Chapter Four

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When Spencer Reid was four, almost five, his maternal grandfather passed away in Maine. Even with his eidetic memory, his visions of that time were fuzzy, but one clear picture of he and his parents driving through Illinois one night on their way home stood out.

It had been night time, the only lights coming from the dashboard and the pale yellow beams of the car's headlights, the only noise the radio and his mother's occasional sniffling, but he hadn't been afraid. (His fear of the dark would come years later.) Instead, he watched the moon outside follow them along, completely unconcerned in the way only small children can manage, and only when they are in that comfortably drowsy state of near sleep. But just as sympathetic worry for his mother threatened to pull him out of it, Spencer watched as his father took his right hand off the wheel and reached across to tenderly take his mother's left and then to his surprise, William started to sing to her, crooning along with the Fleetwoods as they sang "Mr. Blue" (a song that must have first come out when his parents were mere toddlers, if Spencer remembered correctly). Lulled by the soft strains of his father's voice, the little boy felt a warm swell of contentment and security, one so deep he didn't even quote to his father the accident statistics of drivers who drove with one hand. That night Spencer had drifted off to sleep with what, in an ideal world, should be the birthright of every child: the belief that he was snug and safe within the cozy embrace of a warm, loving family.

While that feeling was never so strong again, Spencer was able to believe in its basic truth for five more years. Then his father left and, along with all of the other things he blamed William Reid for, there was the fact that his leaving caused his son to question all of the happy memories he'd ever had of his family. Memories of his father watching Star Trek with him, or reading Isaac Asimov to him at bedtime; of his father and mother all dressed up and laughing and even dancing in the hallway just before they headed out to a Christmas party; of his father carrying him on his shoulders when he'd finally managed to knock the ball off the stand in T-Ball or laughing when he'd only taken eight minutes to find every Easter egg his grandma had hidden for him when he was three.

For years after, Spencer would lay awake at night, wondering if all those memories had been nothing but an act. Had all of his faith that he was a loved and wanted child been a mistake? He wasn't an oblivious child; he had seen very easily the growing tensions between his parents, that his mother's illness had been growing worse and his father's increasing inability to cope, but he has still thought that at least they had loved him. However, his father's departure changed all that. It left him doubting everything that had gone before, including the worth of his own judgment and even the stability of the world around him. "It had all been lies," he eventually concluded with his young black-and-white mind, "He must have done those things only because that's what people do. It was all obligation and show."

Lies. All of it lies.

And now his entire life was a lie.

Like Hotch, he'd been profiling his father as the man's tale unfolded (though not to the same degree, since for him, like for Rossi, this was personal). Nothing his father had done over the last hour indicated that he wasn't being truthful. And, as cruel as William Reid's actions had usually ended up being, he hadn't told that many outright lies to Spencer over the years. Prevaricated and hidden the truth, yes, but the things he did say usually turned out to be true in the end. But what did believing his father get him? His parents, where he was born, his date of birth - it meant they were all untrue. Even his name wasn't his: Spencer Reid was meant to be the name of Janine Rutherford's son, the boy presumably now buried in the grave his own colleague had provided, thinking it was his son he was laying to rest.

His entire identity was gone. Who was he now?

Caught up in his reflections, and still trying to absorb his shock at finding out he was adopted, he had lost track of the conversation around him and so flinched when suddenly there was a giant swab coming at his face.

Hotch pulled it back. "Reid? Are you all right?"

"What are you doing?"

"It was felt best to have a DNA test done before things went any further," Hotch explained. Then he looked at the others and nodded towards the door. The rest of the room understood things might go better if Hotch could talk to Reid privately and so they got up to leave without a word.

"Who's 'we'? And why not just use our records at the Bureau?" Reid demanded after they had all filed out, but the answer came to him as soon as he asked the question. "Oh. Because there might be a lawsuit..."

"A separate and more specialized DNA comparison would be better, and yes, keep the Bureau from becoming involved in any legal entanglements," Hotch said. Reid thought the older man looked regretful at having to go into lawyer mode when dealing with such a personal matter for two of his friends. "And," Hotch went on, "well, there are other considerations."

"Like what?" Reid asked.

"If you and Dave do turn out to be related, and the Bureau learns of it - "

"They'll kick one or both of us off the team," Reid realized. "Reassign us." Was he now going to lose his friends as well?

Hotch nodded.

It was a sign of Reid's brilliance that, even as parts of his mind reacted to the situation - felt rage, despair, confusion, loss - and his thinking process seemed bogged down to a near standstill by the sheer soap-opera unreality of the fact that the man he'd been working with for over six years (six years, four months and twenty-five days, his mind corrected), he could still reason out the problems Hotch wasn't saying. He looked at his Chief. "Won't that happen in any case? The team dynamic will be forever changed if we find out this is true. Can you really promise that we'll be able to function as a group even if our superiors don't find out?"

"I don't know," Hotch admitted. "But we can't even consider it until we know there's something to consider." He moved to put the swab in Reid's mouth again, but the younger man pulled back.

"I don't know if I want this," Reid said, the words out of his mouth before he could even think. "No, that's wrong. I know I don't want this." As long as it was hypothetical, his paternity was like Schroedinger's cat - either true or untrue, but - as long as the box wasn't opened - an unknown entity. And if was unknown, then he could convince himself it was unimportant.

"Your answer if perfectly fair and understandable - "

"But you're going to ask me to do it anyway," Reid snapped.

Hotch sighed. "Yes, I am."

"Why, Hotch? Why should I? I'm thirty-two years old, and I've gone without a father for the last twenty-two of those. Why do I need to find out who my father is? It's not like I haven't been able to make perfectly do without one. What do you think is going to happen here? That I'll suddenly be happy at having a Dad to tuck me in at night or teach me to throw a football or take me fishing? Well, I'm too old for bedtime, I hate football and the smell of fish causes flashbacks to Tobias Hankle! Apart from that, I am fully able to support myself and my mother; I don't need help from anyone."

Hotch ignored this tirade and decided to try a different tack. "Reid... Spencer... You've always been the one most eager for the truth. It's a driving force within you. You got mad at J.J., Emily and me for lying to you. You confronted your father over the Riley Jenkins case, even in the face of the idea that he might have turned out to be a murderer and child molester. Why are you running from seeking the truth now?"

Reid leapt to his feet, wrapped his arms around himself and began to pace. "Those instances were different, Hotch. Your lie hurt me by making me mourn for a woman I love like sister. Riley Jenkins..." Reid sighed heavily and looked away, "Most of it was the nightmares. I believed they wouldn't go away until I found out what really happened, but there was also... I hate to say it, but I think I wanted to discover my father was a murderer so I could feel justified in hating him. As much as it might have hurt, there would have been a bitter satisfaction to it too."

"But this secret only hurts you, and only if you find out, is that it?"

"It's just too much at once!" Reid moaned. "I just lost one identity and before I can blink, everyone is trying to shove me into a new one. I feel like I'm standing on quicksand!"

"I understand," Hotch said softly. "But the problem is this secret doesn't hurt only you. You need to understand how Rossi feels. He's spent the last thirty-two years grieving for a son he thought he lost before the child was even a day old, and now he finds out that the boy might be alive after all. Reid, can you really let that question go unanswered for him?"

Reid dropped his head. A hoarse "No" was all he said.

"So you'll take the test? For Dave's sake?"

Reid nodded. There was a tiny prick of resentment at feeling Hotch was working more in Rossi's interest since he and Dave were closer, but logically and morally Reid knew there was no other decision he could make.

"There is another thing, Reid," Aaron said.

Reid raised his head and frowned a little at not immediately seeing what Hotch was talking about.

"If Dave and Carolyn are your biological parents, that has profound implications as to your medical history."

The schizophrenia. He's talking about the schizophrenia.

Reid had once recorded a message for his mother saying, "I spend every day of my life proud to be your son." That night, after the test, after Hotch had dropped him off at his apartment, and after failing seventeen times to write his daily letter to his mother, he wept in his sleep that, for thirty seconds, what he'd really felt was a surge of excitement and relief at the idea of not being her child.

-x-

Rossi too wept. But for him, it was because of a picture.

He had simmered in the front passenger seat of Aaron's car all the way home, steadily ignoring the silent Reid in the back seat. When they had let Spencer out, he had not said goodbye or even looked at the younger man.

It must be a mistake, he told himself later while sitting in his den with his fifth glass of Scotch. Things like this only happen in bad melodramas. And even if Jimmy had lived, what were the odds we'd know each other? Jesus, the kid doesn't even look like me!

But he does look like Carolyn, came a voice from the back of his mind, causing Rossi to suddenly freeze.

Similar colouring, nothing more, he argued with himself and poured another glass.

The same colouring, the same shape to the eyes, the same propensity to develop dark circles under those eyes when tired or sick, the same wave to the hair, the same ever-so-slight cleft to the chin... the voice said, playing devil's advocate.

Bullshit, Dave protested.

Remember what Russell said? The spitting image of my father?

Dave's heart skipped a beat. Shakily, he went over to the phone and dialled Russell's number. "Russ? Hi, it's Dave. Look Russ, this is going to sound like a weird thing to ask, but can you email me a photo of your Dad as a young man? Say him around twenty-five to thirty-five?"

"Sure, I guess," a plainly confused Russell said. "Can I ask why?"

"I don't want to say in case it's nothing, but if it turns out to be true, I'll tell you everything."

"Okay. Give me a few minutes though - I've never been that good at using the scanner."

Dave turned on his computer and waited and agonizing half hour for the ding to let him know he had mail, drinking and cursing his brother-in-law's ineptitude with technology the whole time.

Suddenly it was there. He opened the attachment.

And then he slapped a hand over his mouth to stop a sob as tears began to fall from his eyes. The answer was right there: the same eyes, the same lanky build, the same jaw line. Looking at a picture of James Matheson in his dress Army Captain's uniform circa 1945 was like looking at a mirror image of Spencer Reid. There was no denying it - the man couldn't be anything other than Carolyn's son.

His son.

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Author's note: Sorry for the delay. I wanted to have this up much earlier, but I've developed an inflamed ligament at the top of my left leg which makes sitting for any length of time incredibly painful, so obviously that slowed the writing down. It's also why I have yet to respond to all the wonderful reviews I got for the last chapter. I hope to get around to it, but if I don't, I just want to tell you all how grateful I am.

Anyway, hoped you enjoyed this chapter!