain, and hopefully . . . I don't know—I want to help where we can." She paused. "Okay." This was going to be a long and loaded conversation, and she was sure that others would eventually be brought on board. "Okay, so"—she pulled out her phone—"I took a pic of this. Take a look at it." She handed her phone to Aaron.

By the time Derek arrived at his own condo, it was past nine in the evening. His shower was brief, and he sat at his couch after pouring whisky into a rocks glass. He didn't drink it, but stared at it for minutes, nails clinking at the glass as he mulled over David's advice.

And then, from above, light footsteps. He tipped his head up, then drew his eyes back to the glass, bringing it to his lips to take a sip.

More footsteps. He puffed out a sigh and lowered the glass to his coffee table with an audible clunk. In the next moment, he was at his door, and in the next, he was going up a flight of hallway stairs, rounding the corner, and standing in front of the door. Her door.

At first, he reached forward to ring the bell but pulled back, making an aborted hum. Friends knock, strangers ring. It was something his mother always told him. So with a lightly curled knuckle, he knocked on the door.

There was no response.

One more time. I'll knock just one more time.

He did just so, and before he even finished the rapping, the door opened.

Savannah was in exercise apparel and was covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Morgan?" Her face was contorted in perturbation, understandably. Neighbors didn't often knock on each other's doors at such odd hours of the day, and yet now they'd both done it tit for tat.

"Savannah, hey."

"Everything okay?"

"So, I know it's kinda last minute but, ah, do you have time early tomorrow morning to just—to get a coffee with me and, um . . ."

Savannah's expression sobered, and she tilted her head. "And talk?"

"And talk, yeah. Please." He grounded out the last with a thickened voice.

"I'll make time."


UNKNOWN DATE UNKNOWN LOCATION

The water was warm, and four hands hovered and worked all over Spencer's body. As he was bathed and then settled upon the bed, he was massaged, much like they had done weeks ago—diligently and laboriously, from flesh to bone, from neck to thighs. During this, he wavered between a fog and the transgressive comfort that did little to cover over the horror of what he'd done.

After the woman had rubbed ointments over his bare skin, her moistened hands lingered upon and kneaded the flesh of his buttocks before dipping between to apply her salve. Upon that pressure, he was recalled to what preceded this wholly undeserved treatment.

Beyond forcing himself onto his rapist, Spencer wasn't coerced into any other acts of participation. It didn't matter. Not long after his captor began his mechanical torture—every last shred of physical sensation from the violation just fell from under him. Deeper than the creeping, foggy dissociation, it was a complete severance from what followed, and in the next moment he'd only reengaged upon having been dipped in warm water. He must have blacked out.

He wouldn't delude himself. The requirement that he begin to participate more—this might become an eventuality. His participation once would usher the desire for more engagement. He just knew it.

And he would have to do it. For them. And yet.

It was no longer a regular and concerted effort that Spencer made to count prime numbers, or to make recitations to keep track of the time, and very rarely did he do it to assess his mental faculties.

Instead, memories and twisting, unfocused thoughts assaulted him at varying angles.

'We want you to be Henry's godfather.'

Years ago, Henry had shifted the pendulum for Spencer. He had been a years-long fever to find a sense of peace and regain rightness within himself. In Henry there was restoration.

He never felt well suited to be a parent or even the facsimile of one because of, well, everything—before and after his father had left. There was too much unpredictability—too many things beyond books—that made parenthood nuanced. He was learning this every day. The revelations in Las Vegas just hours before had only highlighted this reality for him.

Initially seeing baby Jack at the outset didn't spark anything in him beyond the awe that something that size could come out of a woman, let alone grow inside someone, despite his knowing the very biology of it. And yet, the fact that the grey matter inside of Jack's soft skull was processing all of the information it was seeing, hearing, feeling, tasting, and smelling and then turning those sensations and information into meaning was fascinating. In time, though, he came to like him.

It was the sudden announcement of Jennifer's pregnancy that caught him off guard, but it pleased him. Over time, he knew the facets of Jennifer's nature much better than he knew Haley's.

He spent days, months, and years with Jennifer. Just as fatherhood wasn't suited for every person, motherhood wasn't either. But Jennifer—oh, she was a caregiver, a nurturer, and was protective. On a purely anthropological, evolutionary level, she fit the mold, and in many ways far beyond that.

As someone who he had drawn close to over time, he wanted to better see? understand? pregnancy and motherhood—parenthood—and determine how—if —it shifted a person's nature.

Who we are is constantly evolving.

He convinced himself that it had nothing to do with his mother or with himself. It was one part academic, and another part—another part something he couldn't describe. Jennifer wasn't a distant subject but a living, breathing person he cared for. He'd not make the same mistake twice in that realm.

In the passing months after that announcement, he may have become a bit obsessed.

He studied fetal and pregnancy care. Before, he knew the mere biology of the conception from fertilization to embryonic and fetal development to the hormonal changes it induced in a pregnant woman. Textbook.

Now, he couldn't separate the process from Jennifer. It wasn't all of her, but a new part of her. So at times, he gave Jennifer pointers on how she should go about her pregnancy based on what he read, and she would laugh at him. Or at the end of the day just as Jennifer would leave the office, he would call or text Will, tell him what he saw Jennifer eating during the day to quench a craving.

'According to studies, food cravings aren't cravings for those specific foods per se, but rather for the nutrients that those foods provide that JJ might be lacking,' he'd said to Will once.

That day, she'd eaten three free donuts in the office.

'I'll keep a weather eye on that, Spence,' Will responded in his New Orleans drawl.

'JJ sorta yelled at me for saying anything about it. During pregnancy, shifting hormonal surges may cause these kinds of outbursts, so I make no bones about it. Keep a supply of whole-wheat or multigrain bagels with fruit jam—the fresher the better—so she could get in some carbohydrates and sugar in a healthier manner. She likes blackberry and fig butter.'

Will laughed. 'Damn, Spence, thanks. Imma take it to heart. Hopefully she don't bite my head off.'

Less than a week later Spencer saw Jennifer snacking on the very thing—half a mini multigrain bagel slathered with an organic, farm-made jam, which she kept in the office fridge and forbade anyone from touching.

Later that day, when it was just the two of them, she approached him. 'I know this was you, Spence. Thank you.'

He noticed how Jennifer habitually put headphones on her swelling belly. For a while, he said nothing about it. That was, he didn't say anything until Emily had asked her about it one day on the jet, and he couldn't hold back anymore, endeavoring to weave himself into the conversation as naturally as possible.

'I personally preferred Mozart, myself,' he'd declared. Without hesitation, getting to where he wanted to be, he continued, 'But be careful to limit his exposure to one hour a day. Amniotic fluids have a tendency to amplify sound.'

He was glad to get that one out. It was near cathartic.

Later, he learned from Emily that sometimes he just needed to keep hush about things. 'Not everything's about the brainwork, Dr Reid,' she'd said with a chiding lilt. 'I'm not talking about what you told JJ about the amniotic fluids. That's a good call. I'm talking about you tattling on JJ to Will about what she eats sometimes. I know you only do it 'cause you care. But let her enjoy the ups and downs of her pregnancy. Sometimes a craving is really just a craving, you busybody. Now go get her a bag of Cheetos. I guarantee you she'll thank you for it and you'll be her hero for the day.'

Struck one day with the fear something might happen with her and her child while they were out in the field during a case and she might need immediate medical attention, he took to the task of reading about emergency infant delivery, memorizing the manuals. He hoped that the practical application would live up to the theory.

He read how an infant would explore movement and strengthen musculature, especially in the third trimester, but he'd never actually felt it. Why should he have? But when Jennifer grabbed his wrist and placed her hand atop his so he could feel the little one inside of her, the kicking was freakish and unsettling, parasitic in a way, but damned intriguing. He had found himself later looking at his left hand and still feeling the little movement in the nerve endings of his fingertips and was unsure if he wanted to unfeel it. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

So seeing baby Henry cradled in Jennifer's arms struck a strange and new chord within him.

Here he was. He arrived.

That besides, she was damned beautiful, and it wasn't a lie when he told her so. In that moment, he was glad that Jason had misinterpreted his attraction to Jennifer, that he had encouraged him to pursue it for the sake of doing something socially normal. There was no sting upon Jennifer's rejection of him because it had, at the least, opened the door for something better, richer between them. And here he was tasting it now as he stared at the child cradled in his arms.

Now fatherhood—the very thing he didn't initially entertain—was thrusted upon him, and he was speechless. How could he be a godfather when he had conflicting emotions regarding the literal and figurative ones who had abandoned him?

Despite his brief reservations, holding Henry had opened something inside of him: potentiality.

It was like everything that happened the few days prior collapsed inward, and he made an avowal from that day forward that if anything ever happened to Jennifer and Will, he would step in and he would step up. He would be, for Henry, everything he felt a father should be: present, supportive, and loving.

It was a bestowal, a gift, a responsibility, and he found the prospect of fatherhood a possibility.

The more that he at times took care of Henry when Jennifer and Will went away for a weekend, the more he felt that this was more than okay, something that he could do, being a parent eventually. Not yet, but eventually.

He could impart everything that he could to his own child emotionally, physically, intellectually. He didn't need to involve anyone else at all, actually, in the process—surrogacy was a potentially viable option.

But he quickly learned that a unit, a family unit, might work best. Occasionally pairing up with and sharing that responsibility and newness with Penelope highlighted that two were easier than one.

He learned that a pack was better than a lone wolf when—on more than one occasion—he had to wrangle Derek for assistance with a phone call or a text message so he could bring something that he needed but couldn't get because he'd wake a napping Henry while Jennifer was enjoying a girl's night out and Will was working a night shift.

So, yes, parenthood, maybe. Maybe. In the back of his mind, he feared he might pass on that gene wherein his child might have a mental illness like his mother. But what if he didn't pass anything on?

And also. Partnership. He and Penelope. He and Derek. He saw how these worked. A unit, a pack.

The mere idea that he might be able to obtain this with Maeve, then, percolated in his mind. Not when she had first asked him about children, but just mere days after their botched first meeting, when he'd nearly obtained her physical being. He was suddenly struck with an everythingness about her. She'd cracked a joke that they needed to just be reborn with different lives, and there it was, a strange thought of children.

Barring the misgivings he had with his own physiology, he suddenly entertained the idea of feeling a little one—their little one—exploring its movements inside her phantom belly. He thought that he would give her anything she desired to eat to satiate a strange craving and then take care to give her everything nutritious that she loved. He would play Mozart while her belly swelled and their child grew. He'd pass along the things he knew—the love he had—to his progeny made with her. He'd feel that tuft of hair against his cheek, enjoy that first burp after a feeding, go through the messy diaper changes, the fingers curling around his, the unconditional protection he would give this child that would be one part him and another part Maeve.

These meant something. Soon thereafter, he dreamt of marrying her.

It was a phantom child and a phantom partner that would never be in his life. He wished those whims had never grown and existed because of his experience with Jennifer and Henry. It was a potential he wished had never been sparked at all.

The loss of a child had broken his captors and turned grief into violence. Now, they were using the only other pure attachment he had and perverting it. Maybe it was better that he might never experience the potentiality of such pain. But the thought of endangering Henry's life got him close to feeling it.

Words were showered upon him in constant droves—those of disappointment and condemnation—that were covered over with unwavering adoration.

"You've misbehaved. It hurts us when you do these things. And it hurts us more than it hurts you to correct you."

"You're still so very good. You're a good boy. You're my —-— boy. I still love you. We both do."

He preferred this.

"You made this mistake because you're sick, because you don't understand. You don't understand how sick you are. You have to trust us. This is all so that you can come back to me. I'm going to make you better and you'll come back to me."

"You're sick."

In the following days, he was reminded of all these things again and again, inundated with them when he wasn't rolling out of an induced drugging with hands that persisted, tucked under his own often—when he was fed, when he was bathed and his hair was dried, when he was taken to and from the bathroom, when he was laid to rest and until he fell asleep, and other times in between.

It was unexpectedly pleasant, and they both engaged in this strange indulgence.

"We forgive you because we love you."

"You won't try to leave us again. Who will take care of you?"

"You won't run again. You don't understand how sick you are. We're only helping you."

"We do this because we love you."

And this, too, he preferred.

However, these were punctuated with kind, softening touches whenever he was pulled out of somnolence, or as he was rolling into it—a hand rubbing his back or arm, taking his hands into theirs, a hand cupping his jaw, fingers weaving into his hair where they could and scratching or rubbing pleasantly at his scalp, when removing the cuffs one at a time before recuffing him and rubbing soothing ointment where they chafed, a fleeting kiss to his temple or to his forehead or to fingers, when the ointments would ease his aches after he was raped.

The kindnesses became overabundant.

It was the touching. It was the physicality. The proximity. These would truly undo him, because he wanted to reject it, find it objectionable. And yet.

Oxytocin is self-perpetuating and is a way for the body to reward itself.

Receiving touch fosters empathy, a sense of nurturing. Hugging and other forms of nonsexual touching causes the brain to release oxytocin, which stimulates the release of other hormones, such as dopamine and serotonin, while reducing stress-induced hormones, such as cortisol and norepinephrine.

Nearly a year ago—just as the height of summer's heat began to peter and usher in the lingering but comforting warmth of early autumn—Maeve seemed to take greater care in where their conversations went after they she learned about his past addiction, things that he dealt with in high school, and other things besides.

She tried, it seemed, to steer and deepen the conversation to that of the simple act of touching.

"Despite this, Spencer, I think that you crave meaningful camaraderie and sensuality. You come off as touch averse, but I think you're touch starved. Have you ever considered touch therapy?"

"No," he strained out.

"What of the possibility of exploring these things—in whatever measures you're comfortable—with Derek or Penelope or JJ? You already share an intimacy with them. There are no better people to explore this with in small steps."

He feared their rejection of this, and more so feared that it might become a tactile addiction. And he told her these things.

"And you know that I have a proclivity to addiction," he added.

"Well, Spencer," she said, "To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead. I doubt they'd reject you if you had a candid conversation with them. Your fear comes from your abandonment. They love you—and may cherish you more for your openness about this. Put an arm around them until it feels natural and right. Reciprocate. If they hug you, hug them back. And do it damn hard."

Spencer puffed out a laugh.

"Share an innocent kiss, too. A peck on the cheek or forehead or in the hair. I imagine any of them would love it. Oh! Here's a wonderful opportunity. Penelope and Derek are planning on going to London soon to visit Emily, yeah? When they return, just—just get in there, Spencer. Give them all the affection you've got!"

"Hah! These things don't always come naturally."

"Of course not. But I think you've fallen naturally into it before. Didn't you say you danced with Emily just months ago when JJ and Will married? Required a lot of touching, that bit."

Spencer laughed uneasily. "I make an awful dance partner, I promise you."

Maeve hummed in laughter. "I hope I can be the judge of that one day, if you'd let me?"

Spencer cleared his throat. "Um, that was an exception due to celebration. I'd had a bit more to drink than I'd like to admit, because I hadn't drunk in so long because I've been trying to cut out alcohol altogether, and—"

"Spencer, why do you deny yourself any happiness? You enjoyed dancing with her—alcohol or no alcohol. That's the simple truth. You love her. Anyway, let's not dwell on that. My point is, I think you can try for more physicality in small measures. Where did I leave off?"

"You'd mentioned Derek and Penelope going to London."

"Oh, yes! You know, what I love about Derek is that while he seems hypermasculine from how you've described him over time, he's equally soft and I don't think that he allows that to threaten his masculinity. He himself is a physical person and connects through touch. I'm not trying to make any comparisons between the two of you—just, I don't know—emphasizing that I think he would probably be pleasantly surprised to receive some of that reciprocity or unprompted physicality from you. Be still my heart, honestly, and—Spencer, you never stop me when I start rambling."

"I, uh, I really—I'm always enthralled by your devotions. I didn't want to stop you."

"Ah . . . It seems there's some lingering hesitation, though. I'll not push this, Spencer."

Spencer cleared his throat.

"Well. I'll not push it beyond just saying that no two objects touch without exerting an equal and opposite reaction, Spencer. Give and they'll reciprocate. Or express reciprocity when they give. If they do reject you, which—again—I very much doubt, you'll still have me once this is behind us. And however our relationship continues to flourish, I hope we'll work it together. There's still more to know about you, Spencer, and much for you to know about me. We'll learn, in time."

Spencer had a craving for deliberate and lingering contact, but from a small circle of people he trusted—the constancy of touch rather than its fleeting ephemerality. From the right people, he came to like hugs, came to like tightening his arms around those he cherished and feeling them tighten their arms around him and mold themselves against him. He liked to press his face into the crook of their necks and feel the flutter of blood rushing in their jugular, inhale the scent of their persons. The pressure was welcomed.

He'd done these very things when they comforted him after Maeve died.

He loved Penelope's suppleness, Derek's firmness, Jennifer's warmth and the loving places these touches came from. These fulfilled a primordial need within him that he couldn't and wouldn't deny. It triggered the parasympathetic nervous system, giving him a sense of calm, peace, and longing. But he craved it with a tenacity that he feared, a tenacity that he knew might push them away.

It was probably why he'd drawn himself to his peer in college. He'd missed that affection from his own mother, and his peer had given it to him in doses that were too fleeting.

Maeve's visage crept into what he knew was a hallucinatory dissociation.

Beyond the dreams, she reached out to him, but he kept his distance from letting her touch him. He was still afraid of dancing with her, of touching her skin.

Seeing her caused the fringes of thens and befores, of thems and theys—like the waning resonances of a tuning fork, just an echo—to ripple before him. Other times, those fringes became a patchwork of memories, and the varying scenes would punch through him entirely, assaulting him with vivid recollections of people, events, feelings. He fought between clinging to those people and that other life or just letting it go.

Maybe he and Maeve should never touch at all. Maybe he should be content to let that chasm remain between them. He didn't want her to be a ghost of a memory if she was the only thing tying him to a past. They, too, might become ghosts.

'I just might have to give you a cuddle session. I know you love my hugs. But you've never gotten my cuddles. I'll shower you with that oxytocin stuff.'

Penelope's touch was wrapped in an inexplicable, pleasant and uncomfortably comfortable somethingness. It was welcome and unwelcomed, liked and unliked. Unable to put a true word to such a feeling, he equated it to the physical sensation he both hated and enjoyed: feathery wisps of softness against his cheek and where he perceived it.

It had to do with the somatosensory cortex and its neural processing. It was an aversive but pleasant and stimulating feeling that made—of all things—his tongue tickle. This was why he'd loved holding Henry as an infant and a toddler, loved rubbing his cheek against his tufts of hair or feeling the child's lashes flutter against his cheek.

It felt like that with Penelope, but all over, blooming from his chest—a pleasant tickle that was displaced from its true source. It was a feeling unlike what the girl from Caltech had given him, for he had learned to read people with more ease, no longer as naïve as he had been in college; he could analyze them with greater precision, and Penelope Garcia was downright titillating.

Before Penelope, there was Derek, who had downright confounded him.

'Maybe you do prefer males.'

When he first met with him as a physical training mentor back at the FBI Academy, what began as apprehension quickly became irritation and rage and a fire, but it was eventually washed away by something that he couldn't quite place. He was confused at what it meant, and he wondered what feelings he might harbor for Derek. The draw to his charisma was gravitational—inescapable—and the more he felt it the more confused he became because people like Derek—those kinds of people had only ever hurt him when he was younger.

Nothing about Derek's personality aligned with Spencer—not his flippant attitude, not the vocal and sexual promiscuity—which he was positive was compensation for something. Yet he was intelligent, incisive, guarded, and didn't settle his interests on one person or another for too long. Except, later, with him and his teammates.

A strange familiarity unlike that which Spencer had felt toward any man began to flourish, for Derek was physically uninhibited: he put his hand or arm on or around him—but not like the girl from college had; he called him various names and he flicked his hair and messed with him—but not how his high school bullies had. At the seat of it all was a warmth and a constant and enduring protection. He called him Pretty Boy, and he sometimes gave his jaw a tap.

Were these lingering feelings attached to this affection normal?

Spencer didn't know, but he didn't hate it. He'd never had anyone of his peers treat him in such a way. His friendship with Ethan in middle school had been antagonistic and riddled with rivalry. When Ethan and his family moved away to Boston, the two lost connection and didn't cross paths until happenstance years later after he'd moved east to complete his third doctorate and obtain his baccalaureates.

So there was never this kind of physical closeness he experienced with another male. Well, except for passing, brief memories of his own father, but he'd obliterated almost all of them. Not even Jason in the passing years afforded him more than the rare pat.

He clung to it, and Derek was the first of anyone outside of his home to give it to him so uninhibitedly. It was a feeling of being fiercely protected and loved, and he cherished it and wanted to reciprocate it but was unable to truly understand how he might without it pushing Derek away or without fumbling about it. But Derek did always seem to smile at his bumbling efforts.

When Diane had touched him while he was blindfolded—reaching her hand into his shirt and fondling him, letting her fingers linger on his neck and crawl toward his jaw—and he knew that Maeve was watching him being touched by the one who had brought her so much trauma for months, he didn't concentrate on how similar it was to what happened to him when he was in high school or college. It took days and weeks for that horror to catch up to him. What he thought of, in that moment, was that he was betraying Maeve.

It was necessary to distract Diane. It was for Maeve's sake. She would understand. She would understand his lie when he told her that he didn't love her. She would understand these things.

Seeing her broke that ruse. Seeing her was the manifestation of potential. He could see—in that moment—what their hands might look like if they interlaced, how her body might feel if he wrapped his arms around it and held her tightly, what her smile might look like if she laughed. He could see what their children might look like if their DNA collided, their child as an infant, toddler, awkward but well-adjusted teenager, young adult.

And that kiss. That damned kiss. It was like everything he had learned about kissing—that deeper intimacy, that next level of touch—was forgotten. He couldn't work his lips or his jaws in the way he had been taught would enrapture his partners. No, he pulled back. His hands stayed and his eyes lingered as he awaited its finish so he could sufficiently please Diane enough to finally end this, so he could then rush to Maeve, tell her he loved her, hold her, feel her, smell her.

After the trouble was over, he would have become so deeply enmeshed and intoxicated with her that he wouldn't know where he ended and she began, two beings of pure energy that coalesced into one.

It hadn't ended that way.

Now these two, as previously unshaped in his mind's eye, were beginning to take shape. And he felt, again, that he was betraying Maeve or—at the least—that she wouldn't have wanted him to do this. This wasn't what she had meant when she spoke of two objects touching.

Because somewhere between the deep somnolence he was often thrown in and the fractal periods of clarity, it was these affirmations and these touches that caused the pendulum to begin to shift, swing. Days ebbed and flowed inconsistently, and the only things that tethered him to time were firm, constant touches.


.

.

.

The cases mentioned in passing here are from Criminal Minds episode 09x04 To Bear Witness and episode 9x19 The Edge of Winter.