Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

First, there was snow.

It settled on him softly, grain by grain, like ash from a distant fire. Cold, but not biting. Gentle. Like it had been falling for a long time before he arrived.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was lying down or drifting. He thought there was no ground beneath him that he could feel. Only the weightless press of silence and snow.

Spencer’s eyes opened slowly. The world was dim. Pale.

The sky above twinkled lazily with thousands of stars, so bright it reflected off the endless expanse of snow. Light clouds dotted the night sky, snow drifted down as if it had all the time in the world.

His breath rose in front of him, but it didn’t feel like his own. His limbs didn’t ache, though they should have. His fingers weren’t bruised, though they’d been curled so tightly in his sleep.

Was he asleep?

Was this a dream?

The snowflakes clung to his eyelashes. He tried blinking them away but more fell in their place. He moved his fingers, found that they obeyed him to an extent. Everything felt underwater, his limbs heavy, his eyelids heavy. It was a struggle to keep them open. His breathing was slow and even. His heart, that had been pounding painfully against his ribs, slow and calm.

A prison dream, maybe — the kind that came when the walls were too close and the air too dry. But the silence here was different. Not dead. Held. Like the moment before a voice speaks in the dark.

He turned his head slightly. Snow crunched beneath him, but the sound was swallowed before it reached his ears.

The cold tickled his cheek, his nose. It was there in his breath, on the tip of his tongue.

In the distance, faint golden lights shimmered through the haze of his blurry eyes. The lights were soft, like lanterns bobbing far away — like stars that had forgotten how to burn.

He blinked. They didn’t come closer. He squinted. They didn't come into focus. They didn’t drift. Just pulsed gently through the cold.

There was nothing else.

No wind. No birdsong. No footsteps.

But somewhere beneath the hush — beneath the snowfall and stillness — something stirred.

Not movement. Not noise.

A feeling.

Like the space between breaths.

Like something just beyond the veil.

And then, as if the world held its breath with him, something shifted in the distance. Like a shadow peeling itself off a wall, it moved and took some golden light with it. It turned to him, to look at him.

A pair of eyes.

Golden . . . watching. Unblinking. Their gaze lingering on him from the dark.

Spencer didn’t know if he had seen them, or if they had always been there, waiting. But his breath caught. His body stiffened. And for a moment, he wondered if it was a dream at all.

The figure seemed to hesitate, a stillness in its movements as it looked at him. Spencer thought the silhouette blinked, the gold vanishing into the snow for a moment. Then, there they were again. And the figure began to move. Towards him.

But then — like the softest breeze that you can’t catch — the moment began to slip away.

The world around him softened into a blur, the golden eyes melting into the mist of his mind, the snow growing distant as if it were nothing more than a memory.

He tried to hold on. Tried to keep his thoughts intact. But the haze thickened, the stillness deepening. The crisp edges of the snow dulled, fading.

He could feel the heaviness settle on his chest, like something had wrapped itself around him and was pulling him down into the dark depths.

Spencer looked to the figure, saw its eyes flash, its movements still as it watched him . . .

What?

Was he vanishing?

The thought sent a cold jolt through Spencer's tired body, like a burst of cold electricity that shot to the ends of his fingers, the tips of his toes.

But it wasn't enough. He was still being pulled under, still losing hold on whatever this was.

He tried to open his mouth, to call out. To speak. To ask where he was. But no sound came out. He tried again, and again, and again.

Nothing.

Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Spencer blinked again, and the world of gold and white vanished — the eyes the last shape he saw.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Spencer gasped awake to the clamour of his cell, the hardness of the concrete walls, the unmistakable stench of sweat and fear.

His fear.

His fingers trembled, his legs were jelly and his body shook. He gasped, eyes flickering from side to side as he tried to make sense of it. He could still feel the snow clinging to his eyelashes, still see the golden eyes in his minds eye, still feel the cold on his skin.

Or was that the sweat?

He was stuck to his bed. The cold, hard steel pressed into his spine and chilled him to his bones. His uniform, which clung to him like a second skin, was soaked and he stank.

His stomach roiled and Spencer lurched up, falling off the cot and tumbling to the floor as his insides heaved. He landed on his knees heavily, instantly bruising them and sent a jolt of pain up his legs. Tears flickered in the corners of his eyes as his throat burned moments before he threw up everything he'd eaten in the past twenty-four hours.

He hadn't made it to his toilet.

His hands, covered in the mess, slipped as he struggled to steady himself, barely keeping from face-planting in it. It splattered on his chest, his knees, his arms, his face, even his hair.

He was covered in it.

It stank. The tears started slipping free, dripping down into the mess he'd made.

It made him retch again.

His throat burned and all he could think of was he wanted water. He needed water.

The smell drifted into his nose and he dry-heaved, his body convulsing and spasming at the force of it.

The tears continued to slip past his shut eyes, they were rolling down his cheeks as he bit his lips until they bled.

He couldn't cry.

He wouldn't cry.

If he cried, if they were going to be let out soon and the others saw . . .

A cold hand gripped his heart and squeezed until there was no air left in his body. If the others saw, what would become of him? Shaw had warned him, had told him to keep his head down. But if they walked past this, he wouldn't last. He knew it. He wouldn't last. He would be prey to them. Even now, he heard his neighbours rattle their cells as they screamed about the stench. It wouldn't take them long to realise it had been him.

Judging by how the guards had treated him up until now, he would be forced to clean it up. But they wouldn't come until it was time to be let out of their cells at which point, the other prisoners would be filing past his cell. They would see, and they would remember.

Spencer wanted to cry. He wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. On a case, with his mother, with the team. But they weren't here, and everyone was against him.

It was worse than being alone. The whole world, his new world, was against him. Wanted to trample him into the dirt.

And he'd just given them the ammunition they needed.

His swirling thoughts made his head spin and Spencer realised he was still in the vomit, his hands still gripping the cold, wet ground. His arms shook with the weight of him and his breath came hard, as if he were breathing through concrete. His heart hammered against his ribs and he briefly wondered whether ribs could bruise from this.

He tried to stand up but, his hand slipped again, and he stilled. He tried to will his breathing to settle, his pounding heart to even out.

It was a battle he wasn't ready for.

His mind refused to listen to him. His body rebelled.

He slipped further down, now landing painfully on his elbows. Another spot he would find bruises on. The stinging of tears on the backs of his eyelids was blinding, the sharp taste of blood on his tongue, the blooming heat from where he'd nearly bitten straight through it.

He opened his mouth to ease the pain but had forgotten his proximity to his stench. He could now taste it, and it made him retch.

Briefly he remembered telling JJ once that she should open her mouth when encountering a dead body. A small chuckle bubbled up from his chest, bouncing around his burning throat and tried to still it.

It seemed his attempt only made him laugh harder, wheezing softly as he rested his head against his supporting arm, millimetres away from the floor. His hair was dragging across his sick, but he didn't care. He was laughing and crying as his body was wracked with sobs, convulsing once again until his sides hurt. He bit his lips to keep the sound contained, tasted tangy blood in his mouth, and bit down harder.

The others couldn't hear.

His maniacal laughs soon turned to pure sobs as he knelt, tears streaming down his filthy face. He tried to compartmentalise his feelings, put them into a neat little box in his inner library and push it to the back of a shelf. But each time he tried to grasp them they slipped from him and started bubbling up his throat.

Holding back the sobs only worsened the burning in his throat. His nose ached, his eyes throbbed, a headache was well on its way, and he couldn't swallow without wincing.

He hated it.

He hated being here.

It took him several minutes before he was able to quell his sobbing, and several more to stumble to his feet. His hair clung to his pallid skin as he made his way to his basin, looking to wash his hands. He looked down at his clothes and realised that he had a lot more to wash than just his hands.

He started with his hands and watched them turning from orange to their usual pale colour. When the water was clean again he started on his hair and face, washing it for longer than was necessary but not being able to get the feeling of filth off his skin.

He left his clothes for last. It took him a good hour to clean up, the whole while the rattling of his neighbours intensified until he thought he heard some of them also retching. The thought brought a small flicker of hope to his chest. If they all vomited maybe it meant that they wouldn't know who started it. If he pretended to not know who had started it either maybe he would be okay.

"What the hell is this mess then?" A dark voice asked from the bars.

Spencer froze. A guard stood at the bars, expression unreadable, shoulders drawn taut like he was already tired of whatever excuse would come next. His stomach dropped at the sight.

"Uh . . . I'm sorry. I smelled the others and I . . . couldn't help myself." Spencer mumbled.

The guard muttered something unintelligible under his breath and retreated for a few minutes, returning with a mop and dirty water.

"Clean it up." He grunted, shoving the mop through the bars but leaving the bucket outside the cell. Spencer slowly approached, his pace only hurrying when the guard snarled at Spencer to hurry up.

He grabbed the mop and quickly busied himself to cleaning, the guard standing by the cell the whole time. Probably to make sure Spencer didn't try to use the mop for anything but its intended purpose. He wondered what he could use it for. Attacking the guard, maybe? But what good would that be?

It was a solid handle, he wouldn't be able to easily snap it if he wanted to impale himself. Or keep it as a weapon for later.

It was useless. Like everything else.

Spencer wasn't in the mood to think about what this could be used for. He just wanted it to be done, wanted his floor and cot to be semi-clean. Wanted to be able to close his eyes and just . . . not think. His brain couldn't handle much more, the tension that had eased was gradually coming back, gripping his skull in a vice.

Every moment was agonising. Spencer barely registered the guards' words about dinner. Apparently Spencer wasn't to get any food. He could thank his puking for that.

When Spencer returned the mop he caught his reflection in the dirty water — gaunt, bloodshot, hair plastered to his face. For a moment, he didn’t recognize the man staring back.

Then the guard swivelled the bucket and was gone.

Minutes later, the other prisoners were let out. At least, the ones that hadn't been affected by Spencer's mess. The prisoners filed along, staring into Spencer's cell and muttering amongst each other. At least Spencer wasn't alone. At least they couldn't pin the blame on him. And at least he was permitted to stay in his cell for dinner, a small blessing though he was sure it wasn't intended as such.

He was safe.

For now.

Spencer lay down in the cot, the cold metal bit into his skin. It was uncomfortable, no matter how he twisted and turned he couldn't get his muscles to relax into the material.

In the morning his body would be aching, every muscle screaming at him to stay still. But Spencer couldn't do anything about that.

He thought back to his bed, in his apartment, with all his books. He remembered the smell so vividly it was as if his face were pressed into one. He breathed in deeply, the acrid stench being replaced with his home. He thought he could hear Garcia or JJ at the door, calling out to see if he was okay. His heart ached as he thought of them, as he thought of them knocking on his door. He wished they could do so now, pull him out of here.

It was the last thing he thought of before he drifted off to sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He felt it before he opened his eyes.

Snow.

It stuck to his lashes as if it had missed him, melted on his skin without wetting it, sank deep into his bones — not with the sting of cold, but with the weightless hush of peace.

Unlike his bunk, it didn’t ache. It cradled.

His muscles uncoiled. His breath flowed without thought. His heart beat quiet and steady.

It was like he could breathe.

Slowly — as though waking might scare it away — he opened his eyes.

The sky above was dark velvet, stitched with stars. Familiar, and yet he couldn’t place it. The kind of sky you might see only once and never forget.

His breath drifted up like a soundless ghost, he watched it above him as it swirled through the snowflakes as if it were dancing. Spencer’s eyes crinkled at the sight.

Snowflakes drifted down like they had nowhere else to be. One caught on his lashes; another tickled his nose, and he sneezed softly into the hush.

It just felt good to be here. Even if only for a moment, like last time.

Here, his mind stopped spiralling. Here, he could rest.

Then — a voice. Gentle. Steady. A note in the quiet.

“I was wondering if you’d be coming back.”

Chapter Text

Spencer turned to the soft voice, blinking past the haziness in his vision. The silhouette stood there, the same from earlier. He was sure. Except now he could see it was a young woman, tall and lithe. She stood and looked down at him through bright eyes. They shone, as if someone had plucked tiny suns and given them to her as gifts.

Her pupils were fixed on him, standing in the shadow of what looked like a small, circular building without walls. He didn't have the energy to look at it more closely, to figure out what it was. He was staring at her.

Her head tilted slightly as if analysing him, eyes raking over his figure. With a slow blink she seemed to come to a decision, stepping free from the shadows and letting herself fall into the gentle moonlight.

She was tall and wore sleek black riding pants and scuffed boots, her white shirt was tight fitting and tucked in. Her hair had been pulled harshly back, showing her high cheekbones and almond shaped eyes.

She crouched in front of him, lips pursing as she considered, an arm coming out to lightly brush the hair from Spencer's forehead.

He coughed harshly, turning away to spare her. She didn’t flinch, only watched, hand hovering just above him, radiating warmth.

When the coughing subsided Spencer looked up at her again, blinking away the stinging behind his eyes. She was looking away, in the direction of the glowing golden light, considering.

After a beat, her soft voice spoke, the snow hungrily swallowing the sound, "Well, we can't leave you here like this. Come, into the warmth. We'll get you cleaned up." She didn't move, just watched him quietly. The weight of her gaze settled on him, the expectation.

Spencer didn’t want to reach to her. He didn’t want to get up. The world had disappeared so quickly before. What if he tried and it vanished again? He liked the feeling of snow on his cheeks, liked having someone here with him. He refused to meet her eyes instead, turning away and looking to where the darkness revealed a dense line of forest.

“Either you come with me or stay out here and get hypothermia. And I don’t exactly feel like explaining a dead body to the cops.” She sounded amused. Spencer’s heart fluttered at the sound and he turned back to face her.

She hadn’t moved, and that expectation in her gaze hit him harder the second time.

With a resolve he didn’t yet feel, Spencer groaned as he tried to come to his elbows. The pain shot up his arms like a lancing blow and he whimpered, squeezed his eyes closed as tears sprang up in them.

She shifted, hand slipping under his elbow to lift him gently. He leaned on her, and she took his whole weight without hesitation. He half expected her to vanish into the night, for him to stumble and awake in his cot, gasping and about to vomit again. Instead, she held him steady as he stumbled, his feet not gripping the snow covered field properly. Her grip tightened to steady him, and she did not vanish.

This was such a realistic dream, he thought.

Without a word she directed him across the field, each step more painful than the last. He could barely see the buildings as they passed, barely registered the faint huffing of animals nearby. He noticed movement, someone was leading a large animal past them and called a greeting to the woman holding Spencer. She called out as well but Spencer didn't hear, the pain shooting up his knees and elbows was all consuming. Nothing was working and he wanted to cry, wanted to curl up in a ball and just sob. He wondered why he couldn't do that, this was a dream after all. His dream. He should be able to control it, this woman, everything around him.

Why couldn't he?

He bit back another cry of pain and the woman stilled, letting Spencer suck in deep lungfuls of air as he gasped. His head swam and the world was tilting around him. He vaguely heard the woman telling him to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth, that it wasn't much longer. Spencer held onto that like a lifeline, listening to her repeating them over and over until his heart settled and the pain eased into a heavy throbbing.

They moved together, his steps dragging, his weight pressing harder into her as the snow beneath his feet packed tighter, growing slicker. They passed by the first ray of golden light and Spencer blinked into it, squinting as he tried to see through the open window of the enormous building. From the blurry picture he got he thought it was some large, indoor arena. They shuffled past the next few windows, each looking the same, and they continued shuffling to the front.

A large barn door was open, a soft wave of heat reaching Spencer and brushing away the snowflakes in his hair, his stubble. He blinked at it, not having realised how cold he was until he stood there, staring at a small hallway with chipped green lockers on one side.

A demanding meow drew his attention down to where the fattest cat he'd ever seen sat, peering up at Spencer with glittering golden eyes. Its thick fur was orange and white and it stared at Spencer, as if he had broken some sacred rule only the cat knew about.

The woman chuckled, "Hello, Oscar." She murmured, reaching a booted foot towards the cat and scratching its chin. The cat closed its eyes and purred, the sound rumbling from deep within its chest, "Now move. Come on." The woman muttered, a tinge of humour to the words, the two of them shuffling forwards. The cat didn't listen, only sat in the middle of the door as the two awkwardly pushed past him. The cat waited until they had passed, then waddled into the night. It glanced back once, blinking slowly at Spencer.

The warm air was thawing Spencer out, easing the tension in his muscles, his bones. He hung his head limply, letting his forehead rest against the woman's shoulder. She stilled briefly before continuing with their path.

Warmth hadn’t touched him like this in a long time. He was now glad that his dream hadn't listened to him, hadn't allowed him to cry by himself in a corner in the snow. This was much nicer, even though he thought his arms and legs were able to fall off.

"Open your eyes, please." The words were a deep hum, barely there, her lips so close to his ear that he felt her breath tickle the side of his face. He opened his eyes, saw the ground was concrete with a dusting of straw and sand, her legs in a wide stance as she was now all but carrying him.

He didn't want to lift his head, but he sensed that she wanted him to, wanted him to see something. Slowly, painfully, he let his head lift up. He winced with every movement, with every pull of breath that tore through his throat. The tears clouded his eyes but he looked up and nearly gaped at the horrific sight.

Stairs.

Something must have told her, maybe the stuttering of his heartbeat or the way his legs trembled. But she knew and she shifted so that Spencer could now see her in his peripherals.

"Either you try and walk it or I carry you. Either way, we need to get up there otherwise I can't help you." The woman spoke softly, the words rolling off her tongue clear and strong. Her eyes, while gentle, held no room for argument, effectively silencing the complaints that had been about to pour out of Spencer's mouth.

Spencer looked back up the narrow wooden stairs and swallowed the growing lump in his throat. He swayed on his feet and then a second hand shot out, gripping his body and keeping him from toppling over.

"Okay, carrying you it is." Spencer heard the soft murmur before the steadying hands of the woman left his body. Before he could fall her shoulders were on him, tipping him as he was lifted, smooth and in one movement. Spencer whimpered as another wave of nausea rolled over him and he fought to keep the tide from overwhelming him.

This place was nice; it smelled like straw and something soft. He didn't want to ruin it like he had ruined his cell.

With each step the woman took it jostled Spencer, just lightly. She took multiple pauses up the stairs, each time letting him take several deep breaths until she started up again.

When they came to a landing a wave of relief swept over Spencer as there was a door, already propped open with a few people inside. They looked over curiously, eyes widening at whatever they saw, and the woman nodded silently. Then, instead of setting him down, she continued up another set of stairs. Spencer’s heart dropped and then lurched as they continued the climb.

The second set broke him. His insides shrivelled as he retreated into the recesses of his mind, blurring everything until he was watching the world through tight tunnel vision.

"Almost there. Two more, just two more. You're okay." The words pulled Spencer from the insides of mind, like a rope being thrown down a dark well. He gripped them and pulled, lifting himself out and back into the present.

Back into the dream.

That was all this was, after all.

"I'm going to set you down now. I'm right here," She continued, a soft whisper meant just for him. He clung to them, nodding faintly as his body went slack, letting himself go limp as she brought him down. When his feet touched solid ground his knees buckled but she was there, already with his arm slung over her shoulders and his full weight on her.

She didn't let him fall.

Instead, they shuffled a final agonising stretch into a kitchen area and she sat him down on a built in booth against a wall. For a moment she was gone, returning with a coaster and glass.

"Here's some water. I'll be back in maybe twenty minutes, but I'm in the same room. Just . . . take a few breaths and drink the water. Slowly." She added the last bit as she was rising to her feet from a crouch. Spencer swallowed sharply and nodded, his head throbbing with the movement, reaching for the glass. Her footsteps moved away, but he could still hear her in the kitchen, moving things and lighting a stove. There was the ticking as it turned over and then a whoosh as the gas ignited.

As she pottered in the kitchen, Spencer let his breathing settle and drank the water, letting its coolness soothe his throat. He closed his eyes at the sensation and a small sigh escaped his cracked lips.

A few minutes later Spencer cracked his eyes open and looked around him, letting himself absorb the scene. He was seated by a small wooden table, the booth's cushioning was a red chequered pattern, and right across from him was the kitchen. Between him and the woman stood a large wooden table with six seats and fresh lilies, giving the room a soft floral smell. The furniture was all light wood, warm and worn. The kitchen was large and another vase of flowers was on one of the corner counters, this one filled with sunflowers. The floor was decorated in several small dark red Persian rugs, their surface well worn. Finally, there was a small corner bookshelf next to a closed door, where he assumed the rest of the living quarters were. The shelf was filled with books, each well-worn and loved.

As Spencer surveyed his surroundings he looked out the long windows above the kitchen counters, showing the far side of the arena. The air was warm, not suffocating but the kind of warmth you'd expect from the soft touch of a blanket. Spencer blinked lazily, his eyes were drooping ever so slightly as his muscles relaxed fully into the booth.

"How are you feeling?" The woman was back, holding a small steaming bowl in one hand a cup in the other.

Spencer blinked at her, noticed her eyes darting all over his body looking for signs of pain. "I'm . . . better. Thank you," He whispered, the words coarse against his throat.

As if that was the sign she'd been looking for she moved forwards and set the bowl and mug before him. Spencer looked down and realised she'd taken off her shoes and was now barefoot. He hadn't remembered her doing that.

The woman left for a minute and returned quickly, setting a plate with a small slice of cake next to Spencer and then sitting across from him with her own mug. She wrapped her hand around it and looked quietly at Spencer, letting the silence sit for a minute.

"It's chicken and corn soup. It's what I always crave when I'm not feeling well. And chamomile tea. It's meant to be good for sleep and reducing anxiety," She said softly, lips curving into a small smile as she sipped from her own mug.

Spencer finally looked down at the soup. It looked delicious, if he were honest. His stomach rumbled aggressively and he realised that after vomiting in his cell, he hadn't eaten anything. In fact, it would be nearly twenty-four hours before he ate anything at all in the real world.

What was indulging in some food in his dream going to do? At least he could pretend to eat, to feel full and warm and have tea. Tears welled up in his eyes, he quickly squashed them down as he shovelled food into his mouth. For a moment he realised that he was being incredibly rude to the woman but then remembered that she wasn't real. It's not like he would ever see her again.

He ate in silence, enjoying the feeling of a full stomach that stretched his insides. It didn't feel heavy, he didn't feel bloated, it was warm and good and he noticed it spreading to the rest of his body. When he was done, he quickly reached for the slice of cake and ate that too, savouring the sweet taste of ginger on his tongue. It melted in his mouth and he nearly moaned at its sweetness. The ginger cut through the pounding in his head like a cleaver and he finally felt . . . good.

"You must have been hungry," The woman mused, her voice lilting like a breathy laugh. She stood and cleared the table, leaving the fragrant tea and bringing something green in a small jar. "You're going to need to take off your clothes but please, keep your undergarments on." The musicality in her tone brought a small smile to Spencer's lips.

"Why?" He asked, hands rubbing against each other.

She looked at him, eye crinkling in amusement. "Does it matter? This is all just a dream anyway," She breathed, the words caressing Spencer's mind. He chuckled and nodded, realising she was right. In reality he was just undressing in front of himself, a character he'd created to help him on his first night in prison.

Slowly, agonisingly, Spencer removed his prison uniform. He paused when he had to bend his limbs, hissed when the material scratched over his skin, but he removed it and was sitting breathless, panting, in front of the woman. Gingerly she reached out and held his forearm, lifting it and twisting it subtly to look at his elbow. Her face scrunched at the sight.

"What happened here?" She asked softly. Spencer swallowed and looked down, finding that he was reluctant to tell her that he'd slipped in his own sick and bruised his knees and elbows.

The woman sighed heavily through her nose and looked back up at Spencer, a light apologetic smile on her lips. "Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to put something on these spots to make it heal up quickly and I'm going to bandage it. Then, you're going to take a bath. You smell like you crawled out of a hole," Spencer smiled apologetically at that. "I've got a spare bed that you can use and spare clothes. When you wake, you're going to feel better."

Without waiting for his acceptance, the woman moved to a drawer and rifled through it. Spencer heard little clinks as she pushed items aside and watched her lips soundlessly muttering as she searched. When she came back and crouched in front of him, Spencer looked at her more closely.

Her hands were soft, her fingers light and long as she spread the substance over his elbows first, then wrapped them before moving on to his knees. When she was concentrating her brows bunched and her lips opened just slightly. Her pupils became pinpoints as her hands gently moved his limbs around without pain. Her posture, though she was crouched, was straight. Her shoulders back, her chest proud. Spencer had seen that kind of posture with people who had wood strapped to their backs for long periods of time.

Looking down at her nails, they were precisely cut and clean. She smelled clean too. Not like soap, more like the smell of clean water or snow. Her skin shimmered in the golden light, a natural tan over her subtly strong arms. There was strength in every inch of her. Had noticed it when she carried him up the stairs, the way she hadn't hesitated once, only stopping when he'd needed her to. It was there in her shoulders, the curve of her legs as they held her for a long time in an awkward crouch.

Such muscles, such subtlety, came from continuous use. He wondered what she did. Maybe she was meant to represent someone from the BAU, or law enforcement, someone familiar he'd conjured for himself.

That had to be it. He looked her over again, knowing that the brain couldn’t create new faces, only recall ones previously seen. He didn’t remember her, not at all.

Either he was already going insane – a notion which wasn’t worth consideration - or, the more likely case, the stress of his predicament and his memory loss affected his recollection of her.

When she was done, she looked up at him. An errant hair hovered above her eyes, getting caught in her long eyelashes. Spencer looked down; her work had been impeccable. His elbows and knees were sufficiently padded and then covered in something he presumed was waterproof.

Without a word the woman held out a hand and, with a moment’s hesitation, Spencer let her pull him up and onto her side, supporting him as they shuffled through the closed door ahead.

The next hour went by quickly. She drew him a bath and threw a mixture of fragrant herbs into the steamy water, letting him wash off by himself. When he was done the water looked muddy but Spencer felt good. His skin was raw, his hair soft like silk, and he could breathe again. Like the dirt had encased him as a coffin would, and he'd just cracked it open.

The water and steam had brought several bouts of wide yawning and Spencer knew the dream would end soon. He would drift off like he had before and the thought filled him with a spike of fear.

He didn't want to go back. He wanted to stay.

Pulling the clothes the woman had left for him on was slow and filled with several breaks. His elbows and knees wouldn't bend like they used to, but at least they were less painful than the last time he'd done this. They were now a dull throbbing.

As soon as he was done the woman came into the bathroom, looking at him with a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. She walked past him towards the small window high above the toilet and cracked it open, letting the air from the arena swirl in and dissipate the remaining steam. She turned around where Spencer was watching her, there something in his eyes.

"What?" She asked softly.

"I don't want to go," Spencer whispered, his voice cracking at the end. There was still the faint thrumming of fear like a second set of veins coursing through his body. The woman smiled softly, sadly, and held out a hand.

"Come on. Time to go to sleep."

"I don't want to," Spencer whispered, hesitating. He didn't reach for her hand, though it remained there between them. An inevitability.

"You have to. What would happen if you would stay here? It wouldn't be sleep, it would be a coma. Don't you have people who would miss you?" She said softly, though it was still like ice in his heart. Images of JJ, Garcia, Emily, Luke, and everyone else flashed in his mind and he realised she was right. This was a dream. And an endless one could only mean he was in a coma. He didn't want that to happen, he knew that his team would never forgive him for that. Especially if they ever found out that it had been a choice.

He stared at her hand, his fingers twitching in response. "I'm scared," He murmured. It slipped past his lips, he hadn't meant for them to. But they were there now, hanging on the edge of the woman's fingers, waiting for her response. He couldn't look up at her eyes, couldn't bring himself to see.

"I know. But you'll survive." What she’d said wrapped around him, pulling his hand forward until he grasped hers. She was warm, soft. Stable.

They didn't speak again until they pushed open another door and Spencer walked into a small room. It was mostly bare, made from the same wood that the rest of the living quarters were. The bed was a double with a soft blanket and a large, cloud-like pillow. It was in the same chequered pattern that the booth had been. There was a small bedside table with drawers and at the foot of a bed, drawers for clothes. A shaggy carpet lay by the side of the bed, where someone would place their feet when getting out of bed. Finally, there was an empty bookshelf on the wall opposite the bed. It was warm, not so warm that Spencer would be sweating, but warm enough that a thin jumper would be enough to keep him cosy.

She sat him down on the bed and tucked him in, pulling the blankets until they were snuggly around his shoulders. She smiled at him and went to leave but Spencer stopped her, he tone low and tired as he was pulled down into the quiet depths of sleep.

"What's your name?"

She turned, smiling at him from the doorway. "I'll tell you if you come back."

Something in the way she said it told him she didn't think he would.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Spencer awoke he was back in his cell. He sighed, remembering the dream and the way it had all felt. He wished he could have stayed, but he had to face reality. He had to be here, had to survive and find a way to remain sane so that when he was released, he could return to his team.

He wondered whether his team would come and see him. He had a small tingling feeling it would be soon.

With a heaving sigh Spencer pulled himself up from the bed, expecting to feel his muscles screaming in protest. Instead, they moved fluidly, completely relaxed. Spencer paused, his mind tracking each of movements, seeing where he was injured. Where he should have been injured.

His muscles were fine. In fact, his elbows and knees appeared almost healed as well. He twisted his arm and pulled up his shirt, peering down at his elbow. He expected to see an ugly bruise blooming over his skin. But there was only a light shimmer of red, as if it had healed overnight.

Spencer huffed to himself. His muscles must have adjusted quickly to the bed and he must have been so out of it yesterday that he'd overexaggerated his injuries.

He wasn't ready to acknowledge that he didn't feel hungry, as if he'd just eaten a large meal.

Instead, he stepped out of his cell with the others, ready to start his first shift in the laundry department.

Chapter Text

Spencer sat in his cell. It was past lights out but his mind turned with the day's events.

There was a killer—the Bone Crusher, JJ had said—but Spencer couldn’t make his mind stick to the case or any of the facts he’d learned. They hadn't found scopolamine in his system. They hadn't found anything to prove that Scratch was connected to this, and Spencer desperately needed them to. He realised, with aching certainty, that his whole mental state hung in the balance. If Scratch got away Spencer didn't know what he would do.

Probably nothing, what with him being in prison. Here he was, stuck behind cells unable to do anything, unable to even help Luis, when his team needed him.

Hunched over, Spencer pressed his closed fists into his temples, pressing until the force rivalled his growing headache. His eyes scrunched shut, pressure blooming until he could almost see the insides of his skull. He didn’t notice he was rocking.

He couldn't even help Luis. Shaw was wrong. He had to be wrong. Luis needed help and Spencer was sure he could, he'd worked his whole life with psychopaths and serial killers. If there was anyone that could help, it was him.

Shaw had to be wrong.

Spencer looked up, through the bars, imagining he could see past the walls. If he were outside these bars, what could he do to help? He wasn't sure. He'd put away enough criminals, he'd never truly thought about what happened once they were inside.

But Luis had said he was innocent.

Spencer went back to rocking, hands finding the book Shaw had lent him and gripping it to his chest tightly. He'd already read it, twice in fact. But the story was fractured in his mind. He hadn't been able to properly focus on it, mind swirling with his thoughts.

Spencer lay back down on his bed and looked up at the cold, stark ceiling. Propping a hand under his head he sighed deeply and closed his eyes, grabbing onto his thoughts and throwing them into mental filing boxes as quickly as he could.

If Spencer couldn't get to sleep, he would be of no use to anyone.

But no matter how hard he flung, the thoughts returned with a vengeance.

He tried to picture the image Henry had drawn for him, return to the memory of JJ holding it up for him. He wished he could have taken it back with him, but not even a handshake was allowed here. A part of Spencer wondered whether the purpose of withholding child drawings from inmates was to dehumanise them, make them feel alone.

Spencer pushed that thought away and focused on the drawing. The colours, how the people had been triangles, the orange skin, the smiles.

Luis popped into his mind, his curls and the way he'd been slamming his head against the windows on their arrival to the facility. His face that morning, the bruises blooming on his skin.

Spencer's hand absentmindedly came to his elbows. They had healed completely during the day, so had his knees and his body had been light the whole day. As if he'd gotten one of the best sleeps in his life.

His mind turned to that woman.

He remembered his dream, the way her hands had felt on his skin, light as a feather and caressing. Every touch had been deliberate, every twist and turn something careful. He remembered the way she smelled, the way the soup tasted. The prison food that day hadn't been able to come close to it, despite the soup's simpleness.

Even the glass of water he'd been offered had been different to prison water. Fresher, cleaner, crisper. He could still taste its sweetness on his lips.

He hadn't realised his mind was stilling, the swirling thoughts being blown away by a cold wind outside. His eyes became heavier, his mind drifting somewhere far away.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He awoke not with a gasp, but with a yawn. He bared his mouth wide and blinked the sleep away, tasting dryness in his mouth. He groaned lightly and looked down, to the chequer patterned blanket covering his body. With a start, Spencer touched the soft material and then yanked it from his body, staring at the cotton pyjamas he wore.

He was back.

He shouldn't be back. Not even she had expected him to return.

The room was still warm, still bare. He swung his feet from the bed and found the soft carpet, wiggling his toes against the feeling. It was nice.

He rose to his feet, wiggling his toes all the while, and padded quietly to the clothes drawer. He opened it and found it completely empty. Looking down at his clothes, that fit him perfectly, he felt unsure of leaving the room. He didn't want to see the woman like this.

Odd.

She'd already seen him half naked, had tended to his injuries and cared for him. What was seeing him in pyjamas going to do when she wasn't even real, just a manifestation of his need for comfort?

He moved to the door and hesitated once more before opening it and entering the small hallway. He looked to his left and saw another staircase leading further up. To his right the door was partially open, letting soft light flood the otherwise dark hall. He could hear humming, soft and melodic. He paused for another moment outside the lights reach, stepping out once he'd taken a steadying breath.

Strange.

He blinked at the warm light and when his vision cleared, the woman stood at the kitchen, delicious smells wafting from whatever she was crafting on the stove. Looking around it hadn't changed, the same lilies and sunflowers were in their vases and she wore the same clothes. By the door he saw her scuffed shoes without a speck of dirt on their underside.

She looked up, eyes widening imperceptibly at his shaggy appearance. "Hello there. I can honestly say this is a surprise." She mused, her mouth curving around the words into a smile.

Spencer shuffled his feet and ran a hand through his hair. He felt multiple snags and briefly wondered whether there was a comb in this house.

"I didn't expect to be back either. What's that you're cooking?" Spencer asked, stomach betraying them as his stomach grumbled grumpily.

The woman smiled wide, the sight transforming her. Her eyes crinkled to near slits and the joy he saw pouring from her made his body feel light. He chuckled softly. "What?" He asked.

The woman shook her head and turned back to the stove. "I haven't had anyone to cook for for awhile. It's nice to be asked that, especially by someone hungry." The woman looked down pointedly at Spencer's stomach, which had announced its presence again.

Spencer chuckled again and moved towards the central table. "I haven't smelled something that good in awhile." He admitted.

"You can thank my mother and grandmothers. They were amazing hostesses and cooks, they're my inspirations." She spun on her heel and carried a bowl of chopped fruit to the table, along with French toast, syrup, freshly brewed coffee from the smell, and hard-boiled eggs.

Spencer's mouth was positively salivating at the spread.

"I'm not really a sweets person," He admitted, "But I don't think I can say no to all this."

"Good. Because it's a little too much for just one person to eat, don't you think?"

Spencer smiled at her and sat, eagerly piling his plate and tucking in. The food was as good as he remembered, the coffee smooth and clearing away the last sleep from his mind.

This time he ate slowly, precisely, using the manners his mother had taught him.

"So, you told me you'd tell me your name if I came back. Do I get to know?" He asked after his second helping of toast.

The woman licked her lips, eyes flickering as her hand stilled for the briefest of moments. He was about to tell her that it didn't matter, that the chances of a recurring dream three times in a row was low. He might never be back, a thought which brought the briefest chill to his fingertips.

But she spoke first. "Aurelia. My name is Aurelia."

She looked up at him, eyes meeting his steadfastly. He saw no deception in them, just a wariness that he hadn't expected.

He let the name settle in the air, felt its touch in the corners of his mind. He didn't know if he'd met an Aurelia before.

He swallowed down his food quickly. "Aurelia, meaning the golden one. It's quite fitting for your eyes but, why are they gold? Is it contacts? I've never seen someone with gold eyes before." He asked.

Aurelia stilled again and again, Spencer wanted to tell her she didn't need to answer. And again, she was faster. "I'll tell you on your tenth visit here, if you can make it until then." She shot a quick smile at him, the edges of her mouth tightening.

Spencer looked away at that. So far he'd only dreamed of her in prison, of that he was sure. Ten times meant he'd be in here for ten days and he didn't know how he would survive that. His mind already throbbed every second of the day.

"What's the matter?" The sounds of eating had stilled and the table sat in silence. Spencer swallowed down the lump in his throat and looked up at her. He had her full attention. He wasn't sure if she was even blinking.

"I uh . . . I don't know if I want that. Ten days." He murmured. He waited for sounds to begin again but nothing came. She sat, still waiting. He shifted in his seat, adjusted his shirt.

"I don't want to be in . . ." He looked at her, his hands tightening around his cutlery until he got pins and needles in his fingers. He didn't know if he could tell her where he was. Truthfully she already knew. As a construct he'd created she knew everything he did but admitting it, that felt like a step he wasn't wanting to take. But she was there, eyes steady, and he felt that hesitation melt like snow. "I don't want to be in prison for that long." It was a whisper.

He waited for the questions, for the confusion which would lead to disbelief, then disgust.

"Well then, how about I tell you after one hundred days. I doubt you'll be in prison for that long and if you are, we can make a morbid kind of celebration out of it." He looked up sharply and saw her eyes had softened and there was a cheeky glint in her eyes. He laughed at the absurdity of it, a barking laugh that escaped him roughly and bounced around the room.

"A celebration for being in prison?" He asked, his voice rising at the end. Aurelia laughed with him, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Why not? Again, I doubt you're going to stay for that long and if you do, it's something to look forward to. I promise it's an interesting story."

He leaned back in his chair, mimicking her stance. "I'll keep you to that promise." His words were soft, a promise that hung in the air. Not heavily, but like a tether between the two. She confirmed it with a slight shift of her head, a tilt, letting her soft umber hair fall with the movement.

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. Spencer felt comfortable sitting there like that, sharing the occasional glance with Aurelia where she flashed him a smile. When they were done he attempted to clear the table but Aurelia refused his help, shushing him and pushing him down with a firm hand. At his protests she gave him a sharp, harmless glare and busied herself. Spencer blinked and the table was cleared and the dishes were clean, being put away by Aurelia.

He frowned at it, at how her hands were still dry. His mouth felt dryer. He'd almost been able to believe this was real and prison was the dreamscape. He'd been so close too.

He felt more awake now than before.

Aurelia turned and saw him, saw something in his gaze, and came over to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

He shook his head. "No . . . not really. This is all a dream, isn't it?" He looked up at her.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open lightly. "A dream?" She repeated.

Spencer nodded.

"Who ever said this was a dream?" He saw a sadness in his eyes, deeper than the ocean, and Spencer blinked. It was gone by the time he'd opened his eyes again.

"What else is it? A hallucination? I'm not far gone enough for this to be a hallucination so the next logical option is I'm dreaming. And I'm asleep right now, I know that." He told her, frowning at her words.

Why was his construct trying to convince him of something impossible? Dreams could sometimes bleed into reality, but this was beyond what he could currently conjure up in his current state. Imagining the entire prison as an arena with a kitchen and Aurelia?

"Well then if this is a dream, feel free to do whatever you want. In fact Oscar has been asking to show you around the stables."

Stables.

Of course.

He'd seen shapes the last time he was here, had heard sounds he hadn't been in the right frame of mind to place. He'd seen and heard horses. This was an indoor arena, one with a private dwelling above.

He felt slow and heavy.

"Come on. There are clothes in your drawers, they should fit and keep you warm out there." A guiding hand led him from his place in the chair and pushed him back towards the hallway. He stumbled, the movement banishing the thoughts of his ineptitude.

"Clothes? But there weren't any bef -"

He was cut off by the door closing and a final "When you're ready, Oscar will be waiting for you downstairs."

He stood against the closed door and frowned, the words turning in his mind.

"Oscar . . . the cat?" He asked no one in particular.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She had been right. The cat was waiting for him by the lockers, and the drawer had been partially filled with perfectly fitting clothes. Spencer had picked an outfit with a thick jumper, relishing in the feel of the soft cotton on his skin.

Unlike the last time he'd been here there was no one else around. Even descending the stairs he hadn't seen people in the communal kitchen. Everything felt overly still, like something was holding its breath. He looked out over the arena, it was packed with soft sand that had been churned up from use, with closed doors leading to the outside and to where he assumed horses were kept in indoor stables.

It was entirely built out of wood, and utterly beautiful. Touching the walls he could tell it was crafted with care and thought, each door and window had a purpose. With large windows covering the uppermost areas of the arena Spencer could see outside, see the dancing snowflakes and the night sky.

The cat was waiting for him by the door he'd come into the night before. Its golden eyes were staring at him, a slight twitch to his tail showing its impatience. Spencer smiled at the cat and leaned down to pat him, but he trotted off in an overly agile way for someone so large.

The rest of the dream was spent following Oscar through the stables. As Aurelia had promised, Oscar led him through the whole property. There were two indoor stables, one attached to the indoor arena and another twenty feet to the side. Oscar led Spencer to where he'd first arrived in this place and Spencer saw that the circular building was another yard, smaller but using the same sand as the arena.

Finally, Oscar led Spencer up a small incline, over a road that looked heavily unused, and through a forest.

There, all sound was cut off. It was like a knife had come down and completely separated Spencer from the rest of this world. The cat trotted quietly ahead and Spencer followed, his boots crunching softly over the frost covered leaves. Though it was still snowing time seemed to have stopped here. Snowflakes drifted down so slowly he could see their intricacies as they fell. The trees pressed in not hauntingly, but shieldingly. Their trunks were covered in snow and as he walked past, he let his hands drift over them. They felt rough beneath the snow, the feeling a small comfort.

Through a break in the trees was an outdoor arena, small and completely frozen. The sand shimmered like it was made from crystals and a lone stadium light shone soft golden light down, capturing the snowflakes as they fell thicker here.

It took Spencer's breath away. Down the rise he could see the stables, smaller than he remembered, stiller than he'd expected. Here he could feel the wind ruffling his hair, pulling at the strands, but not biting. No. The wind was a caress, a whisper. Something that moved through him and carried his worries up into the swirling night sky.

Here Spencer felt the tears slip silently down his cheeks. All the while, the cat sat at his feet and watched through glittering golden eyes the world below.

Chapter Text

The next time he awoke in the chequered bed he was screaming, thrashing at the blankets that encased him. He surged up, his back arching as if restrained, eyes bulging wildly.

He could feel it. The rag they'd pressed against his mouth, the beatings to his face, his ribs, his stomach. He could feel it as if they were still hitting him. The fire spread over his body, even his legs raged as they tensed beyond what his muscles could handle.

His heart was slamming against his insides, tearing through his muscles and bones as he tried to pull in ragged breaths through the agony.

Spencer couldn't stop screaming. He scrambled at his chest, ripping the pyjamas off as he spread the material, staring at his chest in disbelief at the bruises and welts that rose angrily against his pale skin.

The door slammed open and Aurelia came sprinting in, knees crashing to the floor next to him as her hands reached out, holding his hands by his sides. Her eyes mirrored his in wildness, her breath coming out in ragged bursts as she scanned every inch of him. Her eyes fell on his face and by the looks of it, what she saw horrified her.

"Oh for pity's sake." She muttered, voice strained and shaking. Her hands holding him fluttered briefly before steadying, their grip firmer and more pressing. Spencer writhed against them, cried and whimpered and shook his head, pleading.

Aurelia did not listen.

She flicked both his wrists in one hand and laid the other gently over Spencer's stomach. He flinched and cried out, body turning away from her touch. She shushed him, it was a low soothing sound.

Spencer opened his eyes and looked to her, found her already watching him, eyes shimmering with worry. He stared, used her as an anchor point. His eyes traced every strand of hair, every flicker of her eyes, how her eyelashes grazed her cheeks every time she blinked. Her mouth was parted slightly, he could see her breath coming out slightly quicker, he counted how many breaths she took. Twenty-two per minute.

Her hand was on his stomach, warmth radiated from it. Her touch was like a ghost's whisper, every trace and movement barely tangible.

Achingly slowly the pain on his stomach subsided. Spencer hardly noticed, his mind filled with observations of Aurelia. She was no longer holding his gaze, her eyes were tracing what had to be bruises blossoming on his face. He could feel them and the weight on his mouth, as if that cloth was still pressed over his teeth.

Her hand flittered over his ribcage and he flinched violently. Her hand paused, then millimetre by millimetre sank down onto his skin. Spencer hissed, pulling the air sharply through his teeth as tears pricked the corners of his eyes.

"What happened?" Aurelia's voice was as steady as her hands.

"I uh . . ." Spencer flinched against the words, his throat was raw and aching.

He'd been screaming.

Aurelia's hand left his ribcage and soon began tracing low circles on his throat. Spencer swallowed against the sensation, the light touch tickled the fine hairs on his neck.

"What . . ." Spencer croaked, the weight of the words rubbing his vocal chords.

Aurelia shushed him again. "Just some magic." She said, briefly meeting his eyes and smiling. Spencer frowned at the words but found that her touch brought with it a honeyed sensation, as if his throat was being coated in it.

Aurelia continued to trace his neck, running her fingertips up to his chin and lightly scratching underneath. Spencer didn't move, didn't lift his neck. Just watched her, how her eyes traced her own movements.

When she was done with his neck she moved to his face, tracing up to the sides of his neck and over his cheeks. Her other hand came down, hands no longer pressing against his wrists. Spencer didn't move, the pain ebbed, and at last, his lungs pulled in air fully. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

Aurelia cupped his face in her hands, thumbs running circles over his cheeks, under his eyes, his lips. They traced each lip individually, smoothing out the corners. Spencer tasted rosemary and honey. He shivered as she continued to trace, little goosebumps prickling all over his skin.

She traced over his eyelids, he only closed them for the briefest of moments when her fingers moved over them. Otherwise, he continued to stare.

Her hands came up to his hair, her touch slightly firmer as she rubbed circles into his scalp. Spencer's eyes briefly flittered closed, suppressing a quiet sigh from the sensation. He felt her touch then, not just in his hair but at the tips of his toes and fingers. He could smell the rosemary and honey on her now.

It felt like the longest time before her hands left his hair. Her absence left his skin feeling colder.

Aurelia leaned back on her haunches and surveyed him, the damp bed, the way his hair clung to his forehead. She met his gaze then, eyes no longer panicked. "Why don't you tell me what happened?" She said.

Her voice broke something, and Spencer started crying.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He turned away when he cried and Aurelia sat, not moving or speaking, just kept him silent company. When he turned she was still there, this time with a steaming mug of some tea in her hand. He hadn't heard her leave, hadn't felt the shift in the air that came with her presence.

She'd set it down on his bedside table, leaning over to lift his damp hair from his face. She'd smiled at him, let him know a bath would be waiting, and squeezed his hand before she left. The door was left open, only a sliver of a crack to show the golden light from the hall. It didn't touch his bed, ended right at the foot. But Spencer stared at it as the aromatic tea flooded his senses, calmed his aching mind.

It took several more moments before Spencer reached for the tea, felt the warm ceramic in his hand as he grasped it. The feeling spread from his arm to his chest, then to his legs. Spencer sighed as it shepherded away the last of his pains.

Spencer swung his legs over the side and drank deeply, the warmth intensifying until he felt his muscles relax fully. He didn't know this tea but knew that it was a private concoction. Blearily he tasted cinnamon with a hint of sage. There were deeper tones, but his mind was spinning to quickly to identify them.

Spencer lifted himself from the bed, looked down to find it damp where he'd lain, then looked towards the door. He hesitated, wondering if he should climb into bed and try to sleep, to reach reality again.

He looked back to the bed then the door, then the bed again. His hand squeezed the mug until his fingers were white, and still he didn't move.

He was about to go back to the bed, to give up on this world and focus on reality, when he heard the soft humming from the kitchen. He stopped, watched the light, then moved towards it. No more hesitation, he accepted the warmth Aurelia offered him, bathed in a lavender bath, washed his hair, and dressed in the clothes that had been waiting for him.

Out in the kitchen Spencer watched as Aurelia hummed a tune . . . jazz. The sound tickled something in Spencer's mind, he remembered a scene where he and the rest of the team were in Rossi's kitchen. Rossi had been showing them his carbonara recipe and the wine had been flowing. Spencer hadn't drunken much, he'd never been overly fond of wine.

Here he saw no wine. Only a shelf filled with small, glass jars of different herbs and spiced and another shelf with tea in those same jars, each labelled with a flowing script. He looked at her handwriting, squinting to see it clearer.

Small letters, narrow spacing, slanting to the right, rounded and connected letters. He frowned. The small letters and narrow spacing could be because of the limit in space, the slanting to the right and rounded and connected letters made sense. He looked at her again, she was brushing a cake in syrup. Off to the side were orange rings.

Yes, the slanting and shape made sense.

Aurelia decorated the cake with the orange slices and then cut two square pieces, placing them on tiny plates. She placed these, with little forks, on the table and sat, pouring herself mugs of that same tea from before. Finally, she looked up at Spencer, her foot gently pushing the second chair back to leave space.

Spencer took it.

His body felt new. While in the bath he'd looked at his chest, looked at his face in the mirror. The angry red welts and fresh bruises had faded so it now looked like an amateur's attempt at body painting. He'd touched himself, poked and prodded, and aside from a light stinging there had been no pain.

His hands wrapped around the second mug, breathing in its scent.

"So tell me, what happened?" Spencer's eyes opened and he looked to her. Her gaze brooked no argument.

"I was beaten in prison." Spencer said, swallowing the words as he relived those moments.

Aurelia's hands tightened around her mug as she turned, her hair falling over her shoulder. He watched it glide to cover the side of her face before she flicked it back. Whatever she'd wanted hidden, she now looked calm and composed again.

"Why?" Her voice was clipped.

"Because I tried to help an inmate. He was being targeted and I was trying to help." Spencer said. He wondered if he had helped, or if it had made everything worse. He knew how to manipulate psychopaths, but Shaw's words rang in his head. In here, everyone's a psychopath.

"You won't be of help to anyone if you're taken out of commission."

"Are you saying I shouldn't try?" Spencer felt the bite in his words, saw them strike at Aurelia. But she took it, eyes steady and even, as if they were as soft as butter.

"No," Spencer blinked back his surprise. "I'm saying to help someone else you first need to be untouchable. You need to be something they fear because you can't protect anyone if you're under a boot yourself." There was a twist to her mouth as she said it, a brief flash of darkness in her gaze. Spencer stared at her, tea and food forgotten.

"That would take too long. I already have Shaw."

Aurelia snorted. "And what a stand up job he's doing. If he reaches too far he'll lose his own position. In prison you can't rely on others to protect you like that, not if they've got something to legitimately lose."

"What does he have to lose? Do you mean his position at the top? That won't go away that quickly." Spencer laughed bitterly in response.

The question caused another twist in Aurelia's lips, a tightness in her eyes like a wall slamming down. She stared at him and all he could see was gold and for a brief moment, he was lost in them.

"More than you know." Spencer knew that this was all that she would give him. But as she said it, he looked to her. Tried to see if her mannerisms would give anything away. Maybe a flicker of her eyes, a darkening, a tightening in her hands. But she was still and grounded, like looking at a statue.

He then turned to those words. Clearly he knew something he hadn't realised. He knew he was talking to himself here, that Aurelia was a construction, there was some part of his subconscious that was screaming that he'd missed something. What was it?

"And don't think about putting all your eggs in a basket with your team. They're useful yes, but they're not in here with you. You're going to need to start being smart about this."

"My team are fighting to get me out of this. So yes, I'm going to rely on them because without them, I'm stuck here." Spencer leaned forward, baring his teeth. His finger dug into the table.

"Absolutely. Rely on them to get you out of here but don't rely on them to keep you sane in here. You have to start trusting yourself and, like I said, you need to start being smart about this." Aurelia's lips were tight as she said it, eyes flashing in challenge.

"You don't think I'm being smart?" Spencer laughed disbelievingly.

Aurelia's raised brow, the way she glanced over his healed body, told Spencer all he needed to know.

"I think you're being valiant. But being valiant with no substance is like an essay with no research. You've got nothing to support it when confronted. So, do your research. Get some substance behind you, and stop thinking like you're still out there with your team. You're in prison. Things are different."

As she said this she leaned in, the words softening until they were barely a whisper. Spencer, too, leaned in, eyes watching her lips as they spoke. Then she retreated, the empty space she'd occupied like a slap to the face. Spencer blinked, letting her words sink in.

He felt the anger bubbling in his chest. His fingers twitched and he fought to keep them wrapped around his mug. She was telling him to go against all his training, all his instincts. His team would get him out of this and when they heard of Luis, of the beatings, they would help him.

Then a small voice piped up from the recesses of his mind. JJ had been ogled and she hadn't even been able to defend herself. It wasn't like she could stand up and yell at them, not when she was trying to help Spencer and clearly, the prison guards held something against him. JJ and the rest of the team had to step carefully otherwise, it could be taken out on him.

Their help was limited.

Which meant . . . Aurelia was right. He could rely on them but couldn't rely on them fully. And that landed harder than any punch the inmates had thrown at him.

Aurelia watched, saw the thought process in his eyes. She didn't speak, only picked up her fork and began eating her cake.

"Now eat your cake," the words brought Spencer from his thoughts and he looked to his slice, saw the stickiness in every crumb. "Oscar wants to lead you around again, and this time he's got company."

Chapter Text

Spencer looked out across the rows of booths and saw someone wearing an outlandish amount of colour in a way only she could pull off.

Garcia.

A small smile lifted his lips as their eyes met and she gasped, bright red lips smiling wide as she saw him, then her brow furrowed as she really looked at him. That morning Spencer's face had been bright red as he'd surveyed his bruises, or what remained. He was so sure the attack had been last night, could still feel their blows and the rush of adrenaline as they'd come storming in. But the bruises said differently.

Aurelia.

Her hands had healed him in the dream. When he'd awoken in reality his skin still had the faint scent of lavender and had been cold to the touch. Colder than what it should have been.

Now his bruises, while still noticeable, were mostly healed. They didn't hurt when he prodded them anymore, and his chest and stomach were also in the same condition.

Spencer sat softly, still expecting pain to bloom at the movement. Instead, his body moved seamlessly and slid into the seat without a wince. Spencer's fingers drummed on the surface of the table. Looking at Garcia, he wanted nothing more than to hug her. But yesterday's attempt with JJ had been more than enough warning.

"Hey you." Garcia smiled, the attempt pulling at her face in all the wrong ways. Spencer looked over her, her lipstick dress and the red cardigan. He looked to the flower pin in her hair and the angular white glasses. He memorised every little detail, sacredly storing them away for later. He loved every one of her blonde curls, the way they bounced even when she sat and how her eyes could never hide her true feelings.

He realised he hadn't been listening. He'd been so intent on filing her away for later that he hadn't noticed her mouth had been moving, she'd been talking. He blinked quickly, banishing the reverie from his mind.

"Sorry, what?" He asked, voice low and quiet.

His question only made Garcia's mouth open in a silent "oh" as she assessed him closely, unshed tears brimming.

"Why didn't JJ tell us you'd been hurt? Did you ask her not to? Because that's just mean and we have a right to know, you know?" Garcia cocked her head to the side as she spoke, her own fingers drumming every word into the table.

"I wasn't hurt yesterday. I mean, I was. But it was after JJ came."

"Okay I might not be a . . . a genius with two PhD's . . ."

"Three."

"Okay that is not the point here. But I don't need them to know that this," She waved her heavily ringed fingers in the direction of Spencer's face. "Is not twelve hours old. This is more like days old, and you haven't even been in here for that long. So, Wonder Boy, what happened? And when?" She reminded him so much of Aurelia in that moment, the way her voice brooked no argument. Spencer wondered whether that aspect he'd taken from Garcia, whether Aurelia was really an amalgamation of his team. It made sense. That would provide him the most comfort.

"It was yesterday Garcia. There's another prisoner, his name is Luis. He's become a target for a gang in the prison and I wanted to help him so I told a guard what was happening. The gang found out and found me in my cell where they ambushed me and wanted to teach me a lesson." Spencer explained as succinctly as he could. He knew that leaving out too much detail would only prompt more questions, but he didn't want to scare her entirely. She'd been through too much. He couldn't do that to her.

"Okay, but since when did a prison beating look like someone threw finger paint at your face? Is that how they teach a lesson in prison? Because if so, things have really changed since I last checked." Garcia whispered through her teeth, leaning in so only Spencer could hear her reprimanding.

Spencer chuckled and dipped his head. He'd missed this, missed her. "No but I think it has something to do with my dreams." He eventually said, each word a reminder of how absurd what he was about to say was.

Garcia sat back in her chair, staring at Spencer with a look that read "he's lost his mind". And maybe he had.

Spencer rubbed a hand over his face, pressing it into his eyes and savouring the weight. "Sometimes it's almost like this is the dream and that's a reality." He laughed, the words so soft Garcia could have tricked herself into thinking they weren't spoken.

But they were, and the fluttering in her heart turned to a roar as she stared at Spencer, really stared at him, and saw a distant gaze in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Spencie . . . you do know that you're here, right? That you're real and this is real? I mean, I know it's awful and I wouldn't want to be here either but . . ." She trailed off, the tears behind her eyes threatening to burst. Her lip wobbled and she looked away, refusing to lead Spencer see her cry. She had to be strong, for him. If she was going to break down it would have to be later.

Spencer noticed, and smiled sadly. "Yeah," He gave a deep sigh. "Yeah I know this is real. It's just that sometimes I wish it wasn't, you know?"

The two looked at each other. Garcia, seeing a haunted look in Spencer's eyes that broke her heart and Spencer, seeing Garcia try and remain strong for him. Both decided not to comment on each other, leaving sleeping dogs lie.

For now.

"You've been dreaming?" Garcia finally asked, breaking their silence. He could see her swallowing the words as if they saying them had activated her gag reflex.

"Yes, I have. I think my mind is trying to create something to help me through this," Spencer explained, his voice breaking as he remembered the stables. "It's always snowing and night and it's these stables with three barn cats and there's this woman there. She's been healing me in my dreams and I don't know but when I wake up, I feel better."

Garcia chuckled as if she couldn't believe it. "But they're just dreams, right?" She asked, the question more like a plea.

Spencer smiled sadly at her. "I mean . . . they have to be. But I was beaten yesterday, Garcia. And today I don't feel it. I don't know how to explain it but something is happening."

Garcia matched his sad smile and nodded, hands quickly wiping at her tears. "Yeah. Yeah something is happening, honey, and we're going to get you out of here okay? We will get you through this, okay?"

Spencer didn't know why she was crying now, why her lips trembled so much. He looked at her, tried to find the words to comfort her, but didn't know how. He wanted to reach for her, to clasp her hands tightly and let her know he was surviving and that they should focus on their cases, focus on getting him out of here.

Spencer looked surreptitiously over his shoulder and saw that the guards were keeping a close eye on him. There was no chance.

Instead, he turned to the words he'd been desperately scrabbling at to find. "I'm okay, Garcia. It might not look it but I've got a few people in here that are looking out for me as best they can. There's someone named Calvin Shaw, he used to be FBI in their Detroit office. He got me off a cot and into a cell the first night. Then there's the other prisoner I told you about, his name is Luis Delgado. He's not meant to be here, he says he's innocent and I'm not sure if I believe him but I don't think he's cut out for prison."

Spencer smiled at Garcia, watched her furiously wipe away more tears. "I'm not alone, Garcia," He chuckled lightly, eyes shining as he gazed at her. "Especially not with you and your visiting schedule."

Garcia's mouth opened in surprise, quickly transforming into a wide beam. "How did you know?" She laughed.

Spencer chuckled a little louder, quickly turning to see if anyone heard. The other prisoners were all wrapped up in their conversations so they didn't notice and he was too far away from the guards for them to have heard. Good.

Spencer looked back to Garcia, settling himself in his seat a little more. "JJ told me yesterday. I haven't thanked you yet, by the way. That was really sweet of you. I'm surprised you didn't come and see me first, though."

"Oh trust me, I wanted to. But I couldn't get away and JJ was free so we swapped shifts."

"Shifts? I didn't realise coming to see me would be a chore." Spencer tried to look down at the table in mock sadness but was quickly caught by Garcia's less than subtle gasp.

"You are not a chore sweet boy, don't ever ever ever think that way of yourself." She smiled tightly at him. Spencer hadn't heard her call him that in a long time, only when she was extremely worried about him. He looked at her again, took note of the slight tremor in her hands and the way her smile pulled too tightly at her features. He saw the way her eyes flicked towards his healing bruises then back to his eyes, noted the elevated heartbeat in her neck, in her wrist.

"I don't. I've missed you, Garcia." Spencer admitted, smiling honestly and sweetly at her. Her own began to mirror his, he saw the tension lift momentarily.

He wished he could do more.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"He's losing it Luke. Spencer is losing it and I can't . . . I don't know what I can do what can I do? He's not surviving in there!"

"Okay whoa, calm down. Tell me what happened . . . you went to see him didn't you? What happened Penelope." Luke came forwards, arms reaching for Garcia and gripping her shoulders. It was a gentle touch, but one that steadied her, that she could lean into.

And lean into it she did. She sighed heavily, let him carry some of her burden as she looked into his even features. His eyes were like pinpoints and she knew she had his full attention.

"I went to see Reid in prison and when he walked out I first thought he was okay. I mean, he looked okay, like he'd slept and had been eating but then he came closer and I saw his face. It looked red and blotchy and I knew, I just knew, that he'd been hit and hit lots of times and then I asked him what happened because that's what you do you ask what happened but he said -"

"Okay breathe." At his words Garcia realised she hadn't taken in a breath in too long and her lungs were already burning. His grip on her shoulders squeezed lightly, letting her anchor herself in him.

Luke breathed with Garcia, slow and deep breaths that they took together. When Luke saw that her head wasn't spinning like before, he nodded for her to continue.

Garcia returned the nod and swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She could picture how Spencer was in her mind and the image made her heartbeat charge into a gallop.

"Okay well I knew he'd been injured and I asked him about it because he'd been hit," Garcia felt the words tumble out of her mouth and realised they'd soon be an unstoppable force, like before. She stopped abruptly and took a deep breath, Luke nodding at her clear efforts.

"So then I asked why JJ hadn't told us because it seemed like something she would tell us but he told me that he'd been hurt last night because he tried protecting this other prisoner . . . Luis. I think it was Luis. No no . . . it was definitely Luis."

"But that doesn't make sense." Luke frowned at Garcia, who nodded so quickly it seemed like her head might topple off.

"I know! That's what I said! But Spencer was telling me he's sure about it, he was hurt last night. But it can't have been last night because the bruises looked . . . they looked old! They looked like they were about to heal!"

Luke shifted his weight onto another foot, eyes distant as he considered. His tongue was pressed against his cheek as he chewed over the words.

"Do you think he's losing track of time?" He finally asked, to which Garcia nodded with the same vigour.

"Yes. Yes I do and that's what scares me! It's only been what . . . three days? Well, this is his fourth but you get the picture. This could take months if we're unlucky and if he's already losing it, who will he be when he comes home?" Her last words were pleading.

"I don't know, but I need to know what else he told you. Anything important about the prison? We know he's got a connection with someone named Luis, was there anyone else?"

Garcia's eyes widened as she gasped, remembering the next name Spencer had given her. "Yes. Yes yes yes! It was someone named Shaw. Spencer said . . . what did he say? Ooh," Garcia cheered. "His name is Calvin Shaw and he was an FBI agent in Detroit. Spencer said something about Shaw looking out for him I think."

Luke's features turned stern. "When I was with the Fugitive Task Force a lot of my work involved talking to the Bureau of Prisons. I'm gonna see if I can get an extra set of eyes on Reid. And maybe . . . maybe Prentiss can talk to Fiona and see what she can do on the legal side."

Garcia nodded at his words, feeling a small flitter of hope in her chest. It was interrupted by electronic beeping. She turned her head, saw a notice on the endlessly scrolling monitors and sighed defeatedly.

"It's going to have to wait, 'cause we have a case." She couldn't turn to Luke, couldn't see him standing there feeling as hopeless as she did.

"Well, look, I'm gonna talk to Prentiss now, and . . . hey, listen to me," his voice was softly commanding and Garcia turned, wondering whether she had given up too early. Wondering whether someone could act now, save Reid now.

"We'll get this done," Luke's dark eyes held a firm promise that Garcia felt herself holding onto. "We will get Reid through this."

"That's what I told Reid. But the way he looked at me . . . it wasn't him. Luke . . . how do I stay strong for someone who's breaking when I feel like I myself am breaking?" She bit back her sobs and turned back to the screens, letting Luke see himself out as her mind ran with the possibilities. She couldn't hear his answer, didn't want to hear it. She didn't want his sympathy or solutions, she just wanted a miracle and for Spencer to be with her and out of jail. Away from the pain and the insanity he was losing himself to.

Spencer was dreaming, and he'd started believing that these dreams meant something that they couldn't. Garcia only hoped Luke would hurry, because the way Reid was tracking they didn't have much longer until they lost him to the darkness.

Chapter Text

Spencer no longer hesitated by the door. Since that night—or day—when he'd awoken screaming, he no longer hesitated by the door. The drawers held more clothes that fit him perfectly and the bathroom, once devoid of a multitude of towels, now held several of different textures. Today there were even hydrangeas sitting on the white marble countertop. They were green with soft pinks crawling along the petals.

In the hallway Spencer had spied framed paintings from scenes of some of his favourite books with a quote.

"There actually is an imbecile in existence who asserts that the earth is flat and who has persuaded many people to adopt his view." Was one of his favourites. He chuckled a little each time he walked past now.

The one that reminded him of Luis was, “Perhaps we all give the best of our hearts uncritically--to those who hardly think about us in return.”

That day Aurelia had made croissants. Apparently she'd been working on them for three days, since she'd thought Spencer might make a return every night.

"It took me awhile to get these right. I'm only happy you came at a time where I can make them with confidence." She'd said as she laid out plain and chocolate ones. Spencer had eagerly grabbed for the plain ones, his eyelids fluttering in delight as he breathed in their rich smell, mouth curling into a smile. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a fresh croissant.

He'd asked Aurelia for her secret but she'd only winked mysteriously, popping another piece of a chocolate one in the mouth.

Naturally she served coffee and a fruit salad with them.

After clearing the table, a task which she still refused help for, she'd brought out the chess board Spencer had spent the last two nights playing on. It was beautiful in its simplicity. The sides were rough natural wood. While the top of the board had been varnished the sides had not and Spencer spent some time each night letting his fingers travel over the imperfections, the grains of wood rough against his skin. The white pieces were also imperfect, the wood not a single colour but swirls and whorls created unique patterns on each piece. The black pieces had been painted, but instead of letting each piece be one in its uniformity they had each been painted. They looked like a sliver of the night sky, dark blues and purples and exact spots of white created a beautiful scene when placed together.

Spencer preferred playing the black chess pieces for this reason. While Aurelia never joined him, only sat on her end of table with a book in hand, she watched. Their conversations were few and far between, usually only shared over food. A couple of hours after breakfast Aurelia would leave the table to make a warm meal for lunch, after which she insisted Oscar wanted to show Spencer around.

He had grown fond of the tomcat. There were two others in the stables. One, a black tomcat named Felix who was as skittish as anything, often running into the hay room and hiding in the musty darkness. The second was a little queen, black and fluffy as anything. She often hid in the shadows, coming out when she decided she wanted a pat. She often announced her arrival with loud, demanding meows as she strutted forwards, tail held high. Her name was Rascal.

After his walk he either read or played more chess, usually Aurelia was somewhere else at this time and Spencer had the living area to himself. Aurelia would return to make them something small for their final meal, after which Spencer would always feel tired afterwards and shuffle back to his room.

Each time he walked down the hallway he found his footsteps slower, his mind turning back to the warm living area where he could hear Aurelia humming some jazz tune, sometimes a classical tune, as she cleaned up. He always wanted to stay a little longer, talk to Aurelia or watch the horses he could still hear in the arena. But there was something unspoken there, as if it were the house rules that after the third meal, it was time to go.

That third night was no different. Until Spencer decided to break their routine.

Spencer turned the painted chess pieces over in his hands, glancing up to find Aurelia watching him, a book resting on her lap. He wasn't sure which book it was, they all had plain covers with no titles. This was a dark blue and thin, maybe only a hundred and fifty pages.

"Have you ever played?" Spencer found the words tumbling out before he could think of them. They'd always sat in such hush that the sound seemed almost blasphemous, the air heavier as it waited for an answer.

Aurelia quietly met his gaze as he swallowed down his nerves, a long finger hovering over the page of the book.

"No," The room breathed. "I haven't."

"Oh," Spencer smiled and looked down at the pieces, wondering why she had them. "Then . . . do you want to learn?"

Aurelia quietly closed the book and set it on the table soundlessly, fingers hovering on the cover. "I think I've got the time." A slow smile played over her lips as she rose to her feet. Spencer watched the movement. The way her body moved was entirely . . . fluid. Every muscle just worked in complete cohesion with the others, as if every movement was precise and exact and no energy was spent without reason. Even the way she walked, slow and precise, felt like a perfectly practiced dance.

Spencer wondered whether she ever danced. He thought she'd be phenomenal at it.

She sat in the chair next to him, the board between them, and looked at the white pieces. Spencer smiled at her, eyes darting from Aurelia and back to the board. She didn't make a move to touch her pieces, just waited expectantly for Spencer to explain.

He picked up one of his black pawn pieces, holding it up for Aurelia to see under the light. It shimmered, the night sky shifting as if real stars had painted on. “Alright… so, it’s a game of war, technically, but I’ve always thought of it more like a dance. Every piece has its own rhythm, its own way of moving. It's also a game of wits, where you need to anticipate your opponents next move.”

He gently pushed the pieces back into place, forgetting his prior game. Aurelia folded her arms on the table, leaning on them as she gazed the pieces. Then her eyes flicked up and watched his mouth move, how he formed words. Spencer could feel it, a slight tingling on his skin. He licked his lips before speaking again.

He tapped the corner square. “You’ve got sixteen pieces on each side—white always goes first. And the goal is to trap the opponent’s king so he can’t move without being taken. That’s called checkmate.”

Aurelia nodded, eyes flicking back over the board.

Spencer pointed to the very front row. “These are pawns. Eight of them. They’re the foot soldiers. They only move forward—one square at a time, unless it’s their first move, then they can go two. They take diagonally though, not straight ahead.”

Aurelia cocked her head to the side. These days she didn't have her hair behind her head, choosing to let it flow freely around her frame. With the movement it cascaded down her side. Spencer couldn't help but watch it, mesmerised by how the dark browns and reds caught the light.

"Take?" She asked.

Spencer stared at her, the word not making sense. "Hmm?" He questioned, still transfixed by the way the light danced over her hair.

A slow smile lit up her features. "You said the pawns take diagonally, not straight ahead. What do you mean by take?"

"Oh!' Spencer cried out, feeling heat creeping up his neck and to his cheeks. "By take I mean when you take your opponents piece off the chessboard. Pawns can't take a piece head on."

"That seems a little unfair. If someone's in your way, why not just take them out?" Aurelia's voice was filled with quiet contemplation. Spencer chuckled a little at her question, not because he found it silly. But because he knew that way of thinking. It reminded him so much of Morgan and the way he had tackled cases.

"Well the pawn is meant to symbolise being the weakest and are designed to be more restricted in how they move," Spencer moved his pawn's forward to demonstrate while at the same time, moving some of Aurelia's stronger pieces in opposition. "Pawns need to take in a way that reflects a more stealthy or strategic approach."

"Their diagonal capture," Spencer moved one of his pawn's to take one of Aurelia's knights. "forces us to think about positioning and manoeuvring our pieces carefully. It adds a layer of strategy, where we need to plan ahead about how to use our pawns effectively. Pawns are also the only piece on the board that can be promoted to another but only if they reach the other side of the board." Here, Spencer moved one of his pieces to Aurelia's side and switched it for a queen. Aurelia's eyes shimmered as she observed this.

Spencer picked up the newly transformed queen, holding it up to the light. “Most people think of them as disposable. But if a pawn makes it all the way to the other side of the board, it can become any piece, except a king. Most players choose a queen. So even the weakest piece can become the strongest, with enough patience and luck.”

He set it back down and looked to Aurelia, who nodded for him to continue.

Spencer nodded in response and gestured behind the row of pawns. “Now rooks. These pieces sit on the corners. They move in straight lines: forward, backward, side to side, as many spaces as they want. Like pillars. They’re great for controlling big open stretches of the board.” He demonstrated with his pieces, seeing Aurelia's head follow his movements.

Next came the knights. “Then you have the knights, here, see, the horses? They’re strange. They move in L-shapes. Two in one direction, then one to the side. They’re the only piece that can jump over others. I always liked that about them. A bit unpredictable.” At this, Aurelia's lips quirked in a smile, and Spencer found his own mimicking hers.

He slid his finger to the bishops. “Bishops move diagonally, across the colour they started on. They’re quiet at first, but dangerous when the board opens up. They see the battlefield in angles.”

Then, the queen. He paused for a second. “She’s the most powerful piece. Can move in straight lines, diagonal or otherwise, as far as she wants. She’s everything at once. A protector, a destroyer. You lose her too early and you’re probably not recovering.” He warned. Aurelia bobbed her head in acknowledgement.

Lastly, he pointed to the king. “And this piece . . . he’s what you’re fighting over. But he can only move one square at a time, in any direction. Ironically fragile. The entire game revolves around him, but he’s one of the weakest pieces.”

Spencer leaned back, meeting Aurelia’s gaze. “You win by cornering the king. Make it so he has nowhere to go without being taken. That’s checkmate.”

He tilted his head slightly, a soft smile forming. “So . . . ready to learn how to dance?”

Aurelia quirked an eyebrow at him. "Dance?"

Spencer grinned. "As I said, it's more of a dance than anything else. I promise I'll go easy on you, for now."

Aurelia laughed, the sound delicate and raising the hairs on Spencer's arms and neck. "Oh how kind of you. In that case, I promise not to poison your next tea."

Spencer laughed as her fingers curled around a pawn and she brought it forwards by two squares.

"Predictable." He teased. There was a flash of delight in her eyes in response, and he found that when he picked up his own piece, his heart fluttered in response.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aurelia lost every game. Her moves were often unpredictable, each one with a strange kind of logic behind them, but Spencer knew the game too well. Aurelia took every loss with grace, congratulating Spencer on his win and asking questions, like why he'd moved a piece in a certain way or why he'd sacrificed one of the stronger pieces. Spencer answered every question honestly. He found it refreshing, having someone so genuinely interested and so ready to learn.

Each subsequent game was better, each one requiring a little more thought from Spencer. She was picking it up quickly, but she had no qualms in sacrifices. Spencer found that interesting, most new players tried to hang on to their pieces believing that a full chest board meant easier victory. Instead, Aurelia was able to think several steps ahead from the beginning, viewing the sacrificing of pieces as necessary to gain momentum, space or create pressure.

Spencer admired this in her, wondered whether he'd given her these qualities to remind himself of Gideon. The thought of his old mentor always brought a pang of sadness and regret lancing through his heart, accompanied by a nauseous feeling in his stomach.

"Your king is looking a little boxed in there." Aurelia mused, mouth pressed together as she observed the board. Spencer knew he could see it too, how he would get himself out of it. It was rather simple, another necessary sacrifice.

He wondered whether she could also see that he would win again.

"Sometimes you need to sacrifice something to buy yourself time." Spencer said, a hint of humour lacing his tone.

"Isn't it funny, how far people will go to save something that's already boxed in." Aurelia said, moving another of her pieces in response to Spencer. It was another unpredictable move, one he hadn't foreseen. It was of little consequence, he'd already planned around it.

"Time is only useful if you know what to do with it. Otherwise, it's just delaying the inevitable."

Spencer paused, the quiet settling in. He looked at the chess board and had a feeling she wasn't talking about it anymore.

With a swallow he moved one of his pieces, his mood suddenly growing colder. "I think I can still turn this around."

"I think you can," She mused, fingers lightly tracing the mane of a knight. "Question is now about power. Here, you have the power to do so. Out there, you rely on my power to be kind. Tell me, in your experiences as a profiler, how many psychopaths show kindness?"

They were definitely not talking about chess anymore.

"It's not kindness I'm relying on. It's -"

"Shaw's influence, as well as that of the guards," Aurelia finished without missing a beat in chess. "But Shaw only made a deal to protect you. And while Shaw is strong and carries influence, as I told you before, he guards it because if he overextends himself, he'll lose it."

Spencer was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was low and dark. "Sometimes I wish our conversations would be more than you trying to tell me not to help Luis."

"You mistake me," Aurelia sighed, now meeting his gaze as she settled her arms on the table. "I don't ask that you not help. I ask that you start thinking like a prisoner. Shaw will not do more than he has agreed to, and the protection you offer Luis is based off Shaw's protecting you."

Spencer looked at the board again. She had him flanked on two sides. His next move would make or break the endgame, depending on how well he read her. He was certain of how she would react, of how he could pressure her.

But this game, she was doing quite well. Soon, within the next few days, she would become a real threat.

“You play like someone who’s seen every version of how this ends,” he said, gently nudging a pawn forward. A feint. A quiet opening of space.

Aurelia gave a breath of a smile. It rang with recognition, she saw his play. “Only the versions people don't prepare for,” she said. “The ones they walk into, thinking it's still a game.”

Spencer leaned back in his chair slightly, arms crossing, eyes narrowing as he contemplated. “You’re wrong about me,” he said. “I’m not playing a game. I’m trying to change the rules.”

“That’s admirable,” she said softly. “That’s also how pawns die.”

There was no cruelty in it, only certainty.

Spencer studied her, really studied her now. The way her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the board, the deliberate stillness in her body, the way her eyes tracked every piece in the space of mere moments.

“I’m not trying to save Luis because I think I can win,” he said, voice low. “I’m doing it because I think someone should try.”

Aurelia didn't look at him as she spoke, but her voice hummed with a finality he couldn't shake. “That’s exactly why it won’t work,” she said. “Because you’re trying to win a moral argument. But prison doesn’t run on morality. It runs on leverage. On pressure points. So, what's your pressure point?"

As she said it Spencer remembered his team, his family. He pictured them all, could see them in his minds eye. He knew them intimately, and knew what he would do to protect them.

They were his pressure point. But they weren't here in prison.

She looked up at him and he realised he knew exactly what his pressure point was, and by the way her eyes held him he knew that so did she.

Chapter Text

She could always tell when he was there, knew the exact moment that he appeared.

The first time it had been sudden, she'd been patting Felix in the shadows of the main building and his presence had been a sudden jolt, a burst of electricity that tore through her senses without pardon. She'd looked to him, head had snapped to where she saw a strange form in the snow, had tried to go to him but he'd disappeared. She had stood standing there for awhile, waiting to see if it was a fluke or something . . . different.

When she'd been about to go back inside he'd come again, and she had found herself helping him, pulling him to safety.

Every time after that she'd known when he was there, and every intrusion gentler than the last. This one was like a sigh, a murmuring in the darkness. She felt his overwhelming grief, the guilt, the anger, everything in tidal waves. Pressing down on her forehead she stopped what she was doing, bending over the kitchen counters. She shepherded the emotions into a pen that was just for the unwanted ones and closed the gates, shutting off the connection.

With a clear mind she scooped food onto a plate and tea into one of her favourite mugs. She turned it over in her hands, fingers running over the tiny cracks from overuse. She put everything on a tray and padded into the hallway, hesitating at the light switch. After a moment she decided to let Spencer sit in the darkness, knowing that sometimes you needed to breathe into the nothingness, and crept towards the closed door.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Spencer stared at the ceiling, counting the grains in the wood above him. He'd lost count half a dozen times by now, his mind rewinding to try again. His fingers clenched the blanket against his chest, spasming each time Luis' face came into sharp focus in his mind.

The moment Luis faded was so clear. It wasn't just that Spencer had felt Luis' heart stop beating, or the blood turning from a spurt to a dribble. It wasn't even that all Spencer had been able to smell was a dark, metallic scent he'd met hundreds of times in the field, or the stillness in Luis' whole body. The wrong kind of stillness that Spencer had also come face to face with more times than he'd want to admit.

No. What played over and over and over again was when Luis' gaze slid from Spencer's to stare at the laundry ceiling. When his terrified eyes slid into an eery and unnatural stillness and his pupils grew to be too large.

Spencer had told Luis it would be alright, had tried everything he could in that moment. But it hadn't been enough.

"Time is only useful when you know what to do with it. Otherwise it's delaying the inevitable." Spencer mumbled, a hand coming up to rub its heel into his eyes. His body felt hot, too hot. The clothes he wore were too warm, too tight, too on him. It felt like he was in a coffin. He felt his breath coming out in short gasps and closed his eyes, trying to manually slow down his racing heart.

Aurelia had been right. All his trying had only delayed the inevitable or . . . had his trying created the inevitable? If Spencer had stayed out of it, would Luis still be alive? If Spencer hadn't switched cells or brought the guards into the situation, would Luis still be here?

The guards hadn't even done anything substantial. The prison was run by Shaw and the gangs, which Spencer had made sure he wasn't a part of. Every other prisoner knew that as well. For all his usefulness in the BAU, all his PhDs and knowledge on how psychopaths functioned, he was woefully unprepared for prison. Every book he'd ever read hadn't prepared him.

He was out of his depths but had believed he could still navigate it. That belief had killed someone.

It was all Spencer's fault.

He turned back to the wood grains and tried counting them. It wasn't working as before, each grain was the black eyes of Luis, each imperfection suddenly moulded into a face.

The door crept open and the smell of hot butter and sultanas danced its way into the room. Spencer looked down towards his feet and saw Aurelia's form in the darkness. Her eyes glowed dimly in the darkness, like the beacon of a lighthouse. At her feet was another shape, huge and round and entirely made of fur. It trotted in and, with a thunderous meow, Oscar jumped up onto the bed. It was like an earthquake shook the frame.

Spencer rolled to his side, facing the wall as he nestled his head in the crook of his elbow.

"I'm not looking for company." He muttered.

"Good. Because I'm not here to keep you company. That's Oscar's job." A tray clattered down on the bedside table, following by the soft thud of something compact.

Oscar's purring was so forceful Spencer could feel it vibrating through his entire body. The cat had decided to lay down against Spencer's chest, refusing all nudges to get him to move. With a defeated sigh Spencer let his head curl around the cat.

"You can go now." Spencer said.

"I'm afraid I can't."

"And why not?" Spencer snapped, head turning until he could see her in his peripherals. A lounge chair had appeared in the corner and she was sat in it, legs crossed over each other.

"I'm here to keep Oscar company."

Spencer snorted at the absurdity of the statement.

"I don't think he needs it." He huffed, letting his head fall back onto the firm pillow.

Aurelia chuckled darkly. "Oh he does. I had a rat in the kitchen once and it went into the bread bag. I pointed it out to Oscar who didn't move, so I showed him the rat in the bag, and he didn't move. It was only when I shoved the cat in there that he decided it might be worth his time. Even then he still needed help. If I'm not here to make sure he's not an idiot, he'll be an idiot."

Spencer's hand was stroking Oscar as Aurelia spoke, the words like a magnet to the tears he'd been holding back. They slid quietly down his cheeks and he buried his face in Oscar's soft fur, let the purring absorb any sound Spencer made.

"Another time I was making cucumber salad and all three were up here. I don't know if you've owned cats before but there are some things that just set them off, and apparently cucumbers are one. I dropped one on the floor, right in front of the Oscar. The idiot jumped around the kitchen and scared the other two until I was pressed against a corner while all three were running like headless morons." She chuckled as she said it and Spencer felt a smile tugging at him.

Aurelia's words fell into silence as Spencer continued to press his face against Oscar's fur. He breathed in deeply, smelled earthy straw on the cats fur, felt a scratching against the inside of his nose. He would probably begin sneezing soon, but the cat had just stretched and given Spencer his belly, little paws tucked in under the cats chin. Spencer absentmindedly lifted a paw and let it drop. The cat was completely relaxed and Spencer felt a kernel of warmth in his heart.

"What would you have done?" Spencer broke the silence after a few minutes where he thought he could hear the snow pattering against the barn walls.

"With Luis?" The question came gently, almost immediately like she had expected the question. Nevertheless, the tears flowed from the question and Spencer couldn't answer, the weight in his throat too suffocating to talk around. The silence around them shifted, became heavier. The dark room twisted and curled around him until Spencer felt like he was about to vanish inside it.

Good.

Aurelia sighed heavily, shifting in her seat. The movement brought some light to the room, the sound and anchor point that Spencer's mind fixated on. She was still there, so was Oscar, so was the blanket pressing against his lower body. With all his movements and twisting and turning in the bed, it had shuffled down so it only covered his hips and below. Still, the room was warm enough for him not to have cared.

"I'm not you," Aurelia said, the words ironic as she was, in fact, him. "I have different skills and a different way of viewing things. What I would have done? Probably killed anyone in my way or at the very least, shattered a few knees, wrists, ankles, whatever to make their time in prison a little less bearable."

Spencer absorbed her words in silence. The way she said it, so matter of factly, and how she listed off the areas where Spencer knew damage could cause permanent damage. There had been no emotion in her words. None.

"They would have come after you if you did that." Was all Spencer could think to say. Sometimes violence wasn't the answer, sometimes it just couldn't be.

"I know," She was smiling . . . he was sure of it. "So I'd have made a show of it. Make the others see me play with them, how easy it is to take them down. And keep fighting until there's no one left who would dare come up against me. Also I would pretend to enjoy the cruelty of it all, pretend it excites me. Monsters back off when they see someone who's an even bigger monster than them."

Silence.

The way she'd said it . . . not without emotion but with absolute certainty. Like she'd been through this, had experienced it. Like she was resigned to her role as a monster.

Spencer frowned into Oscar's body. It was the last thing he had expected from her. It made him think of Luis and Shaw and the gang, how they viewed the world.

Maybe this side of Aurelia was Spencer's mind trying to tie prison into his subconscious, trying to make him hard. Her words weren't exactly what Shaw and the others had said, and it didn't fit with anyone in his team.

He wondered what his team would have done. They'd told him to keep his head down but he hadn't. He'd made an enemy out of himself and allowed everything to line up the way it had.

"Do you think that if I . . . if I had done nothing Luis would still be alive?"

Spencer turned to face Aurelia as he asked the question. Her eyes went hazy for a moment and Spencer felt a soft caress in his mind. Aurelia's eyes sharpened immediately afterwards and she leaned her head against her hand.

"I think Luis wasn't designed for prison. He was shy and quiet and he didn't have a backbone. Anyone would have taken advantage of him and because he didn't have people on the outside looking out for him, he was doomed. I think that eventually his fate would have met a crossroads, either he dies or he becomes someone the outside world wouldn't recognise. And nothing you could've done in here, and nothing your team without the backing of the FBI, would have changed that." Each word was spoken deliberately, carefully, little to no emotion in them but enough to keep Spencer holding on.

Images of Luis flashed in his mind. The first time he'd seen the boy, in the laundry room when he'd admitted he wouldn't have helped Spencer if given the choice, to his face when he'd been held at knifepoint. Everything Aurelia said made sense. Luis hadn't been equipped for prison and even without Spencer's help, something had to give.

But with his help, it had given way much faster than it would have otherwise. Meeting Aurelia's gaze, Spencer felt sure that she knew that too.

He turned around to the wall again, this time not planning on looking at her again. This, she also seemed to know. She settled back in the chair and sat in silence as Spencer cried into Oscar, who only continued to purr.

And when Spencer finally drifted off to sleep, his mind allowing him to enter back into reality, she was still sitting in the same position, tucking him in when he was almost entirely unconscious. Spencer felt her touch linger on his shoulders, then brush back his hair as she tucked it away. He just couldn't force his eyes to open, felt the weightlessness of sleep claiming him all too quickly.

Chapter Text

Spencer awoke long before the other prisoners did. He felt the sweat sticking to his pallid skin, the beads dripping down his ears and cheeks and chin. In his dream he'd washed his hair, it had taken several days - or nights - in his dream for him to crawl out of bed at Oscar's insistence. Even though he could still feel the warm water enveloping him, the steam curling around his shoulders and face, his hair was now sticky and clung to his scalp in a horrid, skin-crawling kind of way.

As usual, the scent of Spencer's dream still clung to his skin. Ginger and honey tickled his senses, the taste of the tea still on his lips and still coating his skin in warmth. Spencer closed his eye momentarily, saw Aurelia in his minds eye and felt Oscar sitting on his chest. Whenever the cat did that Spencer was so certain he'd awaken. After all, dreams where you couldn't breathe usually meant the mind was trying to draw you out of sleep. But Spencer never did. Instead, Oscar's weight would threaten to cave in Spencer's ribs and he'd have to sit up wheezing to get rid of the tomcat.

Spencer opened his eyes in the darkness and rifled for his notebook and pencil under his mattress. He hastily began sketching out a scene he remembered vividly. Aurelia, it was usually always Aurelia, holding Oscar as she danced around the kitchen with him in her arms. Both sets of golden eyes had been gleaming at each other, a gentle smile on Aurelia's face as she gave the tomcat little kisses. The tomcat had taken the dancing with no complaints, though the way his eyes sometimes glanced towards the ground showed he was far more comfortable on his own four feet.

He drew a closeup of them looking at each other, each with absolute trust in the other. He focused on Oscar's whiskers and his mouth, curved upwards in the slightest feline smile. For Aurelia, he focused on her eyes. He didn't have colour aside from grey, frustrated that he couldn't do her justice.

The therapist had told him to write down his feelings, his thoughts, his dreams. But Spencer didn't want to. Therapy wasn't going to work when no one was truthful anyway and while the therapist was concerned Spencer was losing his mind, he'd never felt more sane. Each night he greedily fell asleep, willing himself to sleep faster and earlier than before so he could traverse the barn and play chess with Aurelia. In the mornings he awoke feeling utterly refreshed, the hard bed never having any affect on his muscles. Even the prison's doctor had told Spencer he was in great health.

Spencer finished his drawing and looked at it, blowing away the leftover bits of lead. It didn't do it justice but there were traces of Oscar and Aurelia there. He flicked to the other drawings he'd made. His favourites were the chessboard, Felix staring from the shadows, Rascal sleeping with her paws over her eyes and nose, and Aurelia standing over a stove, eyes focused on her task. He touched each of the drawings, afraid he would smudge the lead.

Then there's the page of names, the unsubs his team was tracking down. After each successful arrest he'd write a line about them, their motivations or their backstory.

The Bone Crusher - psychopath, abandoned by father, drug use

The Day/Night Killer - abusive father, molested, multiple prescribed medications, sleepwalking

Wraith - psychopath, affluent upbringing, socially proficient

The Executioner - prior military, assassin, kills without compunction [not caught]

The Red Widow - for hire hitman, targets men/cheating husbands [not caught]

Spencer frowned at the last two names. They'd not been caught yet, and the team didn't have any news leads. He rubbed a hand over his face and looked at the names again, trying to remember what additional details had been given about them. The Executioner was a male unsub, and The Red Widow a female. The Executioner left his victims with a single slice to the throat, and The Red Widow preferred poisoning over dinner. Dinner in, dinner out, it didn't matter to her.

He was too tired for this, he realised. His head was throbbing and his eyes hurt. He was too tired and he didn't have enough light to read or continue to draw.

Spencer pushed the notepad back under his bed and collapsed onto his mattress, eyes drifting closed as he thought of his team. Rossi hadn't visited him yet, more than likely due to his feeling helpless. Since Hotch left, Rossi had taken it upon himself to be more of a father figure for the team. He always had been but that had been without effort. Now Rossi was taking on the emotional responsibility for the whole team and Spencer was concerned the man would burn himself out.

The palms of his hands found his eyes and Spencer dug them in, stars burst behind his eyelids and he began to feel calmer. It was one of the easiest ways he knew to trigger the oculocardiac reflex, and his heart had begun to beat erratically again. He'd needed a quick fix to get it to settle. These days thinking of life outside prison, his team, the lengths they were going to for him, it all made him blindingly aware of the fragility of his existence in prison. If the efforts his team was going through failed, if they couldn't get him out, then Spencer would be alone in prison for the next twenty-five years at least.

His heart started its frantic dance once more and Spencer immediately palmed his closed his eyes, this time with more force. He had to stop thinking about that. No good would come from overthinking something he had no control over.

But damn, how he wished he had some control over it. How much more useful would he be on the outside? Would this case have been solved already if he'd been allowed bail? No. His team was doing all they could, especially given the fact the FBI wasn't on their side. Spencer couldn't expect more from his team, that would be selfish.

But wasn't he allowed to be selfish? Wasn't he allowed to want his team to drop all other cases and just catch Scratch and get Spencer out of prison?

His heart was unsettled again, he could feel it in his throat. If it went on for much longer he was going to be sick.

Spencer jolted up from his bed and snatched at his notepad and pencil. He flicked to a new page and quickly began sketching another scene from that night's dreams. Aurelia pouring him some tea, hands carefully folded around the pot and eyes focused on her task. Her hair had swung behind her, like a shield covering her from the back. It was so long it reached past her lower back.

As he sketched, his mind focused on this task, his heartbeat stilled and regulated itself. Halfway through the sketch Spencer released a long breath and closed his eyes, savouring the feeling of a body that felt . . . normal.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

JJ tapped her pen against the stack of folders in front of her, barely registering the rhythmic beating. The words beneath her were blurring together, the photos twisting and turning until she couldn't make out black from white.

With a frustrated sigh JJ dropped her pen and pushed the papers away, leaning her head on her hand and looking away with tears in her eyes. Jesus, what was wrong with her? They had a case, had had it for awhile, and she couldn't even focus on it.

Clearing her throat and hastily wiping at her eyes, JJ pulled the papers back and leafed through them, keeping her eyes wide in an attempt to keep the tears from re-entering. She paused, held up one of the photos, put it back down and did the same to the next.

The wounds were identical, the cuts a perfect single slash.

Spencer would have some statistic on how difficult multiple such cuts were.

Dammit. JJ slapped the photos back on the table and leaned back in her chair, looking up to the ceiling and breathing deeply. Wide eyes no longer stopped the tears.

Spencer should be there on the case with them. He'd always had a fascination with medieval weapons and these cuts had been made with a katana. When JJ had mentioned this to Spencer he'd said, "That's strange. Normally katana are used to slice clean through their targets but this, cutting exactly halfway through the neck, shows an intimate knowledge of anatomy as well as militaristic control and training. Anything else?"

Anything else.

No. No the BAU didn't have anything else because this person, this unsub, left nothing else. There were no defensive wounds on the victims, no signs of a break-in, no fingerprints, the entire crime scene was left untouched. The only evidence they had was the bodies and even they were left untouched, aside from the obvious. Clothes left on, jewellery still in place, it was all done with surgical precision.

This killer wasn't just restrained. They were cold, methodical, held no emotional attachment to their kills, the victims weren't human to this unsub. They weren't worth anything to this unsub, they just were something that had to be gotten rid of. There was also no pattern, no geographical profile to be had. The kills were all over the country, with no discernible pattern to be found.

If Spencer were here, he may have already found a pattern. He was probably the only human who could find it, but he was only lucid for a few minutes before he started talking about his dreams.

God, his dreams. JJ rubbed her hands over her face and then harshly pulled back her hair, staring off into the distance. Spencer was going to group therapy but had claimed it wasn't doing him any good. Instead, he'd taken to drawing. JJ hadn't known Spencer was such a good sketch artist, the drawings were all so lifelike and made with care and precision. It was a glimpse into his mind, and the team was concerned that it was all that was in Spencer's mind.

It made sense, of course. He was going through something traumatic and with the death of Delgado, it made Spencer's spiral speed up. But it meant that while they were meant to be catching two unsubs they didn't have a lead on, they were instead profiling this world Spencer told them about every time one of them visited.

The snow and night was an indication of emotional numbness and dissociation. Spencer was trying to hide in a world without sound, one that was perpetually frozen in time. JJ was concerned this meant that he was giving up on a future, on ever leaving the prison. The animals were an indication of his need for unconditional love and the rest of it was all just a need for comfort. Cake and tea and chess . . . it was all familiar. He needed that.

But the most concerning was this person, this woman, that was there. Aurelia. Quite literally the word "golden" in another language. In a world of endless night, having someone with golden eyes was like a beacon. She was quite literally his guiding light. And everything else about her, all the 'interactions' Spencer had told them about, he had created a sentinel who watches and protects him. Who gives him sound advice and never pushes, only comforts.

He was in a nosedive from reality and gripping onto this construct like a lifeline.

They were losing him.

"JJ?" She jumped in her chair and swivelled around, heart hammering wildly at the intrusion. Emily was standing in front her, dark eyes furrowed in concern.

"JJ, it's nearly midnight. What are you still doing here?"

JJ pressed a hand to her heart and breathed deeply, chuckling awkwardly and turning back to the stack of files on her desk, "Oh I was uh . . . I was looking through the case files for The Executioner, trying to see if something would click," She gingerly pushed and pulled the pictures around, not settling on a single one.

"Oh yeah, that guy. Well, he's struck again. Garcia has just had a ping from Ohio, this time a family."

"Oh god," JJ pushed at her hair again. "Kids?"

Emily pressed her lips together and shook her head, "No. But we know he's not usually merciful so Garcia is going to look into that tomorrow. I told her to go home for the night. Which is exactly what I'm going to tell you."

JJ didn't move, "I can't Emily," she finally whispered. "I just . . . I can't leave. Not yet."

Emily sighed deeply, hand reaching out to grasp JJ's shoulder firmly. "JJ . . . you have a family that needs you. This will all still be here tomorrow."

"We're losing him Emily." JJ gasped, not realising the tears were flowing freely down her cheeks. She sniffled and wiped them away with her sleeve, looking anywhere but in the direction of Emily. JJ didn't need to see her to know that Emily understood completely, and that she wasn't judging, that she felt exactly the same way. JJ couldn't look at that because if she did, it would become real. If Emily also felt the same, it would mean JJ's fears weren't unfounded.

"I know. So we're going to have to work overtime if we can but I'll tell you what. We won't be any good to Spencer if we're so tired we can't even stand up straight. So go home. Rest. Be with your family. Then tomorrow come back, and we'll clear this case and then get Spencer out."

No one had to say the four words they all feared. Before it's too late.

No one had to say the three words they feared even more. It's too late.

Chapter Text

"So tell me, what's your name?"

Spencer looked up from his book, warm mug in his hand. Aurelia had prepared another tea blend for him, this one with heavy orange notes. It was quite delicious. She'd also brought a bookshelf into his room and filled the first shelf with some of his favourites, and some new titles he hadn't yet read. He hadn't touched those because he knew they'd be empty. His mind couldn't conjure what it didn't know, after all.

Aurelia stood by the door now, dressed in tactical gear. He wondered why he hadn't noticed that the tight fitting white shirt she always wore was tactical, but now it was black. As with the rest of her gear. She was slipping on some tactical gloves, her hair tied in a tied braid that further accentuated her sharp features.

"Don't you know it already?" Spencer asked, brows furrowing quizzically.

Aurelia smiled, "How would I know it if you've never told me?" She asked, her voice filled with soft humour. Spencer's lips quirked at the sound, eyes looking back to the pages on his book.

"Because you're me." Spencer answered. Her laugh rang from his words, filling the space as she threw her head back and laughed long and loud. Spencer frowned at her, setting his book and tea down. "What's so funny?"

Aurelia waved him off, holding a hand to her mouth as she tried to press the laughter back in. Her shoulders shook with the effort.

Spencer stood and walked closer to her, his hands burrowed in his pockets, "What's so funny?" He repeated, smiling broadly at her.

"Oh jeez," Aurelia gasped, placing her hands on her hips as she looked up to the ceiling with eyes tightly closed, sucking in long calming breaths. "Okay so . . . I'm you?" She choked the words out, lips quivering as she held in more laughter.

"Well . . . yes. This whole place is just a creation I've conjured up to help me while I'm prison. Which means that you and everything else in here are me, just different parts of me trying to help me survive. It's nothing personal, it's just that you're me." Spencer explained. Aurelia rose a single brow at him, her eyes alight with quiet laughter.

"You think this was all created by you?" She waved at the small room they were in.

Spencer looked around, then back to Aurelia and nodded.

"Tell me, when was the last time you saw a place like this? I mean, in your reality of course." Aurelia gestured towards Spencer before letting her hands fall to her sides.

"Technically, never," Spencer said. "I've never been to Europe. But I’ve read about it. I’ve studied photos of buildings—Germany, France, Austria, maybe Italy. So, I think this is just... a place far removed from my reality. Something my mind stitched together from everything I’ve seen and read." Spencer looked around the room, once again noting the type of wood used, the flowers, the mugs.

"I see," Aurelia nodded with Spencer's words. "So that must mean that everything in here is something you've either seen or read, correct?"

Spencer nodded, and Aurelia's smile turned wolfish. Spencer swallowed nervously, took a slight step back that made her eyes dance.

Aurelia strode around him, towards one of the bookshelves. She hummed as her fingers dragged over each of the spines, her touch barely ghosting over them. Yet with each pass Spencer's spine shivered.

The clicking of her tongue brought Spencer back to . . . this. She drew her fingers behind the book, pushing it out instead of pulling it. It was admirable, she was taking care of her books.

She came strolling back to Spencer and presented him with the book. He frowned, not recognising the cover or the name. Taking it from her hands, he reasoned that it must have been something he briefly saw when in a bookstore.

Kushiel's Dart.

Flipping it over, he looked down and read the blurb. With each word he felt the heat engulf his face, his arms, absolutely everything. His eyes flittered away, barely able to stand the sight of the words.

This was absolutely not something he'd ever read, nor would it be something he'd pick up.

Clearing his throat he held it out to her and smiled sheepishly, barely able to meet her eyes. However, Aurelia only grinned at Spencer and gestured at the book. "Go on. Read some."

Spencer stared at her, his mouth swinging open. "I uh . . . I . . . this isn't . . . I don't know this book." Spencer stuttered, hands shaking.

"I know. But I do." Aurelia winked.

Spencer coughed and straightened himself, seeing no mercy in her golden gaze. He opened the book to a random page, fully believing that all he'd see was either blank pages or the inside of a book that was familiar to him. Instead, it was the pages of a book he'd never read. He blinked at them, expecting them to now transform into familiar ones, but they remained steady.

Spencer's heart fluttered uneasily in his chest, his fingers trembled as they gripped the pages.

This was impossible. This was entirely impossible.

He had never read this book before. He now believed he'd never seen it before. So how could these words be there in front of him? It wasn't even his writing style, it couldn't be something his mind conjured up.

He looked back to Aurelia, she was watching him, head slightly lifted as she gazed unflinchingly at him. As if waiting for him to come to a conclusion, an impossible one.

"Go on," Aurelia's voice drawled. "Read something."

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Spencer looked back down to the page. The words were blurring at the edges, but he gritted his teeth as he looked for something to anchor himself in the pages. He found it, and read aloud, letting the words seep into his bones, "It is in times of greatest darkness that the light shines brightest." He swallowed.

"It's a good one. My favourite is 'That which yields is not always weak', it's kept me going through some lonely nights." Aurelia mused, reaching out for the book. Spencer's hand was limp, he barely registered the feeling of the book leaving his grip. She returned it to the bookshelf with a solid thunk.

"How is that possible?" Spencer whispered, still staring at his empty hand.

Aurelia turned around, eyes soft and kind, "You reached out, and found something. That's all."

"That's all?" Spencer felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat, unable to keep it contained. "That's all? What do you mean I found something? What did I find? What is this place? Who are you? Why . . . you've been helping me. Why?" The words were manic and wild. He was nearly shrieking at the end, but each syllable dripped with accusation.

Aurelia didn't flinch. Not as his pitch rose, not as his finger jabbed her direction. She simply let him yell, let him gesture wildly around him, let him run his hands through his hair until it was entirely mussed. When he was done, panting like he'd run a marathon, she only raised a brow.

"Are you done?"

"Hardly." He spat.

There was a stillness between them. It lasted only for the single beat of Spencer's heart, but it was felt by both. Aurelia's eyes darkened in that space and Spencer felt like he was seeing a ghost. He thought he'd known exactly who she was: a bit of Morgan when he needed a push, a bit of Garcia when he needed some light, JJ when he needed a soft hand, Emily and Hotch when he needed someone to lead. Now all he saw was his projections, his expectations, everything that she was not.

And she knew it.

Her sadness dimmed her eyes.

Aurelia slid into a seat on the table and folded her arms on the table in front of her. Spencer watched her tap her fingers rhythmically against the wood. He used to think that was a habit of JJ or Garcia's, but now he wasn't sure.

She was nervous. That's usually what tapping meant. If this wasn't JJ or Garcia, if Aurelia wasn't someone he'd conjured up but . . . impossibly . . . if she was a person . . . then he'd have to look at her differently.

"You asked me too many questions before. Try asking just one." Aurelia's voice was familiar. He remembered it from all the times she'd played chess with him, from when she'd come to his room when he was injured. It was so achingly familiar and yet, he didn't know it at all. He wondered about the inflections that he'd ignored, the lilting tone, how she sometimes drifted off mid-sentence, how she always hummed when she was alone, the sudden softness in her voice when she cooed at her cats. He wondered about it all, wondered what he'd missed when he was thinking that it was all made from people he knew and loved.

Then he caught himself. How could he be thinking any of this? It was an impossibility for this space and this girl to be anything but his imagination, his mind protecting him. Anything else, if he were to even try and believe anything else, it would mean that he was going insane. And he couldn't do that to his team.

But here she sat, telling him to ask the questions that were roaring through his mind and making his ears ring. Here she sat, staring expectantly at him. And all he wanted to do was sit with her and learn.

So he did just that. He slid into the seat opposite her and folded his arms in front of himself. He opened his mouth to ask a question, but no words came out. Somehow his mind had gone completely blank.

Aurelia stared at him, expectant and waiting. But he saw something else in the way she held her shoulders. She was stiff. It was incredibly subtle, it was in how her lips were barely parted and in how her knees were barely pressing against each other. But he saw it like someone had hit him over the head with a book.

"Let's start with the easiest question," Aurelia's voice brought Spencer back to the table and the smell of tea growing cold. "I'm Aurelia."

Spencer waited a beat, then two. When nothing else came, his lips curled into a grimace, "That's not what I meant."

"I know." Aurelia answered immediately, like she had known it was coming.

Spencer waited a beat, then two. She gave nothing else and he saw in her eyes that whatever answers she gave, they would be exactly what he asked. She would not be looking into the meaning of his words, oh no. He'd have to be precise and exact.

Lucky for him, that was his job.

His mind burst with questions, each one forming a thread—what to ask, what to build on, where to begin. He breathed a small sigh of relief. His mind hadn't given up on him.

He curled his fingers together and leaned forwards, gazing at Aurelia. Really looking for the first time at her, and not who he'd made her out to be. She was beautiful in a sharp, angular way. But she was also inhuman. The absolute stillness with which she held herself, how the air around her seemed to hold its breath when she moved through, how the light danced over her skin and how her eyes glowed faintly, illuminating the space around her.

While he studied her, her gaze didn’t return the same weight. Where he was going under the surface, she was staying in the present and watching Spencer. Her gaze moved like a breeze—soft, but enough to raise every hair it touched.

She was waiting.

"So you're Aurelia, and I'm Spencer. And you are claiming that this place isn't inside of my mind and that you are a real person."

"I am." Aurelia nodded when Spencer stilled. He nodded confirmation of this.

"In that case, either I'm insane or this is some form of experiment that I'm not consenting to." Spencer leaned forwards as he said this, voice dropping an octave.

Aurelia only raised an eyebrow at his deduction and smiled gently, "Or it's neither." She whispered.

Spencer leaned back quickly, mouth finding that familiar grimace, "Impossible."

"So were vaccines before they were invented, or light bulbs or even the internet."

"They have logic and scientific backing behind them making them plausible," Spencer snapped. "What you're claiming contradicts every documented neurological, psychological, and physical principle we understand about consciousness. It is not possible for a dream world to exist in a space that allows for multiple separate people to enter and communicate with each other. It is not possible." He had leaned back in, planted his hands flat on the table surface.

Aurelia hummed noncommittally. It was like nails down a chalkboard, Spencer pressed his teeth together and curled his fingers ever so slightly.

"You know better than most that the absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence. Are you certain . . . or are you just scared to find out you're wrong?" Her eyes flicked up to Spencer's and held him rooted in place.

Spencer didn't shift, he didn't wiggle, he held her as clearly as she did him, "Then explain the mechanism," He demanded. "How are we communicating across shared consciousness? What process enables it? If this isn't a construct of my mind, where exactly are we right now?"

"You're in my mind."

Spencer stilled.

The breath caught in his throat didn’t release. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. It was the stillness of someone rebooting a system that had just crashed.

'You’re in my mind.'

He replayed the words. Once. Twice. Then again, like they might change if he just looped them hard enough.

Finally, he spoke.

“Prove it.”

As if the words released her, Aurelia smiled. It was a slow, lazy crawl but she smiled with all her teeth and blinked languidly, "That's a tad difficult. You see, I've created this space exactly like how I want it and I've given the people who live here freedom and a form of consciousness. If I were to change even a tree, it would have consequences."

Spencer leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed on Aurelia. Somewhere, he was vaguely aware of a heavy wooden clock ticking, "Sounds awfully convenient."

"It is, isn't it," Aurelia hummed as she twirled a finger over the table grains. "But here's something I can do. Listen closely, and don't miss a word. Your team is looking for Trey . . . Gordon. Not two killers, one," Aurelia held up two fingers then dropped one, leaning over the table to stare closely at Spencer. "He was raised by an abusive father who let him be molested by prostitutes. He's currently taking multiple medications for conditions that are preconditions to sleepwalking. After his father died, Trey started killing men that reminded him of his dad. But when he sleeps he sleepwalks to the places his old man went to a lot and kills whoever he finds."

When she was finished she rose fluidly from the table and smiled at him, eyes shining darkly, "This information isn't something you'd know, so when you find out I'm right you'll know that, at the very least, I'm real. Come find me when that's the case."

With that, she walked out the front door. But not before grabbing two long lines of rope.

Spencer swallowed down the growing lump in his throat. He curled his hands into fists to stop the trembling, but it was useless. He was terrified. If she was right, if this Trey Gordon was actually the unsub his team was currently chasing, then there was no way that Spencer would have known that information. Even if the name had been passed around the yard, the rest of the information was too detailed to be simple yard chatter. So if Trey Gordon was real, along with the rest of the information, then that meant that this was real.

Which was impossible. But somehow would have to be possible. Which meant everything Spencer believed . . .

He switched off that train of thought.

If she was wrong, it meant that this was all a construct in his head. And that is was beginning to affect him this severely could only mean his sanity was running out of time.

Either option wasn't very good for him.

Opposite him, his tea had cooled completely and his book sat forgotten.