Author's Note: I felt bad that the Prologue was so short, but people seem to be interested, yay! Again, this is all just a bit AU. Lots of introspection in this chapter, and setting up of the case. Reviews are always appreciated!

"What was silent in the father speaks in the son, and often I found in the son the unveiled secret of the father." – Friedrick Nietzsche

Dr. Spencer Reid pressed his forehead to the airplane window. It was too hot on the plane, and he positioned himself so that as much of his lanky body was pressed against the cold plastic wall as was possible. His hands were dry, his mouth was dry, his nose was dry, his armpits were wet, and his knees were practically under his chin, he was so tightly squeezed into the coach seat. The sole of his foot itched. This was the epitome of discomfort.

Reid was mildly claustrophobic. Nothing extreme; he could handle elevators and small spaces and crowds just fine. He just didn't like being crammed in; it put him on edge. His mouth was just a little drier than it should be in the recycled air. He sweated just a little more than one normally would in the overheated fuselage. The buzz of the engine and murmur of the passengers' conversations grated on his nerves just a bit more than they ought to. Now, a dark tight space, that would be a problem. That would be a panic attack. But this he could handle. He loosened his tie and reached up to turn the little fan above him in a vain attempt to get it to blow more directly onto his face, but he didn't push his rumpled shirtsleeves up. Instead he scratched absently at the crook of his elbow.

God, he missed the BAU jet.

Next to him David Rossi sat, effectively being the exact opposite of everything Reid was at that moment. Rossi looked cool as a cucumber. Somehow seemed comfortable in the impossibly uncomfortable airline seat. Somehow managed to fit his arms and legs into the tiny space as if it were made just for him. The armpits of his precisely tailored and wrinkle-free suit were dry, and his eyes were swimming as he chatted up the flight attendant. Chatted her up, but with genuine interest, and with genuine respect. That's just how Rossi was: he presented as every stereotype, and then promptly turned those stereotypes on their heads. He was a playboy, but considered everyone his equal. He was a smartass, but he was a compassionate smartass. He approached every situation as if he owned it, but somehow he wasn't patronizing.

"I'm telling you," Rossi was saying to the bemused flight attendant, "he's terrible, terrible. I beat him every time." The flight attendant laughed and brushed a greying lock of dark hair from her face, before arching an elegantly curved eyebrow and pursing her bright red lips skeptically.

"You beat Ringo Starr at Rock Band, on his own songs? You're full of it!" she laughed.

"It's the truth. The complete and utter truth," said Rossi.

Reid liked listening to them flirt. It was like listening to a foreign language, of course, one he never expected to master himself, but it was a pleasant-sounding language.

He smiled slightly and turned his attention back outside. The cool window calmed his hot forehead, and he tried not to think about all the hot foreheads that had pressed against it before his. He gazed out at the expanse of cloudless blue sky, and into the distance as it faded to the hazy brown of heat and smog at the horizon. Then he turned to the earth below, letting a wending river lead his eyes as it cut its path through the dry, brown terrain. The fractal lines of its tributaries and distributaries branched off in patterns that were repeated in the erosion of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, in the long shadows they cast in the afternoon sun, in the branches of the evergreens that dotted the foothills, in the trails of the condensation on the window's double-layered lexan polycarbonate. The same patterns that were found in all of nature, the formulae for which were as clear and obvious in his mind as the colors and shapes were to his eyes. Mathematical constants that defined the branching of a river, the branching of the veins in a leaf, the branching of the veins in his arm.

There was a missing child down there somewhere. He and Rossi had been interrupted in the middle of the prison interview they were conducting at San Quentin by a tubby, mustachioed prison guard who relayed the message from Garcia. He apologized for the limited cell service in the institution, and informed them that Garcia had been trying to reach them for twenty minutes. There was a statewide AMBER Alert in effect in Nevada, and they were booked on the next commercial flight to Las Vegas to join the rest of their team for the search.

Reid was a little disappointed that the trip had been cut short. He had jumped at the chance to accompany Rossi on the prison interview. The older agent was an expert interrogator and interviewer, and although he'd joined the team more than six months ago, Reid had had few opportunities to watch him in action. A few hours ago, one would have seen Reid, ever eager to learn, standing with his nose almost pressed to the one-way window of the interrogation room as the warden flipped the switch of the microphone, allowing them to hear the conversation within. Now, as he sat on the cramped plane, he replayed the interview in his mind, and try as he might, he couldn't help the running comparison that ticked in his head between Rossi and Gideon.

He knew the two were friends, that they had founded the BAU and worked together for decades, but their styles couldn't be more opposite. Gideon would have approached this interview with the quiet distance of a naturalist observing wildlife. He was methodological and precise, and completely separate from the object of his study: an outsider. Reid knew how much he and Gideon were alike in that way. Rossi, on the other hand, strode into the room as if it were his own living room, nodding at the murderer before him as if they were old pals. Men of a certain age always reacted well to Rossi. It was like they instantly understood that he understood them, that they shared a history.

Gideon would have eased his way in, with order and control over each question, like a mathematician with a formula that when followed, would inevitably lead to a solution. Rossi's control was as undeniable, but more abstract, and difficult for Reid to grasp.

Gideon. Reid forced the man from his mind. He didn't want to think about him. An ugly knot of anger twisted in his stomach when he did, tangled with the bitterness of feeling unwanted, and the pathetic neediness of someone abandoned. He loathed that word, abandoned. Gideon had always introduced Reid by his title of Doctor, his way of insisting that others look past his youth and treat him like an adult. But when he left, he left Reid feeling like a child. A pathetic, angry, abandoned child.

This time, out of the corner of his eye, Rossi caught Reid scratching absently at his inner arm. Reid didn't notice, though. He watched as the natural patterns of the wilderness faded into the man-made patterns of patchwork farms, and suburban cul-de-sacs, and running tracks, and the grids of city streets. He imagined he could isolate a square mile of earth, and zoom in progressively like a satellite, until he could see the missing boy. Was he still alive, a little child huddled in fear and pain? Was he just a body now, used and discarded? It had been three hours and fifty-eight minutes, and the child's odds of survival were dropping drastically with every second.

The flight attendant sashayed down the aisle and Rossi turned his attention from her swinging hips to watch Reid as he stared out the window. The kid was anxious and withdrawn, but he didn't blame him. He'd been doing this job for longer than Reid had been alive, and it still got to him. Especially the cases with kids. There was more to it than that, though, Rossi knew. He watched as Reid scratched again at his arm, and hoped there were no fresh track marks there.

He'd figured that one out a while ago. He wasn't sure if it was smack, or something else. The kid had been clean for several months, maybe since before they met, and Rossi was pretty sure he still was. But Rossi was good at what he did, and he knew a junkie when he saw one, recovering or not. It didn't take long to work it out between the awkward abstinence when the team went for drinks, and the nights out at "the movies" that inevitably followed particularly rough cases. Between the unconscious tics, and the overly conscious attempts to control them.

It had surprised Rossi at first. Not that a fed had a drug habit; he was very aware of the incidence of substance abuse among law enforcement. It was a brutal job, and people coped however they could. Nor was it the fact that Reid was still on the team that surprised him. He was certain Hotch was aware of the situation, and fairly sure that at the very least Morgan and Prentiss were too. Nothing got by Prentiss. But he trusted their judgement, and they trusted Reid. No, it was that this kid, who seemed like the closest he would ever come to a narcotic would be its entry in a medical encyclopedia, had used. The kid was book smart, but he was street smart too, it was deeply hidden, but it was there. He was naïve and a little bratty, like someone who'd been coddled all his life, but there was a world-weariness to him too, that was far beyond his years. He was socially awkward and often seemed genuinely confused when it came to interacting with people, yet he was an accurate and effective profiler. He looked for all the world like an innocent, but out of all of them, he was the one who empathized the most with the people they hunted. Reid was just like that: he presented as every stereotype, and then promptly turned those stereotypes on their heads.

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"Did you get ahold of Rossi and Reid?" Asked Hotch as he, Morgan, J.J., and Prentiss huddled around an open laptop. They were halfway to Vegas by now, and he hoped Reid and Rossi were airborne too.

"They're booked and boarding, sir," said Garcia over the screen.

"Did you brief them?"

"Booked, boarding, not briefed," Garcia replied. "We didn't have a chance to talk. I tried to fax the case file to San Quentin, but the prison's machine is on the fritz. I sent it to Rossi's PDA, but their flight doesn't have Wi-Fi, and even if it did…"

"This is Reid and Rossi we're talking about," finished Prentiss.

"Point taken," said Hotch, "We'll fill them in when we meet them in Vegas."

"Oh those poor, sweet luddites," lamented Garcia. "Do you think they'll ever make it to the digital age?" She twirled a feather-tipped pen between her fingers and gazed with a mock frown through fuchsia cat eye frames.

"What can you tell us about the family?" asked Hotch, pulling Garcia out of her reverie. Her demeanor instantly changed. Cases like this muted even Penelope Garcia's vibrancy.

"Nice, normal, all-American people," said Garcia. "Stay at home Mom, nine to five dad, one son. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a dog. Middle class, suburban home-life. Bill and Kathy Woods celebrated their eleventh wedding anniversary three weeks ago. Charles Woods, age nine, fourth grader at Vegas Verdes Elementary School. Bright, good grades, in the ninety-ninth percentile in reading. On the Little League team. Dad coaches. In the chess club. Teachers say he's well liked, lots of friends. Looks like a happy, well-rounded kid."

Hotch looked down at the photo that had been sent to the BAU before they left: a skinny, smiling boy, with an oversized grin and oversized glasses, the skinned knees of someone clumsy, hands nevertheless gripping a baseball bat with determination. Not the type of boy typically groomed by a predatory offender, but too low-risk to make an opportunistic offender likely.

"He started walking home from school alone a month ago," continued Garcia. "It's a ten minute walk through a safe, populated park, in broad daylight. He took the same route every day."

"He had a routine," said Hotch. "Charles is smart. He knew better than to go off with a stranger. "

"So he knew his abductor?" asked J.J.

"Or he was coerced," interjected Prentiss. "'I've got your mommy in my car and I'll hurt her unless you come quietly.'"

"So we have an extremely low-risk victim," began Morgan, "taken from a public place without a struggle, by a tall, thin, white male," he tossed the family photo he'd been holding onto the table in front of him. The tall, thin frame of Mr. Woods in the center clad in a crisp button-up shirt, arms wrapped around his wife and son. "We all know what the odds are."

"Garcia," I want you to dig into the parents' lives. We need to rule them out first."

"On it, sir, if there is but a speck of dirt it shall be found! Garcia out." and the screen flickered black.

"Morgan," Continued Hotch, "When we arrive I want you to check out the abduction site, and the Woods' home, I'll have Rossi join you after he's filled in. Prentiss, you and I will talk to the parents. Assuming the UnSub is not one of the parents, we're probably looking at a predatory offender. J.J., if this is the case, we're going to need the press and public on this one if we're to have any chance of finding Charles Woods alive."

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"Hey kid," said Rossi, tossing a pack of peanuts at Reid, who fumbled the catch, despite being seated right beside him. They rode in the back of the SUV the field office had sent to pick them up from the airport, and were practically parked in the rush hour traffic. Reid's knee had been jiggling nonstop as he stared out the window, now he turned and looked at Rossi quizzically. "You've had six coffees today, and I haven't seen you eat anything," said Rossi. "As intriguing as it sounds, you can't subsist on a diet of caffeine and sugar."

Reid smiled. "Thanks," he said, opening the packet and popping a handful of peanuts in his mouth, before turning his attention back to the Las Vegas skyline.

"You get home much?" Rossi asked.

"Not really," said Reid. Ah, avoidance. Brief, noncommittal responses. Rossi considered the young man beside him for a moment.

"Me neither," was all he said in reply.

It was twenty minutes later and dark outside when they arrived at he police station, and Reid knew that as night fell, so too would fall the hope of a rescue. J.J. greeted them at the door, a file for each of them in her arms. Behind her stood an imposing, broad shouldered man with a weathered face. "Chief Herrera, this is SSA Rossi and Dr. Reid," said J.J., quick with the introductions and wasting no time on pleasantries. Rossi shook Herrera's hand and Reid gave a small wave from behind him.

"Nice to meet you," said Herrera, "This way." He turned and the trio of FBI agents followed him into the station.

"We arrived ten minutes ago," said J.J. over her shoulder after handing Rossi and Reid their files, "The missing boy is nine year old Charles Woods, last seen walking home from school through Cragin Park. Intelligent, apparently well-adjusted kid, stable family, good neighborhood. Two witnesses saw him leave the park with a tall, thin, white male at around 3:30 pm. He's been missing now for a little over five hours."

They pushed through the hall and into the main office of the station, Reid trailing behind, staring silently at the open file in his hands.

"The parents are in here," said J.J., pushing open the swinging office door. "Kathy woods, forty seven, stay at home mom. Bill Woods, fifty two, lawyer at a small corporate firm."

They entered the crowded and bustling room. Phones were ringing off the hook. Officers in uniform and plain clothes hurried back and forth. Prentiss and Hotch were across the room talking to middle aged blonde woman with a raw, tear-streaked face, and a tall, lean man who looked on the verge of fainting. J.J.'s voice seemed to be fading from Reid's ears. The sounds around him were blending into an indiscernible cacophony. The people were blurring together into a mass of color and movement and light that he couldn't keep up with. He was sweating again, but this time it was cold. He was vaguely aware that he was walking behind Rossi and J.J., nearing Hotch and Prentiss and the man and woman on the other side of the room, but with every step towards them he felt like he was getting further away. He felt out of pace. As if everything was happening a few seconds in the past and a couple feet to the left.

Somewhere far away he heard J.J.'s voice introduce Kathy and Bill Woods, Charles Woods' parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Woods," came J.J.s distant voice, "This is Agent Rossi and Dr. Spencer Reid."

Mr. Woods and Reid shook hands as J.J. said Reid's name. Reid never shook hands, and stared down at the hand clasped in his. The last time he held this hand it was big enough to encase both of his. He looked into the man's face, and knew by the bloodless expression that the recognition was mutual. They held hands just a second too long before catching themselves and letting the handshake end. Then Prentiss was leading the Woods away, and as Reid watched Mr. Woods disappear down the hall, the only thing he could seem to think was that while his father was tall, he was shorter than he remembered.