Spencer didn't understand the appeal of summer. The air was so hot and sticky, plastering his hair to his hair to his temples and his shirt to his chest. There was nothing to do at home; he made multiple trips to the library a week and watched more television in two months than he'd watched in his entire life.

Sometimes he made the trip to the park. It was too hot to play, and he'd never exactly learned how to play, anyway, and there were always swarms of kids on the playground, shrieking and climbing and running while their moms sat at the nearby picnic tables and played on their phones. Usually he found a quiet place in the grass to read, but sometimes he sat down at one of the concrete chess tables. Sometimes a stranger would join him, but more often that not he played by himself, shifting back and forth from one side to the other.

It was almost a relief when school started back in the fall. Not that he was particularly excited about fourth grade, but it gave him something to do, somewhere to be. He forged Diana's signatures on his forms, so he could walk home from school without being interrogated and scolded, or worse, trapped on the playground for the aftercare program. And he qualified for free lunch, which meant that five days a week he had a decent meal to look forward to.

There was nothing particularly exciting about fourth grade. He was still the smallest in his class- skipping second grade meant that he was eight to his classmates' nine and ten, and his unpredictable home life meant he was skinny and bony, and his clothes didn't fit him quite right. His school supplies were left over from the year before, and his hair was a little too long and shaggy, and he had yet to make any friends.

But that was fine with him. Doubtless his mom would finish writing her book soon, and she'd pack up their station wagon again, and they would end up back in Las Vegas before Christmas. Maybe even before his birthday. Not that there was much waiting for him in Las Vegas either, but it was familiar, and he hated change.

He'd only been back to school for a week or two when it happened. Viruses always seemed to sweep through elementary schools like wildfire, and somehow he always seemed to fall victim. Far back in his mind there was a little voice whispering you don't get enough to eat, you don't sleep, you haven't seen a doctor since you were six, you're always worrying about if the bills are paid or if your mother will burn the apartment down, no wonder your immune system is nonexistent.

But he refused to acknowledge that, and he tried to wash his hands as often as he could and stay away from the other other kids in his class, but inevitably he woke up one morning with a headache and a heat crawling under his skin and a twisting in his belly.

He stayed on the couch for as long as he dared, the sheet pulled up to his chin and his face buried in the musty, scratchy fabric of the armrest. Part of him wanted desperately to stay on his lumpy couch bed all day, sleeping and mindlessly staring at the small television. But he could hear his mother in the next room, mumbling to herself as her voice carried through the thin walls, her steps heavy as she paced back and forth, back and forth. So he dragged himself up, splashed cold water on his face, and went to school.

He almost didn't make it through the day. Class passed by in a blur of math worksheets and cursive practice, his stubby half of a pencil shaking in his sweaty grasp. During recess he curled up under the monkey bars instead of climbing to the top, leaving his book closed on the ground, and during lunch he huddled in his usual seat alone, his lunch untouched, the smells of the cafeteria making his nausea even worse.

His teacher caught him not paying attention several times, calling him back down to earth with a sharp question. Thankfully he was always able to summon up some kind of answer, mumbling something satisfactory enough for her not to press him for more information. His teacher wasn't very fond of him, it seemed. She liked her students obedient and quiet, with pliant little minds waiting for her to give out knowledge. Not scruffy little boys who ignored her lectures while he read books under his desk and never asked questions because he already knew the answers.

He made it through till the last bell, his headache pulsing in his ears and his stomach still threatening to rebel, and shuffled out of the room with the rest of his class. "Come on, everyone, line up, nice and neat," the teacher called, her voice piercing as a foghorn. Spencer bit back a wince at the sharpness of the sound.

The other fourth grade class was already in the hall; their teacher was cheerfully bidding them goodbye by name. "Remember, we have the spelling bee on Monday!" she said. "Have a good weekend!" She started calling out to Spencer's classmates too as they passed by, and he tucked his hands into his backpack straps as he walked.

"Oh, hold on, Spencer," she said, beckoning him over. "Are you all right?" He nodded, but she touched the back of her hand lightly to his forehead. "Oh, honey, you're burning up. You might have gotten that stomach flu that's been going around. Tell your mommy you need to rest and get plenty of water, okay?"

"Okay," he echoed quietly, and she sent him on his way with a light pat on his shoulder. .

He bypassed the kids lining up for the school buses and the crowd running for the playground. It would take him twenty-seven minutes to walk home, twenty-nine if he got stopped at the big intersection. He could handle twenty-seven minutes.

But it was so hot, and his head pounded, and his legs shook, and he had to stop twice to find a spot to throw up. For a while he sat on a bus stop bench, trying to catch his breath, dizziness swirling in his vision. He longed for someone to come by and pick him up and carry him home, but the only person he knew in this city was his mother, and she was waiting for him at home.

Probably.

He made it home and tossed his backpack to the floor. "Mom!" he said, trying to call out to her, but his voice came out in a raspy little squeak.

His vision swam and he nearly tripped over a forgotten half-filled trash bag on the floor. "Mom," he called. "Mom, I'm home from school."

The bedroom door was closed and he yanked it open to find it unlocked, but empty. The bed was unmade and the floor was piled with papers and books and fast food wrappers. The air reeked of old coffee and unwashed sheets and stale cigarettes. Just like the house in Vegas did.

Spencer sagged against the doorframe, tears threatening to spill over. He wanted his mother so badly. He wanted someone to clean him up, put him to bed, reassure him that he didn't have to worry.

But his mother was gone and he didn't even have a bed and all he could do was worry.

Slowly he pulled the wadded up top sheet from the foot of the bed, along with a ragged blanket, and grabbed a thin pillow. He shuffled into the bathroom and dropped everything onto the peeling linoleum, but he left the lights off. Slowly he set up a nest for himself and laid down without bothering to take his shoes off, curling up in a tight little ball. The stolen motel blanket scratched into his skin as he hugged his arms tight around his stomach. With the lights off the pressure behind his eyes seemed to lessen, but he was going to be sick again soon. He stared blankly at the scuffed wall, watching some kind of insect scuttle along the baseboard, and tried to force himself to fall asleep.

The bullpen had been eerily silent all morning, and Alex jumped at the sudden burst of unexpected noise.

"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!"

"Dad, we don't have school for the rest of the day!"

Alex picked up the cup of pens and pencils she'd knocked over as two small children whizzed past her, barreling towards JJ's desk. "Hi, baby!" JJ exclaimed, catching the smallest blur in her arms. She kissed Henry on the cheek. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you."

Anderson caught up with them, two backpacks hanging off his arms. "Hi, Agent Jareau," he said, sighing. "Do you know where Agent Hotchner is?"

JJ adjusted Henry on her hip. "He's in his office, he'll be out in a second," she said, taking both backpacks and setting them down at her desk. "Thanks for picking up the boys."

"Yeah, no worries," Anderson said. "Nobody cried this time, so I call that a win."

Jack Hotchner rocked up on his toes. "Aunt JJ, can I go see my dad?" he asked.

"Just a second, honey, he's in a meeting," JJ said. She turned to Alex. "Sorry for the sudden chaos. It was a half day, and usually my nanny takes both boys on days like this, but she came down sick."

"Oh, no, it's fine," Alex said, smiling. "These things happen."

JJ bounced Henry lightly on her hip. "Boys, this is Dr. Blake," she said. "Blake, this is my son Henry, and Hotch's son Jack."

"Hi, Dr. Blake," Jack said, Henry half-echoing him in an almost shy warble. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," she said, smiling at them. "I've seen your pictures on your parents' desks, I'm glad I get to meet you two in person at last." Jack smiled at her brightly; he was missing one of his front teeth. "And you don't have to call me Dr. Blake. You can call me Dr. Alex if you'd like."

"Are you a medical doctor or a book doctor?" Jack inquired.

"Book doctor," she said. "I study words."

Jack brightened. "I got a hundred on my spelling test last week!" he informed her. "I just started in third grade, so we're learning poly...polysill…"

"Polysyllabic words?" she guessed.

"Yeah!" he said. "Long words." He pointed his thumb in Henry's direction. "I'm seven, but Henry's only four. He hasn't learned how to read yet."

"Hey!" Henry protested, his feathery eyebrows drawing together in a scowl.

"I'm sure you'll learn in time," Alex reassured him, and Henry beamed up at her, pleased. "Four is still very little to learn to read."

Hotch stuck his head out of the conference room. "Hey, JJ, can you come in here for a minute?" he called. "And do you know when Prentiss and Morgan are coming back from lunch?"

"Daddy!" Jack shrieked.

Hotch's serious expression relaxed immediately, a smile lighting up his whole face. "Jack!" he exclaimed. He knelt down and held out his arms, and Jack ran to him immediately, flinging his arms around his father's neck. "Hey, buddy. You have a good day at school?"

"Yeah!" Jack said, planting a kiss on the broad plane of his cheek. "Can I play in your office?"

Hotch set him gently down on his feet. "Yeah, you can go play in my office," he said. "I have to be in a meeting with Grandpa Dave and Aunt JJ for a little bit longer, but you two can go play in there, okay? But not on the computer."

"Okay!" Jack said. "Come on, Henry, let's go!"

Henry wriggled out of his mother's arms and zipped off after Jack. "This meeting really won't take long," Hotch said, half-apologetic. "Blake, do you mind just listening in on the kids? They should be distracted enough to not cause any mischief for fifteen minutes."

"Absolutely," she said, smiling.

"We'll be right back," JJ promised, following Hotch into the conference room.

Alex turned back to her paperwork. They were between cases, and she had a backlog of reports to put together. She didn't mind it, really. The work was simple and reassuring, her thoughts settling in the background as she scanned the handwritten words and typed them into fluid sentences. The busywork was a welcome respite from the breakneck speed of the field, or the required energy of lecturing and teaching.

She could hear Jack and Henry in Hotch's office, their little voices high and piping, but too indistinct to catch what they were playing. It was such a strange juxtaposition, their happy sounds against the solemnity of the bullpen.

Suddenly she heard a thump, then a pause, then a shriek. Alex slid her chair back and followed the sound. "I'm sorry!" Jack called over Henry's wailing. "I'm sorry, Henry, don't tell your mom!"

"Hey, what are you two up to?" Alex said as she looked into Hotch's office.

Henry sat in the middle of the floor, legs sprawled out, sobbing at the top of his lungs. Jack hovered nervously. "I didn't mean to," he said quickly.

"Didn't mean to what?" Alex asked. "Why's Henry crying?"

"He p-pushed m-me!" Henry bawled. "I w-want m-my mommy!"

Jack twisted his fingers together. "I didn't mean to," he said again, a little softer.

Without thinking, Alex knelt down to hug Henry. He grabbed onto her immediately, clinging to her neck like a little monkey. She didn't see any blood nor bruises; most likely it was just the indignity of it all that was making him cry. "Were you playing too rough?" she asked. Jack hesitated, then nodded, and she tugged him a little closer to her side. "Jack, how old is Henry?"

"Four," he said.

"How old are you?"

"...almost eight."

"So if Henry is younger, and smaller, do you think you should play more gently with him?" Alex asked. Jack nodded. "What do you think you should do?"

"Say sorry," Jack said quietly. "And be nicer."

She squeezed him lightly "I think that would be lovely," she said.

Jack patted Henry's shoulder lightly. "Sorry for knocking you down, Henry," he said. "I'll be better."

Henry hid his face in the crook of Alex's neck. She patted his back. "Henry, did you hear Jack?" she asked. He nodded. "What would you like to say back?"

Henry shuffled so he could look at him. "S'okay," he said, sniffling hard.

Alex smiled. "Your parents are almost done, I'm sure," she said. "Jack, do you have something quiet you can do until your dad comes back?"

"I have a Magic Treehouse book," he said.

"I think that would be a great idea," she told him. "Henry, do you want to read a book with Jack?"

To her surprise, Henry tightened his grip around her neck. "I wanna stay with you!" he wailed.

Alex hugged him, her heart squeezing unexpectedly. "Okay, darling, you can stay with me," she said.

She got Jack settled in short order on the couch in Hotch's office with a book and a bottle of water from the kitchenette fridge, then went back to her desk. Henry immediately climbed up onto her lap, and she closed out her case report before he could see any of the photos. "Your mom will be done soon," she told him. "You're sure you don't want to go read with Jack?"

Henry shook his head. "Nah-uh," he said. "I wanna stay with you."

He cuddled up on her lap, tucking his head against her shoulder. Alex kept one arm around him, and pulled up the google doc for her next lecture. She typed one-handed, keeping Henry close. He seemed perfectly calm now, his blue eyes- just like his mother's- owlishly round as he watched her work. Slowly he started to doze off, his little head nodding, and before long she realized he was asleep.

Alex stopped working and adjusted him on her lap. It had been so, so long since she'd held a child as small as Henry. He was soft and warm and sturdy, his flyaway blond hair still smelling faintly like strawberry shampoo, and his sleepy breathing was steady and reassuring. Alex smoothed his hair back from his little face. After a moment she turned back to her work, but she was careful not to jostle the little boy for fear of waking him up.

After a while she felt JJ touch her shoulder lightly. "I'm so sorry," she said. "Has he been bothering you?"

"Oh, no, he's fine," Alex said. "There was a little squabble earlier. Jack's in Hotch's office reading a book, but Henry wanted to stay with me."

JJ smiled, running her slim fingers through Henry's hair. "Jack can play a little too rough for a preschooler, but he's a sweet kid," she said. "Henry must really like you, though. He's usually pretty shy around strangers."

"Oh, I don't know, he probably just wanted the nearest adult to give him a hug," Alex said. "Four's a tough age."

"Oh my god, absolutely," JJ said. "Will and I didn't know what we were in for. We were so excited for him to start talking, but now he's learned to argue!" She laughed. "Here, I can take him back, I'm sure you're tired of holding him."

JJ held out her arms to take her son back and Alex handed him over quickly. "He's beautiful," she said. "He looks just like you."

"Oh, really?" JJ said. "Thanks. Everyone says he looks the most like Will, except for the hair."

"No, no, I can see it," Alex said.

JJ smiled. "Thanks," she said. She tugged at the hem of Henry's shirt as he snuggled into her shoulder. "I think he kind of looks like me too."

"Oh, he definitely does," Alex said. "Sons always seem to take after their mothers the most."

JJ tucked a strand of stray blond hair behind Henry's ear. "You know, you're really good with kids," she commented. She frowned, her eyes darting quickly over to the framed photo on her desk- just the two of them, James's arm tight around her waist. Alex knew what question was coming next, and she braced herself. "You don't have any kids, do you?"

Breathe in. Breathe out. Eye contact. Smile.

"No," Alex heard herself say. "James and I don't have any children."

JJ smiled at her. "Well, if you ever want to borrow mine, you're more than welcome to," she said. She adjusted Henry on her hip, holding her sleeping son with the ease of four years' worth of motherhood. "He's the love of my life, but he's a handful, you know?"

Alex felt her smile freezing and tightening. "That's what I've heard," she said. She got up from her desk. "I'll be right back."

She walked to the bathroom, her steps even, and it wasn't until the door was closed and locked behind her that she allowed herself to breathe, gasping for air, her hands pressing to her mouth.

Ethan looked like her. Everyone said that. James said it first, the moment he saw their baby in her arms. And he did. Her dark hair, her dark eyes, her cheekbones, her pointed chin. Maybe James's nose, but all in all, he looked so much like her that there was no question who his mother was.

And now her arms were empty, and she lied about him, because no, she didn't have a child now, but she did, once, she was a mother, once, and holding someone else's son for the first time since she buried hers made her heart ache and bruise, because for the first time she realized with a piercing, painful clarity that she wanted a child again, wanted to be somebody's mother again.

She let her thoughts fall and rise and tangle like rocks in a tumbler, and when the sharp and jagged edges that hurt her so badly were smooth and glassy again she splashed a little water on her face without looking in the mirror, and she went back to her desk with a calm half smile that gave no sign to the ache in her heart.

Spencer started to avoid going home as much as he could.

The September weather was still remarkably warm, warm enough that he could stay outside until it was too dark to read. The neighborhood playground became his new refuge, a safe place away from the organized chaos of school and the scattered disorder of his mother turning their apartment into her personal universe.

Usually he brought a book with him, or two, and he'd find a safe spot to read until the sun had long gone down and his eyes stung from squinting at the pages. Often he scrounged around in the grass and around the park benches and sewer grates for loose change, sometimes digging up enough to buy a greasy hot dog or a thin slice of pizza from the gas station across the street. He was used to being hungry, especially on weekends, but it was nice when he could get at least something.

His mother's book wasn't going well. She was more stressed now, her smoking nearly incessant, and now usually accompanied by some kind of cheap alcohol. More often than not she went days without showering, longer without leaving the apartment. She wandered around like a ghost, wrapped up in her ugly pink bathrobe, talking to herself in a steady monotone mumble. Usually he stayed out of her way. It got worse when she noticed him. Her moments of clarity were fewer and farther between nowadays, and he seemed to make it worse. She may have been the ghost, but he was haunting her.

Nobody really bothered him at the park, either. He was a ghost there too, finding quiet places to hide, away from the noise and the other children and the chaos.

It was late in September, almost chilly enough for him to start to worry, when his hiding spot behind the tire swings was discovered. A boy around his own age jumped in front of him, startling him badly enough to drop his book. "Hi!" he said brightly.

Spencer grabbed for his book and scooted back, hugging it to his chest. "Hi," he echoed.

The boy smiled at him. He was all blond curls and guileless blue eyes and his clothes looked new, and for a hot irrational moment, Spencer hated him. "We need one person so our teams are even," he said. His words came out in a cheery little lisp; he was missing one of his front teeth. "Do you want to play?"

"I'm...I'm not good at games," he said.

"That's okay!" he said. "You don't have to be good, we just need teams to be even. Please come and play?"

He didn't know to say no, so he tucked his library book into a safe spot and followed the taller boy. "I'm Riley," he said. "You're in Mrs. Pennington's fourth grade, right? I'm in Miss Fairchild's, she's a lot nicer than your teacher."

Spencer could only nod as Riley continued to jabber, pulling him to an open spot in the park. A couple of kids he recognized from school loitered around, bouncing a dirty red kickball between them. "I found another kid to make our teams even!" Riley called. He turned to Spencer abruptly. "What's your name?"

"S-Spencer," he stammered.

"Spencer's on my team!" Riley said.

He felt vaguely nauseated. "What are we playing?" he asked, but the game had already started. Years of avoiding trouble in gym class had taught him how to keep from drawing attention to himself, so he settled for running back and forth on the outskirts of the group, staying away from the ball and the rowdy bigger kids, but making it look like he was doing something. His lungs seized and burned; he wasn't accustomed to running around so much and he got a stitch in his side almost immediately.

None of the kids seemed to notice that he wasn't actually doing anything. They were too busy playing, screaming and shouting with Riley as their ringleader. He even thought about sneaking away, that they wouldn't realize if he left, but he was afraid of what would happen if they did.

Suddenly a whistle caught their attention; Spencer nearly tripped as the game screeched to a crashing halt. "Riley, time to go home, the sun's going down!" a woman called from across the park.

"Coming, Mommy!" Riley called back. He turned to his friends, tossing his head and shaking his curls. "See you guys later. Spencer, you can come play with us again if you want."

"Oh," Spencer said, almost stupidly. "I- okay. Thanks."

The game dissolved quickly, the other boys splitting off to their own devices. Spencer went back in search of his book. It was getting dark, the sky softening to a velvety deep blue, so he might as well go home too.

He made his way back slowly, his book tucked under his arm. The air was still pleasantly warm, but surely it would only be a matter of time before the temperature would start falling. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do when it got cold. His hoodie and shorts wouldn't be enough to keep him warm in the winter, and he wasn't sure how to ask his mother for a warmer coat- or better yet, if they would be going home to Las Vegas soon.

He trooped up the splintered wooden stairs to his apartment and unlocked the door, but he paused as soon as he stepped inside. "Spencer!" Diana said. "Oh my god, where have you been, baby?"

He blinked. "The park," he said blankly. His mother was in the kitchen, and dinner was on the stove, and her hair was dark with water from a recent shower. "Are...are you okay?"

Diana switched off the burner. "Of course I am," she said. She cupped his cheeks in her hands. "Where on earth have you been? I was about to go looking for you. You had me so worried. School's been out for hours."

She rubbed her thumbs against his cheeks, and Spencer's eyes welled up. "Mommy," he whispered, and he burst into tears.

"Spencer, what's wrong?" she asked, bewildered. He dropped his book on the floor and flung his arms around her waist, burying his face in her stomach. "Why are you crying? Did something happen?"

"I missed you!" he sobbed.

Diana picked him up and he threw his arms around her neck. "Oh, honey, what are you talking about?" she said, rubbing his thin back. "I'm here. I'm right here. Stop crying, you're okay."

He pulled back and wiped at his eyes. "Mommy, can we go home soon?" he hiccuped.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "We are home."

"No, I mean Las Vegas," he said. "Our house."

She smiled at him, but there was something vague and unfocused in her eyes. "Sweetie, we are home," she said. She brushed his hair back from his face. "Are you hungry? I made dinner."

He shook his head and laid his cheek back against her shoulder, another sob shuddering through his little frame. Diana patted his back absently, shushing him, and he tried to swallow his tears down so she wouldn't worry.

Author's Notes:

oh man WHY DO I KEEP WRITING SAD THINGS?

they're going to meet soon. they really are. ahhhhh

but

Alex definitely wants to be a mom. She really wants the chance to be a mom again.

and poor Spencer. he loves his mom SO much. but he needs someone to swoop him up and hug him and take care of him.

also

plot is starting to happen.

thank you for bearing with me through all of this heavy sad stuff! they're meeting soon and I'm excited about it! thank you so much for reading!