Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eight-year-old Spencer Reid sat nervously in the backseat of his mom's car, his small hands clutching the straps of his backpack. His heart raced with a mix of excitement and fear as they pulled up in front of the dance studio. The building was old but elegant, with tall windows that let in streams of sunlight and a sign that read "Marino Dance Academy" in bold, cursive letters. The name sounded fancy to Spencer, and he liked the way it rolled off his tongue.

His mother, Diana, turned to him with an encouraging smile. "You're going to do great, Spencer. Dance will be good for you. It'll help you with coordination and focus. Plus, it's fun."

Spencer nodded, though his stomach was doing flips. He wasn't sure what to expect. He loved reading and solving puzzles, but dancing? That was something new, something he didn't quite understand yet. But his mom seemed so excited, and he didn't want to disappoint her.

They walked into the studio together, the wooden floors creaking softly under their feet. The air smelled of fresh polish and something sweet, like lavender. There were mirrors everywhere, making the space look much bigger than it was. Spencer's eyes widened as he took it all in.

"Welcome to Marino Dance Academy!" A warm, deep voice broke through Spencer's thoughts. He looked up to see a tall man approaching them. The man was very handsome, with dark hair slicked back and a smile that seemed to stretch across his whole face. He wore a black button-down shirt tucked into well-fitted slacks, and he moved with a grace that Spencer had never seen before in a man. Spencer's mom had told him that dance wasn't just for girls, but seeing this man, made sense in a way that Spencer couldn't quite put into words. The man exuded confidence and charm, something that drew Spencer in immediately.

"Hello," the man greeted, his eyes twinkling as he knelt down to Spencer's level. "You must be Spencer. My name is Valentino, but you can call me Val. I'm going to be your dance teacher."

Spencer felt a surge of nerves, but Val's warm smile put him at ease. He liked the way Val said his name, like it was something special. Spencer nodded shyly, trying to return the smile.

Val chuckled softly. "You know, Spencer, you're about to start something really exciting. Dancing is like telling a story with your body. And from what your mom has told me, you're really good at telling stories with words. This will be just like that, but different."

Spencer's eyes lit up at the mention of stories. He loved stories, whether they were from books or the ones he made up in his head. The idea that he could tell stories with his body, through dance, was something he had never considered before. His curiosity was piqued.

"Will I be good at it?" Spencer asked, his voice small but hopeful.

Val's smile broadened. "I'm sure you will. You have the perfect combination of intelligence and creativity. And I'll be here to help you every step of the way."

Diana watched the exchange with a soft smile, relieved to see her son opening up, even just a little. "Spencer's very eager to learn," she said, her voice filled with the pride she always had when talking about her son. "He's... different, but in the best way. I think he's going to thrive here."

Val stood up and nodded to Diana. "We cherish different here at Marino Dance Academy. Spencer's going to fit in perfectly."

With that, Val led Spencer into the studio, showing him the polished wooden floors, the barre along the walls, and the mirrored surfaces that seemed to reflect every possible angle of the room. Spencer's initial nervousness began to fade, replaced by a sense of wonder. Everything felt so big, so new, but also welcoming.

Val motioned for Spencer to join a small group of children around his age. They were stretching and chatting quietly among themselves. Spencer noticed they were all wearing similar outfits—simple, fitted clothes that allowed for movement. He suddenly felt self-conscious in his regular clothes, but Val quickly put a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll get your dance clothes soon," Val assured him. "For now, just focus on enjoying the movements. Today is all about finding your rhythm, understanding how your body likes to move."

Spencer nodded, absorbing every word. As Val demonstrated a few basic steps, Spencer watched intently, his mind already breaking down the movements like a puzzle. Val's movements were smooth and deliberate, every gesture flowing into the next. When it was Spencer's turn to try, he mimicked the steps as best as he could. He wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but Val's encouraging nods and gentle corrections made him want to keep trying.

"That's it, Spencer," Val praised after a few attempts. "You're a quick learner. And you have something special—a natural elegance. Not everyone has that."

Spencer beamed at the compliment, his confidence growing with each passing moment. He was starting to see the appeal of dancing, the way it made him feel light and free, like he could be anyone or anything. And Val... Val was so patient, so kind. Spencer liked him, trusted him even, and he was excited to learn more from him.

By the end of the class, Spencer was flushed with exertion but filled with a new kind of excitement. He couldn't wait to tell his mom about everything he had learned, about how fun it was to move to the music, to feel his body telling a story. As he left the studio, Val waved at him, reminding him to practice the steps they had learned.

"I will!" Spencer promised, feeling a warmth spread through him. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he had found something that was truly his, something that made him feel special.

As Spencer and his mom drove home, he couldn't stop talking about the class, about Val, and how wonderful it all was. His mother listened, smiling at her son's newfound passion. Little did Spencer know that this was just the beginning of a journey that would shape so much of his future—a future filled with light and shadows, all intertwined in a dance he could never have anticipated.

But for now, as an eight-year-old boy, all Spencer could feel was the excitement of something new, the joy of discovering a new way to tell stories, and the warmth of a teacher who made him feel seen and valued. And in that moment, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The Behavioral Analysis Unit's office was buzzing with the usual post-case energy. Files were being closed, coffee was being poured, and for just a moment, the weight of their responsibilities seemed a little lighter. It was late, but none of them were ready to call it a night just yet.

JJ and Emily were at one end of the room, leaning against a desk, talking quietly. Rossi was nearby, sorting through some papers, occasionally chiming in with a dry remark that made everyone chuckle. Morgan was tossing a basketball up and down idly, a habit he picked up whenever a case had gone well. Garcia, vibrant as ever, was updating her tech setup, her screens glowing softly in the dim light.

Hotch stood by his office door, watching his team with a small, almost imperceptible smile. It was these moments—these brief periods of normalcy—that he cherished, when he could see his team not just as agents, but as people, friends.

"Alright, everyone," Hotch began, clapping his hands lightly to get their attention. "Before we all head home, I think we could use a little levity. Anybody have a good story from this last trip? Something... light?"

There was a brief silence, a few smiles, then Rossi spoke up, his voice laced with a mischievous tone. "Well, I might not have a story, but I do have a little known fact about our own Dr. Reid."

Spencer, who had been quietly reading at his desk, looked up, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "What are you talking about, Rossi?"

Rossi grinned, leaning back in his chair. "I heard from a very reliable source that our young genius here was quite the dancer back in the day. Isn't that right, Reid?"

A ripple of surprise and amusement passed through the room. Morgan stopped tossing the basketball, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Wait, wait, wait—you're telling me Spencer here was breaking it down on the dance floor?"

Spencer's cheeks reddened slightly, but he managed a small smile. "It was just something my mother thought would be good for me. It helped with... spatial awareness and coordination."

JJ laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, come on, Spencer, don't be so modest. What kind of dance are we talking about here? Ballet? Tap? Jazz?"

Spencer sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Ballet, contemporary, jazz, and yes, tap, along with some... others. Anyway, it was a long time ago."

Emily clapped her hands delightedly. "I would pay good money to see that. Spencer Reid, the tap dancing prodigy!"

Garcia, never one to miss out on the fun, spun around in her chair, her eyes alight with excitement. "Oh my stars, can you imagine the recitals? Little Spencer with a bow tie and shiny tap shoes!"

Morgan chuckled, leaning against his desk. "I bet he was the star of the show, huh? Little genius stealing the spotlight even back then."

Spencer shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. "I wouldn't say the star, but... I was decent."

Rossi raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. "Decent? From what I've heard, you were more than decent. Kids double your age and twice your size couldn't keep up with you."

Hotch finally stepped fully out of his office, his demeanor still serious but his eyes warm. "Well, it sounds like you've been holding out on us, Reid. Maybe at the next team gathering, you can give us a demonstration."

The room erupted in laughter, even Spencer couldn't help but laugh, the warmth and teasing a welcome change from their usual intense discussions about cases.

As the laughter died down, JJ added, "Well, I think that's exactly the kind of talent we need around here. It's settled then. Next team night, Reid is dancing."

Spencer nodded, his smile genuine, touched by his team's good-natured ribbing. "Alright, but only if Rossi sings."

Rossi's laughter boomed through the room, followed by everyone else's. The atmosphere was light, the camaraderie evident, and for a moment, the harsh realities of their job were forgotten.

——

The team had just wrapped up their brief moment of levity when Hotch received the call. His expression quickly shifted back to his professional demeanor as he listened intently on the phone. The rest of the team noticed the change and prepared themselves for a shift back to reality, all while a bit more than irritated that they didn't even get to go home between cases.

Hotch hung up and addressed the team immediately. "We've got a new case in Las Vegas." The team all stands from where they had been sitting to follow Hotch into the round table room and all sit in their chairs. "Young male prostitutes are disappearing and turning up dead at an alarming rate. All of them share a similar profile."

The room tensed up as Garcia quickly brought up the victim photos on the screen. The images displayed were of young men, each bearing a disturbing resemblance to one specific genius. The team exchanged uneasy looks, the implication hanging heavily in the air but remaining unsaid.

Spencer stared at the young men on the screen in front of him, or the better word to describe them would be boys, much too young to be working the streets. It was almost uncanny how much they looked like him when he was younger but it had to be a coincidence, right?

Hotch, eager to disrupt the tension forming, continued. "Our first victim, Ethan Caldwell, 17, runaway, low risk victim, same as our other two victims... Ryan Whitaker, 16, and Liam Hawthorn, 18. All three have gone missing over the span of a week and were found dead not even 24 hours after they went missing"

The team sat there processing the information they were just told when Morgan chimed in. "Three vics in one week? This guy sure is motivated." Hotch gave him a look. "What? All i'm saying is this guy has some sort of goal. All the victims look almost identical," he spares a look at spencer. "they're all around the same age... he's got someone else in mind"

The team looks at each other in agreement, all having the same thought at the back of their minds... what if that someone is Reid?

"So we all agree that these men are substitutes for some other man, but why? All three men were found strangled to death and were heavily beat antimortem and postmortem, that's some serious rage directed toward the subject these men are substituting." Prentiss adds, "We need to find whoever the core of this unsubs rage is and fast before he gets ahold of him."

"Unless one of our victims IS the core of our unsubs issues." Rossi says without looking up from his file.

Hotch stands, "We need to go, the jet is on standby, wheels up in thirty." Everyone else stands, grabbing their files and bags, ready to head off to the landing strip but Spencer stays seated, he's still staring at the screen with the three men's faces, all a little too familiar.

"You good pretty boy?" Spencer's head snaps to Derek, unaware that he was still in the room having assumed everyone had left. "You didn't say anything that whole time..." he pauses, realizing what Spencer had been looking at. "Yeah, It's a bit... odd, but you'll be fine. Guess i'm not the only one fond of pretty boys, huh." Derek ruffles Spencers hair playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah, yeah i'm sure it's just a coincidence. I'm all good...Promise." Spencer says as he finally rises from his chair. Derek smiles at him and pats him on the shoulder. "Alright, well, you heard Hotch, kid. Wheels up in 30."

Spencer watches him as he walks out of the round table room, his heart still not settled in his chest. Something about this case feels wrong... but it's just what Derek said, right?

...

Odd

Chapter Text

The jet engine roared in the background, the SUV door not thick enough to drown out the sound. Spencer was the last team member still sitting in the car, the others already making their way up the stairs to board the jet. All but one—Hotch stood outside Spencer's door, waiting for him. Spencer took a deep breath, then exited the car, grabbing his go-bag and leather satchel.

"What's going on with you, Reid?" Hotch blocked his path, his body almost cornering Spencer against the car door. "You're antsy, you keep dissociating, and you haven't said a single word since we got this case. Is it because of your resemblance to the victims? If you're uncomfortable working this case, you don't have to come."

Reid sighed. "I don't like it, you're right. If I'm being honest, I am uncomfortable, but I think everyone is, not just me. No one likes this, but it'll be fine. I'll be fine. I'm just... processing. It's weird." Spencer glanced past Hotch at the stairs leading up to the jet, which felt like a death sentence. "I'm good; the team is waiting." He slipped by Hotch and walked to the steps, each footfall feeling heavier than the last. Hotch followed close behind, his presence a quiet comfort. Hotch wouldn't let anything happen to him... but that line of thinking was what got him in trouble in the first place.

They had been in the air for a while now, each member of the team in their usual seats. Hotch sat in the corner, observing his agents. Rossi, seated across from him, was rereading the case file, occasionally running something by Hotch for his opinion. JJ and Emily were sitting across from each other on the opposite side of the plane, idly chatting about the case. Derek chimed in from across the walkway whenever he wasn't flirting with Penelope, who Hotch had decided was needed on this case. Spencer sat on the couch, the file in his lap, the faces of the three victims staring back at him. Fluffy brown hair, sharp jawlines, lean builds—tall, all at least 6'1" even at their young age. It was like looking in a funhouse mirror: the same, yet distorted. And their "occupation"... Spencer's heart pounded in his chest. It was all hitting a little too close to home. All a little too familiar.

The crime scene photos leapt out at him suddenly. The pattern of the bruising, the cuts... the rape. The mirror he was staring into shattered as Hotch stood up, calling everyone into the middle of the plane to discuss the plan for when the jet landed.

"Me, Garcia, and JJ will go to the station to get set up and speak with some of the victims' families and friends. Morgan, Prentiss, you'll walk the streets where the victims worked, as well as any clubs in the area they may have frequented—try to get as much information about them as possible. Reid, Dave, you're going to the ME's office." Hotch commanded. The team nodded, all content with the roles they'd been given.

The atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. The case had been weighing on all of them, but there was an added layer of discomfort that hung in the air, a subtle but noticeable thread that connected the victims to one of their own.

Hotch stood at the head of the group, his expression as unreadable as ever, but his eyes flickered briefly to Reid before he began to go over the case again. "Our victims are all young males, aged between sixteen and eighteen. Ethan Caldwell, seventeen, Ryan Whitaker, sixteen, and the most recent, Liam Hawthorn, eighteen. Each one was reported missing by their families within the last week, and their bodies were discovered less than twenty-four hours after they disappeared."

He paused, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in. "All three were working the streets as male prostitutes, primarily in the same area. They share a striking resemblance—tall, lean, with similar facial features. The unsub is clearly targeting a specific type, and we need to figure out why."

Reid, who had been quiet up until now, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The profile Hotch described was a little too close for comfort, and though no one said it outright, he could feel the weight of their gazes, a silent acknowledgment of the resemblance. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the file in his lap, a nervous habit he hadn't quite shaken.

Rossi was the first to break the silence. "The timing is critical. The unsub isn't wasting any time between abductions and murders. This suggests an escalating behavior, someone who's becoming more confident or more desperate. The question is, what's driving that escalation?"

Prentiss leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concentration. "It could be the unsub is reliving some kind of trauma, reenacting it with each victim. The consistency in the victim type suggests they're a surrogate for someone specific. If that's the case, we might be able to identify a trigger that's set them off."

"These kids were vulnerable," JJ added, her voice tinged with sympathy. "Living on the streets, doing what they had to in order to survive. They wouldn't have been hard to approach. The unsub could've easily gained their trust, at least long enough to get them alone."

Morgan, who had been quietly observing, spoke up next. "If we can figure out what links these victims beyond their appearance and occupation, we might get a better idea of who we're dealing with. There's a reason he's choosing them, and that reason is key to stopping him."

Hotch nodded, his gaze shifting to Reid. "Reid, what do you make of the unsub's behavior?"

Reid swallowed, trying to steady his thoughts. "The rapid succession of the murders could indicate a few things. If the unsub is killing them within twenty-four hours, it suggests they might be acting out of a compulsion, something that drives them to complete the act quickly. The victims' resemblance to each other... could imply the unsub is targeting a specific image, possibly someone from their past."

He hesitated for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "It's also possible that the unsub is projecting their anger or guilt onto these victims. The violence suggests a deep-seated rage, and the sexual assault indicates a need for control or dominance over their target. They might be reenacting something they experienced themselves or something they couldn't control in the past. But the short time frame means they're not interested in keeping the victims alive for long, only in fulfilling whatever fantasy or need they have."

The room fell silent again, everyone processing what Reid had said. His analysis was spot on, as usual, but there was a certain weight to his words that hung in the air. The team was accustomed to profiling unsubs, to discussing the darkest parts of human behavior, but it was different when one of their own could so easily fit the profile of a victim.

Hotch spoke, his tone firm but laced with unspoken concern. "Reid, you and Rossi need to be careful at the ME's office. We don't know how close this unsub is to the investigation or if they could be monitoring the case. Stay alert and don't take any unnecessary risks."

Rossi gave a nod of understanding, but his eyes lingered on Reid for a moment longer. "We'll get a better idea of the unsub's methods once we see the bodies. The pattern of injuries, the precision of the cuts—those will tell us more about the unsub's state of mind."

"Right," Hotch said, directing the conversation back to the larger picture. "Garcia, as soon as we land, I need you to run a background check on anyone connected to the victims. Friends, family, former clients—anyone who might have a connection to them or fits the profile we're developing. JJ, see if the families can tell us anything about their last known movements or if they had any enemies."

"Understood," Garcia responded, her usual cheerfulness subdued by the seriousness of the case.

"Prentiss, Morgan," Hotch continued, "when you're out on the streets, keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously. If the unsub is targeting these boys, they might be scouting for their next victim. We can't afford to miss any leads."

Prentiss and Morgan exchanged a glance, both knowing the weight of what Hotch was saying. "We'll be careful," Prentiss assured him.

With the plan laid out, Hotch gave one final look at his team. "This case is going to be tough, but we've dealt with worse. Stay focused, and remember—if anyone notices anything off, you speak up immediately. We're dealing with someone who's escalating quickly, and we need to stop them before they strike again."

The team nodded, the gravity of the situation clear. As they dispersed back to their seats, the unease lingered, each of them lost in their thoughts about the case—and the unsettling similarities between the victims and Spencer Reid.

Reid remained on the couch, staring at the photos of Ethan Caldwell, Ryan Whitaker, and Liam Hawthorn. Their faces blurred together in his mind, merging with his own reflection in a distorted, nightmarish montage. He closed the file, setting it aside as he tried to push the thoughts away, but the familiar sting of anxiety settled in his chest, refusing to be ignored.

Hotch, who had been observing the team from a distance, quietly approached Reid. He placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare but reassuring gesture from the usually stoic leader. "We'll get through this, Reid. And we'll make sure it doesn't get any closer to home."

Reid looked up at Hotch, nodding slightly, though the unease in his eyes remained. "I know, Hotch. I just... I can't help but feel like I'm looking into a mirror, and it's hard to separate myself from what's happening."

"That's what makes you good at what you do," Hotch replied, his voice steady. "But don't let it consume you. You're part of this team, and we're all in this together. Remember that."

Reid nodded again, more resolutely this time. "I will. Thanks, Hotch."

Hotch gave him a brief nod before returning to his seat, leaving Reid with his thoughts. The jet continued its steady course, the hum of the engines a constant reminder of the mission ahead. The team would soon be on the ground, diving headfirst into the darkness of the case, but they were ready. They had to be.

And Reid, despite the echoes of fear that lingered in his mind, knew he couldn't let it hold him back. The team was counting on him, and they had a killer to stop.

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the Las Vegas skyline as Hotch, JJ, and Garcia arrived at the Las Vegas Police Department. The building was a stark contrast to the glitz and glamour of the Strip, with its plain, utilitarian architecture and the constant bustle of officers coming and going. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the murmur of hushed conversations.

They were greeted at the entrance by Chief Robert Hayes, a tall, middle-aged man with a weathered face that spoke of years of experience in law enforcement. His handshake was firm, and his expression was one of grim determination.

"Agent Hotchner, welcome," Chief Hayes said, his voice gravelly but respectful. "We've set up a room for you and your team to use as a base. If there's anything you need, just let me know."

"Thank you, Chief Hayes," Hotch replied, his tone professional and clipped. "We'll need access to your case files and anything your officers have gathered on the victims."

"You'll have it," Hayes assured him. "We're all hoping you can help us stop this guy before anyone else gets hurt. We have a lot going on right now, it's a big city we need the help."

Hotch nodded, and with a brief exchange of glances with JJ and Garcia, they followed the chief down a corridor to a small, windowless room. The walls were bare except for a whiteboard at the front, and a large TV screen was mounted on the wall beside it. A table in the center of the room held a stack of files, a laptop, and a few notepads. It wasn't much, but it would suffice.

Garcia immediately set to work, unpacking her laptop and connecting it to the TV, her fingers flying over the keyboard with practiced ease. Within moments, images of the three victims—Ethan Caldwell, Ryan Whitaker, and Liam Hawthorn—appeared on the screen. JJ moved to the whiteboard, pinning up printed photos of the boys alongside their basic information: names, ages, dates of disappearance, and locations where their bodies were found.

As they worked, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier. The victims' faces, so young and full of promise, stared back at them from the screen and board, a stark reminder of the urgency of their task.

Chief Hayes reappeared at the door, ushering in the families of the victims one by one. They were a disparate group, united only by their shared grief and the loss of their sons. Hotch had seen this before—parents struggling to maintain composure, caught between the need for answers and the raw pain of their loss. Each family was brought into the room separately, their interviews conducted with care and precision.

The Caldwell Family

Ethan Caldwell's parents were the first to arrive. Mr. Caldwell was a stern-looking man in his early forties, his expression hard as stone, while Mrs. Caldwell clung to her purse, her knuckles white. They sat across from Hotch and JJ, tension radiating from them both.

Hotch began gently. "We're very sorry for your loss. We just want to ask a few questions that might help us understand what happened to Ethan."

Mr. Caldwell's jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. "Go ahead."

JJ took the lead, her tone soft and empathetic. "When was the last time you saw Ethan?"

Mrs. Caldwell's voice trembled as she spoke. "It was about a week ago. He... he ran away. Again. We tried to stop him, but he just wouldn't listen. He was always so rebellious, so... difficult."

JJ noted the words carefully. "Can you tell us why he ran away?"

Mr. Caldwell cut in, his tone sharp. "Because he was confused. He didn't understand that we were trying to help him. He got these ideas in his head, and they led him down the wrong path. We did everything we could to set him straight."

JJ exchanged a quick glance with Hotch. It was clear what the underlying issue was. "Did Ethan ever talk to you about his relationships or the people he was spending time with?"

Mrs. Caldwell shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "He didn't tell us much anymore. He kept secrets. We just wanted what was best for him, but he wouldn't listen."

Hotch remained neutral, though he could see the picture forming. Ethan had been seeking acceptance that he couldn't find at home, and it had driven him into dangerous territory.

The Whitaker Family

Next came Ryan Whitaker's parents. They were younger than the Caldwells, but the same undercurrent of tension was present. Mr. Whitaker was pacing the room when they arrived, while Mrs. Whitaker sat with her arms crossed, her face a mask of anger and grief.

Hotch spoke calmly. "Thank you for coming in. We're trying to piece together what happened to your son."

Mr. Whitaker's pacing stopped abruptly. "Ryan didn't belong out there," he said, his voice thick with frustration. "He was too smart for that life, but he got mixed up with the wrong people."

"Wrong people?" JJ prompted gently.

Mrs. Whitaker's gaze was icy. "He was running with a bad crowd. We tried to pull him out of it, but he just kept slipping away. We told him, over and over, that this wasn't who he was supposed to be. He was throwing his life away."

"Did Ryan ever talk about anyone he might have been afraid of?" Hotch asked, steering the conversation back to the investigation.

Mrs. Whitaker shook her head, her voice tinged with bitterness. "He didn't tell us anything. He shut us out."

The tension in the room was palpable, and it was clear why Ryan had run. The disconnect between him and his parents had been profound.

The Hawthorn Family

Finally, the Hawthorn family entered the room. Liam's parents were older, both looking worn down by years of struggling with their son. Mr. Hawthorn sat down heavily, rubbing his temples, while Mrs. Hawthorn stared at the floor, her expression distant.

JJ began as she had with the others, expressing condolences before asking about the last time they saw Liam.

Mr. Hawthorn sighed deeply. "We hadn't seen Liam in weeks. He left home after our last argument. We told him he was making a mistake, that he was better than this. But he just... he didn't care anymore. He didn't want to be a part of our family."

Mrs. Hawthorn's voice was barely a whisper. "He wanted to live his life the way he wanted, and we couldn't accept that. He was so stubborn, so determined to do everything his own way."

Hotch leaned forward slightly. "Did Liam ever mention anyone threatening him? Or did you notice any changes in his behavior before he left?"

Mr. Hawthorn shook his head. "No, he didn't talk to us about anything like that. We didn't... we weren't close anymore."

As they finished the interviews, it was clear to JJ and Hotch that all three boys had been driven away by their families, seeking the acceptance they couldn't find at home. This rejection had made them vulnerable, easy targets for someone who wanted to exploit their need for validation.

On the Streets of Las Vegas

Meanwhile, Morgan and Prentiss were walking the streets of Las Vegas, the neon lights casting eerie shadows on the pavement. They'd been talking to people in the area, trying to get any information they could about the victims.

After hours of questioning various individuals, they finally caught a break when they found a pair of young men lingering outside a club called "Dante's." The men were cautious at first, but Morgan's easy-going charm and Prentiss's straightforward approach eventually won them over.

"We knew Ethan, Ryan, and Liam," one of them said, his voice low as he glanced around nervously. "They were good guys, you know? Smart, but they had it rough. Their folks didn't get them, didn't care. They had to make do."

Prentiss nodded, encouraging him to continue. "What do you mean by 'had to make do'?"

The other man, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "They were just trying to get by. They weren't bad kids, just unlucky. Liam, especially—he was real smart. Could've been anything he wanted, but... life didn't give him that chance."

Morgan leaned in, his tone serious. "Did they ever mention anyone they were worried about? Someone who might've been after them?"

The first man shook his head. "No, not really. They kept to themselves mostly. But there were places they'd go to find work. Clubs like this one, or '11:11,' or 'Eden.' They knew the risks, but they didn't have much choice."

Prentiss exchanged a look with Morgan, both understanding the implications. These young men had been living on the edge, and it had made them easy prey.

Morgan pulled out his phone and called Garcia. She answered with her usual flair. "What's up, my chocolate thunder? Got something juicy for me?"

Morgan smiled despite the grim circumstances. "You know I do, Baby Girl. We've got some clubs where our victims might've picked up their last jobs—'Dante's,' '11:11,' and 'Eden.' Can you dig up whatever you can on these places? Any connections, regulars, that sort of thing?"

"Consider it done," Garcia replied, her tone instantly more serious. "I'll get back to you as soon as I have something."

"Thanks, Garcia," Morgan said, hanging up. He turned to Prentiss. "We might be getting closer. Let's keep moving."

At the Medical Examiner's Office

Across town, Reid and Rossi were standing in the cold, sterile environment of the Medical Examiner's office. Dr. Melissa Kane, the ME in charge of the case, was a no-nonsense woman in her early forties, with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor. She led them to the examination room where the bodies of Ethan Caldwell, Ryan Whitaker, and Liam Hawthorn were laid out, each one covered with a sheet.

"The cause of death in all three cases is strangulation," Dr. Kane began, pulling back the sheets one by one to reveal the bodies. "But that's only part of the story."

Reid leaned in, his keen eyes scanning the bruises around the victims' necks. "The ligature marks are consistent across all three. The unsub used his bare hands to strangle them, he wanted to feel their life ending"

"Correct," Dr. Kane confirmed. "But what's most disturbing are the postmortem injuries. Each of these boys was beaten severely after death, raped as well, and the cuts... well, you'll see for yourself."

She gestured to the bodies, pointing out the deep gashes along their cheeks and torsos. "These cuts were made with a small, sharp knife. The pattern is deliberate, almost methodical. But the third victim, Liam Hawthorn... he suffered far worse."

Rossi frowned, moving closer to Liam's body. The cuts on this boy were far more extensive, crisscrossing his skin with a violent intensity that spoke of deep-seated rage. "The unsub is unraveling. The level of brutality here is much higher. This isn't just about control anymore—this is personal."

Reid nodded, his mind working through the details. "The unsub is escalating. The first two victims were likely experiments, testing the waters. But with Liam, something snapped. The resemblance to his target—whether it's someone from his past or a projection—triggered a much more violent response."

Dr. Kane's voice was grave as she added, "Liam's wounds were inflicted with a level of precision that suggests the unsub took his time. He wanted to make this one last."

Rossi exchanged a look with Reid, both understanding the urgency of their situation. "We need to figure out who this unsub is before he strikes again. The more he unravels, the more dangerous he becomes."

Reid's gaze lingered on Liam's battered face, the resemblance to himself unsettling. The unsub wasn't just hunting down young men who looked like him—he was on a path of self-destruction, and they were running out of time to stop him.

As they left the ME's office, Rossi placed a hand on Reid's shoulder, sensing the younger man's unease. "We'll get him, Reid. We're close."

Reid nodded, but his mind was already racing ahead, piecing together the puzzle. The unsub was slipping, and with every kill, he was leaving more of himself behind. All they had to do was catch him before he completely lost control.

And for Reid, this case was becoming more personal by the minute.

Chapter Text

Two years had passed since Spencer Reid first stepped into the Marino Dance Academy, and in that time, he had grown from a hesitant, wide-eyed beginner into a focused, determined young dancer. Now ten years old, Spencer was often found in the studio long after the other children had left, pushing himself through private lessons with Valentino, his once-charming dance instructor who had become a constant, authoritative figure in his life.

The studio was quiet, the large mirrors reflecting the soft, fading light of late afternoon. The usual hustle and bustle of the academy had died down, leaving only the faint sound of music playing softly in the background, the kind meant to inspire slow, flowing movements. Today, the studio was a private world for just Spencer and Val, the rest of the world slipping away as they focused on preparing for Spencer's first real competition.

Val stood beside Spencer, his tall frame looming over the boy as they both faced the mirror. Spencer wore a fitted black leotard, his body still lean but more muscular now, shaped by years of training and endless hours of practice. His dark hair was longer, curling slightly at the ends, and his expression was one of intense concentration as he followed Val's instructions.

"Remember, Spencer, contemporary dance is all about fluidity and emotion," Val's deep voice broke the silence. "You need to let the music move through you, to feel each note in your body, and let it guide you."

Spencer nodded, his face reflecting a seriousness that seemed beyond his years. He had become Val's star student, the one with the most potential, the one who would make Val proud. But with that potential came expectations, and Spencer felt the weight of those expectations every time he stepped into the studio.

"Let's start with the stretches," Val said, moving to stand behind Spencer. He placed his large hands on Spencer's shoulders, applying gentle pressure as he guided the boy into a deep stretch. "Relax your muscles, Spencer. Don't fight the movement; let it happen."

Spencer tried to follow Val's instructions, though the stretch was uncomfortable. Val's hands were firm, almost too firm, but Spencer kept silent. He had learned early on that Val's touch, though sometimes rough, was meant to help him improve, to push him beyond his limits. Val had told him that being the best required sacrifice, that discomfort was part of the process.

Val moved his hands lower, guiding Spencer's arms into position. "Good, now reach for the floor, and feel the length of your body. Imagine you're reaching for something just out of your grasp."

Spencer did as he was told, bending forward until his fingertips brushed the polished wood floor. Val's hands followed, trailing down Spencer's back, applying pressure here and there to correct his posture, to deepen the stretch. The touch made Spencer feel strange, a mixture of pride and discomfort swirling in his chest. But he pushed those feelings aside, focusing on the dance, on the competition ahead.

Val stepped in front of Spencer, crouching down so their eyes were level. "Now, let's work on the transitions. Contemporary dance isn't about rigid steps; it's about the flow between them. Every movement needs to melt into the next."

Spencer nodded again, his heart pounding a little faster. He had practiced these transitions countless times, but with Val so close, watching him so intently, there was an added pressure that made him more aware of every mistake, every slight misstep.

They moved through the routine slowly, Val's hands guiding Spencer's limbs, adjusting his angles, ensuring each position was perfect. As they reached a particularly challenging sequence, Val placed his hands on Spencer's waist, lifting him slightly to help him find the correct balance.

"Feel the music, Spencer," Val whispered, his voice soft but commanding. "Let it carry you."

Spencer focused on the music, trying to lose himself in it, to forget the uncomfortable feeling of Val's hands pressing into his sides, the way Val's breath seemed to linger too close to his ear. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining he was alone in the studio, just him and the music. When he opened them, Val was still there, his gaze intense, watching Spencer's every move.

"Good, Spencer," Val said, finally stepping back. "You're getting there. But remember, perfection comes from practice and trust. You need to trust me to guide you, to help you reach your full potential."

Spencer swallowed, nodding again. He knew Val was right; he had improved so much under Val's guidance, had learned more than he ever thought possible. But there was something else, a lingering unease that he couldn't quite shake. He didn't know how to express it, didn't want to disappoint Val by questioning him. So, he stayed silent, pushing those feelings down, telling himself they didn't matter as long as he kept improving.

"Let's go through it again," Val instructed, turning back to the mirror. "From the top."

And so they continued, moving through the routine again and again, Val's hands correcting, guiding, pushing Spencer to be better, to be perfect. Spencer's muscles ached, but he didn't complain. This was what it took to win, what it took to be the best.

As the session drew to a close, Spencer was drenched in sweat, his body trembling from exhaustion. Val stood back, a satisfied smile on his face.

"You've done well today, Spencer," Val said, placing a hand on Spencer's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Remember, the competition is just the beginning. You have so much potential, and I'm going to help you unlock all of it."

Spencer nodded, too tired to speak. He looked at himself in the mirror, at the reflection of a ten-year-old boy who was no longer just a child but a dancer with a purpose, a goal. He knew he had changed over the past two years, had become someone who understood the price of success, the sacrifices required. But as he stared into his own eyes, he couldn't help but wonder if something else was being sacrificed along the way, something he couldn't quite name.

Val patted Spencer on the back and handed him a towel. "Go home and rest, Spencer. We'll pick up again tomorrow. The competition is close, and I want you to be ready."

Spencer took the towel, wiping the sweat from his face. "Thank you, Val," he said, his voice quiet but sincere. "I'll practice at home too."

Val smiled, that warm, charming smile that had made Spencer feel safe from the very first day. "I know you will, Spencer. You're going to be incredible."

Spencer nodded, but as he left the studio and stepped out into the cool evening air, a small part of him wondered if he was losing something in the pursuit of being "incredible." He pushed the thought away as quickly as it came, focusing instead on the dance, on the music that still echoed in his mind. But the unease remained, tucked away in a corner of his heart, waiting for the day when it would no longer be ignored.

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights in the station flickered faintly, casting a cold, sterile glow over the room where the team was gathered. Pictures of the victims—Ethan Caldwell, Ryan Whitaker, and Liam Hawthorn—were pinned to the whiteboard, their faces staring back at the agents as they sat around the table, deep in discussion. The atmosphere was thick with frustration; despite their efforts, the pieces of the puzzle weren't fitting together as easily as they'd hoped.

"We know the unsub is escalating," Hotch began, his voice steady despite the weariness etched into his features. "Liam Hawthorn was subjected to far more brutality than the other two victims. The rage is increasing, and so is the frequency of the attacks. But we're still missing something critical. Why these boys? Why now?"

"All three victims were strangled," Reid added, leaning forward, his eyes scanning the photos for the umpteenth time. "But not with a ligature. The unsub used his hands. That level of intimacy, combined with the postmortem mutilation, suggests a deep personal connection or projection. He's killing with his hands because he wants to feel it—wants to exert complete control over these boys."

"That fits with what we're seeing," Rossi said, his voice low and contemplative. "The cuts on Liam's body were more deliberate, more controlled. It's like he was taking his time, savoring the act. Whoever this unsub is, he's losing his grip on reality, and fast."

JJ tapped her pen against the table, her mind racing. "The connection between the victims seems to be more than just their physical resemblance to each other. They all frequented the same areas, the same clubs. They were all just trying to survive, but they ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Those clubs—'Dante's,' '11:11,' and 'Eden'—are our best leads right now," Morgan chimed in, his tone firm. "We need to dig deeper into who frequents those places. Maybe the unsub was a regular, someone who got close to these boys without raising suspicion."

Garcia, sitting in front of her laptop, nodded. "I'm running checks on the clubs and any known associates of the victims. So far, nothing concrete, but I'll keep digging."

Prentiss sighed, frustration evident in her voice. "We're running in circles. We know the unsub is out there, probably already scouting for his next victim, but we're not getting anywhere with this."

Hotch glanced at his watch, noting the late hour. "We're not going to solve this tonight. We need to call it a night and get some rest. We'll be sharper in the morning."

The team reluctantly agreed, gathering their things and preparing to leave. The exhaustion was palpable, each agent mentally and physically drained from the day's work.

At the Hotel

The hotel lobby was a stark contrast to the grim environment of the police station. Soft lighting, plush carpets, and the faint hum of distant conversations created a soothing, if somewhat artificial, atmosphere. A large TV in the corner played a local news channel, the anchor's voice droning on about a prisoner that escaped from the Las Vegas prison a couple weeks ago, everyone on the team noticed it, Hotch making a mental note to ask the Chief about it tomorrow but the team was too tired to pay it much attention. Besides, that's not what they were there for, they had their own case to worry about. They murmured their goodnights and made their way to their respective rooms, grateful for the promise of a few hours of rest.

Spencer's Room

Spencer Reid closed the door to his hotel room with a quiet click, the noise from the hallway fading into silence. The room was comfortable, with a large bed dominating the space, a small desk, and a sleek, modern bathroom. He let out a long breath, the day's tension still coiled tightly in his chest.

He undressed mechanically, peeling off his clothes and stepping into the shower. The hot water pounded against his skin, washing away the grime of the day, but it did little to ease the unease that had been gnawing at him since they'd arrived in Las Vegas. The images of the victims, their faces so disturbingly familiar, swam in his mind, refusing to fade.

After drying off, he slipped into a pair of comfortable sweatpants and an old T-shirt, the cotton soft and familiar against his skin. He crawled into bed, pulling out a well-worn book from his go-bag. It was a collection of short stories, something light to distract him from the darkness that clung to his thoughts. He flipped through the pages, forcing himself to focus on the words, to immerse himself in the narrative.

But the stories couldn't hold his attention. His mind kept wandering back to the case, to the faces of Ethan, Ryan, and Liam. He saw them superimposed over his own reflection, the resemblance too close for comfort.

After reading the same paragraph three times without comprehension, Reid snapped the book shut with a sigh. He placed it on the nightstand and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. He lay there for a while, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of the city outside. But sleep wouldn't come. His mind was too active, too restless, replaying the events of the day, the details of the case, over and over.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning, he finally threw back the covers in frustration. Enough was enough. He needed to clear his head.

He grabbed a button-up shirt and pulled it on over his sweats, not bothering to do up the buttons, and slipped his feet into a pair of sneakers. The cool air of the hallway was a welcome change from the stuffy confines of his room as he made his way to the elevator. He rode it down to the lobby, the soft ding as the doors opened pulling him from his thoughts.

The lobby was quieter now, with only a few guests lingering near the front desk or in the lounge area. Spencer walked towards the bar, which was dimly lit, the shelves lined with bottles that glinted in the low light. He slid onto a stool, the cool leather a welcome sensation against his skin.

The bartender approached, offering a friendly smile. "What'll it be?"

"A Long Island Iced Tea," Spencer replied, his voice soft but steady.

The bartender nodded, quickly preparing the drink and setting it in front of him. Spencer wrapped his fingers around the glass, taking a long sip. The alcohol burned slightly as it went down, but it also brought a comforting warmth that spread through his chest.

He sat there for a while, nursing his drink, letting the buzz from the alcohol dull the edges of his anxiety. The lounge around him was filled with the low murmur of conversations, the occasional burst of laughter, the clink of glasses. It was the usual crowd for a Las Vegas hotel—tourists, businesspeople, the odd gambler winding down after a night on the Strip.

But as Spencer glanced around, a strange sensation washed over him—a feeling of being watched. It was subtle at first, just a prickle at the back of his neck, but it grew stronger, more insistent. He tried to shake it off, convincing himself it was just the remnants of the day's tension, but the feeling persisted.

Slowly, he turned on his stool, scanning the lounge. His eyes moved over the faces of the patrons, most of them absorbed in their own worlds. There was nothing out of the ordinary—a group of friends laughing in a booth, a couple sharing a quiet conversation, a man at the far end of the bar nursing a drink.

But then, through the shifting crowd, he saw him. A face from his past, one that still haunted his nightmares. The figure was standing near the entrance, partially obscured by a pillar, but Spencer recognized him instantly. His heart leapt into his throat, adrenaline surging through his veins.

It couldn't be him. It wasn't possible.

But there he was, just standing there, watching him. And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone. The crowd shifted, and the figure disappeared, as if swallowed by the sea of people.

Spencer blinked, his breath catching in his chest. Had he imagined it? Was it just a trick of his mind, worn down by exhaustion and the stress of the case? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog of confusion.

He turned back to the bar, his drink still half-full. But the sense of unease was stronger now, more insistent. Spencer quickly downed the rest of his drink, the alcohol burning as it went down, and set the glass on the bar with a bit more force than necessary.

This was no longer the refuge he had hoped it would be. He needed to get out of there, to find the solitude of his room and try to regain control of his thoughts.

He paid for his drink and left the bar, heading back to the elevator. As the doors closed around him, he let out a long breath, trying to calm the racing of his heart. It was just his imagination, he told himself. There was no way it could have been him.

But the fear clung to him, like a shadow that wouldn't be shaken. When he reached his room, he locked the door behind him and crawled back into bed, the sheets cold against his skin. He pulled them up to his chin, his mind still replaying the brief glimpse of that familiar face.

Eventually, exhaustion overcame his anxiety, and Spencer drifted into a fitful sleep. But even in his dreams, the figure from the bar haunted him, lurking just out of sight, always watching, always waiting.

And though he didn't know it yet, the past he had tried so hard to forget was about to come crashing back into his life with a vengeance.

Chapter Text

Two more years had passed since Spencer Reid first stepped onto the dance floor of Marino Dance Academy. Now twelve years old, Spencer had become a force to be reckoned with in the competitive dance world. His name was synonymous with excellence, his trophy case overflowing with awards from every genre—hip hop, ballet, contemporary, lyrical, tap. If it could be danced, Spencer could master it. His talent was undeniable, his dedication unparalleled, and much of that success, he believed, was thanks to Val.

Val had been there every step of the way, his hands guiding Spencer through each routine, each performance, each victory. The tall, charismatic man had become more than just a teacher; he was a mentor, a confidant, a figure Spencer looked up to with unwavering trust. But alongside the trust, that small sense of unease had grown, creeping into Spencer's thoughts more frequently, though he could never quite articulate why.

Spencer stood in the middle of the studio, his body drenched in sweat from the rigorous routine they had just finished practicing. He was taller now, lean and strong, his muscles defined from years of training. His movements were precise, elegant, and powerful—a perfect blend of the many styles he had mastered. The studio was empty except for him and Val, the afternoon light filtering through the tall windows, casting long shadows on the polished wooden floor.

"You're doing great, Spencer," Val praised, stepping closer to adjust Spencer's posture. His hands rested on Spencer's waist, fingers tightening slightly as he guided the boy's hips into the correct position. "But remember, control is key. Your movements need to be deliberate, not rushed."

Spencer nodded, focusing on the mirror in front of him. He could see Val's reflection standing behind him, close enough that Spencer could feel the heat from his body. Val's hands lingered on Spencer's waist, longer than necessary, pressing firmly against his skin. Spencer's muscles tensed, but he quickly relaxed, telling himself it was just part of the process, just Val helping him, as he always had.

"Let's go over the last sequence again," Val instructed, his voice smooth and authoritative. He stepped back just enough to give Spencer room to move but not so far that Spencer didn't feel his presence. "This time, focus on the fluidity of your transitions. You need to make the audience feel every emotion you're conveying."

Spencer began the sequence, his movements precise and fluid, just as Val had taught him. He leaped into the air, landed gracefully, then flowed into a series of intricate spins and turns, his body moving like water. Val's voice guided him through each step, each turn, and each subtle shift of weight.

"Good, Spencer. Very good," Val murmured, stepping in close again. His hands found their way to Spencer's shoulders, then down his arms, correcting the angle, the tension. "Keep that energy. Don't let it drop. You need to maintain this level of intensity all the way through."

Spencer tried to concentrate on Val's words, but the feeling of Val's hands on his arms distracted him. The touch was firm, almost too firm, and Spencer felt a slight twinge of discomfort, but he quickly dismissed it. This was Val, his mentor, the person who had shaped him into the dancer he was today. If Val said this was necessary, it had to be.

"Now, the ending," Val said, his voice lowering as he moved his hands to Spencer's lower back, pressing him forward. "This part needs to be dramatic, emotional. The judges need to see that you're not just a dancer but a storyteller."

Spencer's heart raced as he followed Val's guidance, his body arching into the final pose. Val's hands were still on him, tightening around his waist, guiding his hips into a deep bend. Spencer could feel the pressure, feel the way Val's fingers dug into his skin, but he didn't say anything. He never did. He trusted Val.

As Spencer held the pose, breathing heavily from the exertion, Val's hands lingered once more. The unease that had been simmering in the back of Spencer's mind flared up, sharp and insistent, but he pushed it down, as he always did. Val had told him that perfection required sacrifice, that to be the best, he had to trust the process, trust Val. And Spencer wanted to be the best, needed to be.

"Perfect," Val finally said, releasing Spencer and stepping back to admire the boy's form. "You're ready for this competition, Spencer. You're going to blow them away."

Spencer straightened, lowering his arms and looking at Val through the mirror. He forced a smile, though his insides felt twisted with something he couldn't quite name. "Thank you, Val. I'll keep practicing."

Val smiled, that same warm, charming smile that had always made Spencer feel special. "I know you will. Remember, I'm always here if you need anything. We're in this together."

Spencer nodded, the words reassuring and yet... something felt off. He wasn't sure when it had started, this gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, but it was there more often now. He never voiced it, though. How could he? Val had given him everything, had helped him achieve more than he ever thought possible. Voicing those doubts felt like a betrayal.

After practice, Spencer gathered his things and headed toward the door, his legs feeling heavy, not from the physical exertion but from the weight of his thoughts. As he reached for the door handle, Val's voice stopped him.

"Spencer," Val called, his tone soft but firm. Spencer turned to see Val standing in the center of the studio, his expression serious. "Remember what I said about trust. It's the foundation of everything we've built together."

Spencer hesitated, then nodded. "I trust you, Val. I know you want what's best for me."

Val's smile returned, warm and approving. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Same time."

Spencer left the studio, the evening air cool against his sweat-dampened skin. He walked home, his thoughts churning with a mix of pride, gratitude, and that ever-present unease. He was the best—everyone said so—but at what cost? He pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the dance, on the next competition. But as he lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was slipping away, something important that he couldn't afford to lose.

But Spencer was only twelve, and he had learned to trust Val, to listen to him, to follow his guidance without question. And so, he pushed the unease down, buried it deep where it couldn't interfere with his dancing, with his goal of being the best. After all, that was what mattered most... wasn't it?

Chapter Text

Thirteen-year-old Spencer Reid stood backstage at a crowded dance competition, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray, sweat, and nervous energy as dancers from various studios prepared for their performances. Spencer was dressed in a sleek, black dance costume, the fabric shimmering slightly under the dim backstage lights. He had grown taller over the past year, his limbs long and graceful, perfectly trained for the complex routines he had mastered under Val's strict guidance.

As Spencer peeked out from behind the curtain, he caught sight of his mother, Diana, sitting in the audience. She was smiling, chatting animatedly with Val, who was seated next to her. Even from a distance, Spencer could see the way Val's charm seemed to envelop her, drawing her into his orbit just as it did with everyone else. Val was impeccably dressed, as always, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression warm and engaging. He gestured with his hands as he spoke, his voice carrying just enough to let Spencer hear snippets of their conversation.

"You must be so proud of Spencer, Diana," Val said, his tone smooth and complimentary. "He's worked incredibly hard for this. He's a natural talent, but it's his dedication that really sets him apart."

Diana beamed, nodding in agreement. "Oh, I am, Val. I'm so grateful for everything you've done for him. Spencer absolutely adores you, you know. He talks about you all the time."

Val's smile widened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. "Well, he's a remarkable young man. It's been an honor to guide him."

Spencer watched the exchange, a strange feeling stirring in his chest. He wasn't sure if it was pride, knowing that Val and his mom were so close, or something else—something that made him feel small and uncertain. Val was always so charming, so perfect in everyone's eyes. The judges seemed to worship the ground he walked on, and whenever Val approached them, they greeted him with admiration and deference. Spencer had seen it countless times—Val shaking hands with the judges, exchanging pleasantries with a smile that never wavered. They listened to him, trusted his opinions, and often looked to him for guidance.

And then there were the other students. Spencer noticed how they stared at him with thinly veiled envy, their gazes flicking between him and Val as if they couldn't quite believe how lucky Spencer was to be so close to someone as respected as Val. When students from other dance studios passed by, they often stopped to say hello to Val, their faces lighting up as they did. Val was always kind to them, smiling and offering a few encouraging words, but Spencer couldn't help the pang of jealousy that welled up inside him whenever it happened. He didn't like sharing Val's attention, even though he knew it was irrational. Val was his teacher, his mentor—no one else's.

As Spencer continued to watch, a judge approached him to offer some pre-performance encouragement. "You've got a lot of talent, Spencer," the judge said, smiling down at him. "Val speaks very highly of you. I'm looking forward to seeing you dance."

Before Spencer could respond, he felt Val's presence behind him. The atmosphere shifted instantly as Val stepped closer, his gaze locking onto the judge with a look that was polite but intense. "Thank you," Val interjected smoothly, placing a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Spencer has worked hard, and I'm confident he'll give a performance worth watching."

The judge nodded, clearly taking Val's cue, and excused himself with a final word of encouragement for Spencer. As soon as the judge walked away, Val's grip on Spencer's shoulder tightened just slightly, almost imperceptibly. Spencer felt a flutter of anxiety in his stomach but quickly pushed it aside.

"Remember," Val said softly, his voice calm but firm, "focus on the routine. Don't let distractions get in the way. You're here to win."

Spencer nodded, the unease from earlier fading as he focused on the task at hand. "I won't let you down, Val. I promise."

Val smiled, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "I know you won't. You're ready."

When Spencer's name was called, he stepped out onto the stage, the lights bright and blinding. The audience was a sea of faces, but Spencer's focus was on the dance. As the music began, his body moved with the precision and grace that had been drilled into him over years of practice. He leaped, turned, and spun, his movements a perfect blend of strength and elegance. The routine was complex, demanding, but Spencer executed it flawlessly, just as Val had taught him.

As the final notes of the music played, Spencer held his finishing pose, his chest heaving from the exertion. Applause erupted from the audience, loud and enthusiastic, but Spencer's eyes immediately sought out Val. His mentor's expression was unreadable for a moment, but then Val nodded, a small, approving smile playing on his lips. Spencer felt a rush of relief and pride wash over him. He had done well—he had made Val proud.

Backstage, Spencer waited for Val's feedback, his nerves on edge as he replayed the routine in his head, trying to remember if he had made any mistakes. Val approached him, his presence commanding as always, and placed a hand on Spencer's back.

"You did very well, Spencer," Val said, his tone even and measured. "Your technique was flawless, and your timing was perfect."

Spencer's heart swelled with pride, but before he could bask in the praise, Val's tone shifted, becoming more critical. "However, there are still areas that need improvement. Your transitions could be smoother, and you need to work on maintaining your energy throughout the entire routine. You can't let it drop, even for a second."

Spencer nodded, absorbing Val's words. "I'll work on it, I promise."

Val gave him a curt nod. "See that you do. You're a champion, Spencer, but champions don't get complacent."

Before Spencer could respond, a voice interrupted them. "Spencer, that was amazing!"

Spencer turned to see Haley, a girl his age from another studio, standing nearby with a bright smile on her face. Haley had been in a few of the same competitions as Spencer over the years, and they had exchanged polite words before, but this was the first time she had approached him like this.

"Thanks, Haley," Spencer replied, smiling back at her. He felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the praise from his performance.

But before the conversation could go any further, Val's hand tightened on Spencer's back, pulling him away from Haley with a sudden, firm motion. Spencer barely had time to react before Val was leading him toward a quieter corner of the backstage area.

"What did I just say about distractions?" Val hissed, his voice low and sharp. Spencer flinched, the warmth from Haley's compliment evaporating in an instant.

"I'm sorry, Val. I didn't mean to—"

"She's not your focus right now," Val continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're here to compete, not to make friends."

Spencer nodded, his face flushed with shame. "I understand. It won't happen again."

Val's eyes bore into Spencer's, and for a moment, the usual warmth in them was replaced by something colder, harder. "See that it doesn't," Val said, his voice softening slightly but still firm. "You've worked too hard to let anything jeopardize what we've built."

Spencer nodded again, the knot in his stomach tightening. He knew Val was right—he couldn't afford to lose focus, not now, not ever. He owed everything to Val, and he couldn't let him down.

As they returned to the main area, Val's demeanor shifted back to the charming, affable persona that everyone else saw. He greeted students from other studios with a smile, offered kind words to the other judges, and basked in the admiration that surrounded him. Spencer followed closely, the sense of unease from earlier now a constant, dull ache in his chest.

Spencer knew he was lucky to have Val, to be so close to someone so respected and admired. But as the competition continued, and Spencer watched Val interact with the other students, the jealousy he had felt earlier returned. It gnawed at him, making him feel small and unsure. Val was his teacher, his mentor—why did it bother him so much to see Val being kind to others?

The rest of the competition passed in a blur, and when it was time for the awards ceremony, Spencer was once again at the top of the podium, the first-place trophy in his hands. The applause was deafening, the praise overwhelming, but all Spencer could focus on was the look on Val's face—proud, yes, but with that same undercurrent of possessiveness that made Spencer's heart race in a way that wasn't entirely comfortable.

As they left the competition, Spencer's mom beamed at him, her pride evident in every word she spoke. "I'm so proud of you, Spencer. You were incredible out there. And Val, thank you so much for everything you've done for him. He's so lucky to have you."

Val smiled, the warmth back in his eyes. "It's my pleasure, Diana. Spencer is an exceptional talent, and it's been an honor to help him grow."

Spencer forced a smile, but the unease was still there, lodged deep in his chest. As they drove home, he stared out the window, the trophy heavy in his lap. He had won again, just as he always did, but the victory felt hollow, the praise empty. And for the first time, Spencer found himself questioning not just his dance, but the man who had shaped it.

But those thoughts were fleeting, quickly buried beneath the weight of expectations, the need to be perfect, to not disappoint Val. Because no matter how uneasy he felt, Spencer couldn't imagine a world where Val wasn't his mentor, his guide, his everything. And so, he pushed the doubts away, telling himself that everything was fine, that Val only wanted what was best for him.

But deep down, where the unease lived, Spencer knew that something wasn't right. And that knowledge, buried as it was, would only grow stronger with time.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the large windows of the hotel lobby, casting a warm glow over the polished floors and plush furniture. The rest of the team was already gathered, exchanging quiet conversation over complimentary coffee and breakfast. Garcia was tapping away at her laptop, the soft clicks of her nails on the keyboard a familiar background noise. Prentiss and JJ were discussing the plan for the day, while Morgan leaned against a nearby column, casually scanning the room.

The elevator dinged, drawing their attention as the doors slid open to reveal Spencer Reid, the last to join them. He stepped out, his posture tense, eyes shadowed by the sleepless night he'd endured. The unease from the previous evening clung to him like a second skin, amplifying as he recalled the figure he thought he'd seen—no, swore he'd seen—in the hotel bar.

Morgan's sharp eyes caught the shift in Reid's demeanor immediately. "Pretty Boy, you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

Reid forced a smile, brushing off the question as he usually did. "I'm fine, Morgan. Just didn't sleep well."

Morgan wasn't buying it. "C'mon, man, something's up. You've been off since last night. What's going on?"

The concern in Morgan's voice only seemed to push Spencer further into the tight coil of anxiety that had been winding inside him. "I said I'm fine," Reid snapped, sharper than he intended. The words came out harsher, more defensive, than usual. He immediately regretted it but didn't apologize. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode past the complimentary breakfast spread, heading straight for the waiting SUV outside.

The rest of the team exchanged worried glances, Morgan's expression a mix of confusion and hurt. It wasn't like Reid to snap like that, especially not at him. JJ gave Morgan a small, sympathetic smile before they all gathered their things and followed Reid to the car, the once warm and friendly atmosphere now tinged with tension.

The ride to the precinct was uncomfortably silent. The only sound was the rhythmic clicking of Garcia's nails on her keyboard as she continued her deep dive into the Las Vegas clubs connected to the case. Hotch sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror to check on his team. He could feel the unease radiating from Spencer, and it concerned him more than he let on.

When they arrived at the station, the team filed out of the SUV, the weight of the previous night's unresolved emotions hanging over them. The atmosphere inside the station was buzzing with the usual early morning activity. Chief Robert Hayes was waiting for them near the entrance, a weary but determined look on his face. He had left the station before the team had returned the night before, so this was his first time meeting the rest of the group.

"Good morning, Chief Hayes," Hotch greeted him with a firm handshake.

"Morning, Agent Hotchner," Hayes replied, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the team as they introduced themselves one by one. Rossi, Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia all shook his hand in turn. Spencer was the last to approach, but instead of extending his hand, he simply offered a brief wave, his expression distant.

Chief Hayes looked at Spencer, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. He was sure he knew this young man from somewhere, but the memory eluded him. There was something oddly familiar about him, but Hayes couldn't quite place it. Deciding to brush it off as a strange sense of déjà vu, he pushed the thought aside for now.

"Let's get to work," Hotch said, steering the conversation back to the case. The team moved to the room they'd set up the day before, photos of the victims and other evidence still pinned to the whiteboard. The familiar surroundings should have brought some comfort, but the tension from the car ride lingered. Hotch stayed behind to speak to Chief Hayes "You have an escaped prisoner and didn't think to tell me and my team?"

The Chief pauses, confused at this line of questioning, "I didn't think it was important, the guy we're looking for has nothing to do with your case I can promise you that, Agent."

"You can't be sure of that and its naive to think so, I would expect more from someone with as much experience as you. Keep me updated, I want to know everything that you know about this prisoner." Hotch doesn't let Chief Hayes respond -assuming he got his point across- and walks away to join his team but he hears the chief call out to him to him, "We don't know much, Agent but I'll get what i have to you."

Hotch enters the room as the rest of the team settles in, everyone except Spencer seemed to be in better spirits. The morning had brought a renewed sense of determination—everyone except for Spencer, that is. He was more on edge than ever, a thin veneer of calm barely concealing the storm brewing beneath the surface. But after seeing how he'd responded to Morgan's questioning, no one was eager to press him further.

Hotch focused on the task at hand. "Garcia, have you found anything new on the clubs?"

Garcia sighed, her fingers still flying over the keys. "Not much, Boss Man. 'Dante's,' '11:11,' and 'Eden' are pretty standard for Vegas—lots of flash, lots of cash, and no shortage of shady dealings. But here's something interesting: 'Eden' wasn't always called that. Back in 2000, it was known as 'Pride.' They rebranded, probably to attract a different crowd or maybe to shake off some bad press. But other than that, nothing too juicy."

As soon as the word 'Pride' left Garcia's mouth, Spencer froze. The rest of the world continued around him, voices blending into a distant hum as the name echoed in his mind. Pride. Why was this coming up now? It couldn't be happening—not here, not now. His thoughts raced, heart pounding in his chest as he struggled to keep the memories at bay, memories he'd buried long ago.

JJ noticed Spencer's reaction, her brow furrowing with concern. "Spence, are you okay?" she asked softly, her voice cutting through the fog in his mind.

But Spencer didn't respond. He was lost in the turmoil of his thoughts, his breath coming in shallow gasps. JJ tried again, this time placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Spence?"

Finally, his head snapped up, eyes wide and unfocused as he realized everyone was looking at him. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to regain control. "I'm fine. I just... I need some air." His voice was shaky, and without waiting for a response, he pushed his chair back and hurried out of the room.

The rest of the team watched in stunned silence as he left, their concern for their youngest member growing by the minute. Hotch didn't hesitate, standing from his seat and following Spencer out the front door of the station, the others exchanging worried glances as they remained behind.

Outside, the cool morning air hit Spencer like a shock, but it did little to clear the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He paced the sidewalk, his hands trembling slightly as he tried to make sense of what was happening. Pride. The name alone was enough to dredge up memories he'd spent years trying to forget. Memories of a time he'd worked so hard to distance himself from, of someone who had once had a hold on him that he never wanted to revisit.

Hotch stepped outside, his calm presence a stark contrast to Spencer's frantic energy. He approached carefully, not wanting to startle him. "Reid," he said softly, "what's going on?"

Spencer stopped pacing, running a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. "It's nothing, Hotch. I just... I'm fine."

But Hotch wasn't convinced. He could see the fear in Spencer's eyes, the way he was struggling to hold himself together. "You're not fine," Hotch said gently. "Something is bothering you, and it's affecting your ability to focus. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

For a moment, Spencer considered opening up, letting the truth spill out in the hopes that it would somehow ease the burden. But the fear of what that truth could bring, of how it might change everything, held him back. He shook his head, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I just need a minute, Hotch. I'll be fine."

Hotch studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. But he knew when to push and when to give space. "Alright," he said finally. "But if you need to talk, I'm here. Don't make me take you off of this case."

Spencer nodded, grateful for the understanding, even if he wasn't ready to take advantage of it. "Thanks, Hotch. It won't come to that, I swear."

Hotch gave him a brief nod before heading back inside, leaving Spencer alone with his thoughts. The morning air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. He closed his eyes, trying to push the memories back down, to lock them away where they couldn't hurt him. But they were like a tide, relentless and unyielding, threatening to pull him under.

After a few more minutes of steady breathing, Spencer finally felt the panic begin to subside, though the unease lingered like a shadow. He knew he couldn't avoid this forever, but for now, he had to focus on the case. He couldn't let his personal demons jeopardize the investigation, statistically it most likely had nothing to do with him anyway.

Steeling himself, Spencer turned and walked back into the station, forcing the mask of composure back into place. The team was waiting for him, concern etched into their faces, but he gave them a small, reassuring smile as he took his seat.

"Let's get back to work," he said, his voice steady, though his hands still trembled slightly. "We have an unsub to catch."

But as the team resumed their discussion, the specter of the past loomed large in Spencer's mind, a reminder that some things, no matter how deeply buried, never truly go away.

Chapter Text

A few months had passed since Spencer's last competition, and though his life had continued with the same rhythm—dance classes, competitions, and private lessons with Val—something had shifted. The unease that had gnawed at him for so long hadn't disappeared, but it had become a constant presence, something that Spencer had grown used to, something he could ignore. Val's reassurances that Spencer could trust him had become a mantra, a comforting refrain that Spencer clung to whenever the doubts crept in.

Val had woven himself deeper into Spencer's life, their relationship evolving into something more than just teacher and student. They had started going to lunch together during breaks, and sometimes, when the day was done and the studio was empty, Val would take Spencer out for dinner. These outings had become routine, a part of their shared world that existed outside the dance studio. It was during these quiet moments, away from the noise and competition, that Spencer felt closest to Val.

Sitting across from each other at a small, dimly lit café one afternoon, Val smiled at Spencer, who was picking at his salad. The café was a favorite of Val's, tucked away from the bustling streets, offering a sense of privacy that Spencer found comforting.

"You've been working hard, Spencer," Val said, his voice soft but firm, the kind of tone that always made Spencer feel seen and appreciated. "You deserve a break every now and then."

Spencer nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. He had been thinking a lot about school lately—about the kids who had bullied him, who had made him feel small and insignificant. He had graduated early due do how smart he was but it stuck with him. He had shared these thoughts with Val before, trusting him in a way he had never trusted anyone else.

"Sometimes I think about those kids at school," Spencer admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "The things they said... the way they looked at me, like I didn't belong."

Val leaned forward, his expression gentle but serious. "You belong with me, Spencer. You know that, don't you? Those kids didn't understand you. They were jealous of you, of your talent, your intelligence. They couldn't see what makes you special."

Spencer looked down at his plate, Val's words wrapping around him like a warm blanket. "I know. It's just... it's hard to forget sometimes."

Val reached across the table, placing his hand over Spencer's. His touch was firm, reassuring. "You don't have to forget, Spencer. But you do have to move forward. You're stronger than they ever gave you credit for. And you have me. I'm here for you."

Spencer looked up, meeting Val's gaze. There was something in Val's eyes, a depth of emotion that Spencer couldn't quite name, but it made him feel safe, protected. Val had always made him feel protected, from the very first day they met. Val wasn't like the kids at school who had tormented him, and he wasn't like his mother when she had her episodes. Spencer knew his mother loved him, but when she wasn't well, her love became something else—something that frightened him, something that made him feel helpless. Val was the opposite of that. Val was strong, steady, a rock in Spencer's life that he could cling to.

Val's voice softened, taking on a more intimate tone. "You know, Spencer, I forget sometimes how young you are. It's easy to talk to you, to confide in you."

Spencer felt a rush of pride at Val's words. He had always wanted to be taken seriously, to be seen as an equal, especially by someone he respected as much as Val. "You can tell me anything," Spencer said earnestly. "I won't judge you."

Val smiled, a shadow passing over his eyes that Spencer couldn't quite catch. "I know you won't. That's one of the things I admire about you, Spencer. You're trustworthy, and that's rare."

As they finished their meal, Val talked about things he wouldn't normally share, things Spencer knew he probably shouldn't be hearing. Stories about other dancers, about the politics of the dance world, about people Val didn't trust or particularly like. Spencer listened intently, soaking up every word. He liked that Val trusted him enough to share these things, to let him into a world that was usually hidden from view.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Val would say, his tone thoughtful, honest, as if he wished he hadn't said the things he had, looking over spencer's shoulder, like he couldn't look at Spencer, his eyes flashed and he looked back "But you're different, Spencer. It's easy to forget your age."

Spencer always reassured Val that it was okay, that he wanted to know, wanted to understand everything about the world they were a part of. It made him feel important, special, like he was privy to things that no one else was.

Over time, Val had also become more physically comfortable with Spencer. His touches had always been a part of their training—adjusting Spencer's posture, guiding his movements—but now they extended beyond the dance floor. A hand on Spencer's shoulder during a conversation, an arm around his waist when they walked to the car after dinner, a lingering touch on his back when they sat together, discussing the next competition. Spencer was used to it by now, had come to expect it. Val's physical presence was just another layer of the protection he offered, another way he showed he cared.

But sometimes, late at night when Spencer lay in bed, those touches would replay in his mind, and the unease that had become such a familiar companion would stir. He would remember how Val's hands sometimes gripped a little too tight, how they would drift a little too far. But then he would remind himself of all the ways Val had helped him, all the ways Val had made him feel safe and valued, and the unease would fade, replaced by the comforting knowledge that Val would never hurt him.

Spencer needed Val. He needed the stability, the assurance, the sense of belonging that Val gave him. He needed someone who understood him, who saw his worth, who protected him from the things in life that were too hard to face alone.

And so, when the unease resurfaced, when Val's touches made him feel something he couldn't quite name, Spencer pushed it down, deeper and deeper, until it was nothing more than a whisper in the back of his mind. After all, Val had always told him that trust was the foundation of everything they had built together. Spencer trusted Val more than anyone else in the world.

Val smiled at Spencer as they left the café, his arm draped casually over Spencer's shoulder. "You know, Spencer, we make a great team. I'm so proud of how far you've come."

Spencer smiled back, the warmth of Val's approval filling him with a sense of pride and belonging. "I couldn't have done it without you, Val. Thank you for everything."

Val's grip on Spencer's shoulder tightened slightly, a silent reassurance. "You're welcome, Spencer. And remember, I'm always here for you, no matter what."

As they walked back to the studio, the afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement, Spencer felt a sense of contentment settle over him. The unease was still there, buried deep, but it was quieter now, easier to ignore. Val's words echoed in his mind, a constant reminder that he was safe, that he was cared for, that he could trust Val completely.

But in the shadows of that trust, something darker lingered, something that Spencer was still too young to fully understand. And for now, it remained hidden.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the dance studio, casting the same long, golden beams across the polished wooden floor. The studio was empty, save for Spencer and Val, who stood in the center of the room, the familiar smell of sweat and wood polish filling the air. Spencer, now almost fourteen, had grown taller, his lean frame a testament to years of disciplined training. He was dressed in a fitted black tank top and dance pants, his hair slightly tousled from the warm-up they had just finished.

Val stood before him, his usual commanding presence filling the space. Today, there was a different kind of energy in the room, something Spencer couldn't quite place. Val had been talking about wanting to take Spencer's training to the next level, about introducing him to new styles that would push him beyond his current limits. Spencer had always trusted Val's judgment, but as Val began explaining the new choreography, a flicker of unease settled in Spencer's chest.

"We're going to try something different today," Val said, his voice smooth and confident. "You're growing up, Spencer. It's time your dancing reflects that maturity."

Spencer nodded, trying to match Val's enthusiasm. He had always been open to learning new styles, new movements, but there was something about the way Val spoke today that made him feel... uncertain.

Val stepped closer, positioning himself beside Spencer. "This is a more adult style of dance, something that requires a deeper connection to the music, to your body. It's not just about the steps; it's about the emotion behind them. You need to feel the music in a different way."

As Val demonstrated the first few moves, Spencer watched closely, mimicking the fluid, almost sensual gestures with precision. The movements were feminine, but that didn't bother Spencer—he had never been one to care about traditional gender roles. Dance was dance, and he had always seen it as an art form beyond such boundaries.

But as Val guided him into more complex sequences, the choreography became more provocative, the poses more suggestive. Spencer felt a knot form in his stomach, the unease growing with each movement that felt less like dance and more like something else, something he wasn't sure he was ready for.

Val's hands were on him constantly, adjusting his hips, guiding his arms, pressing into his back as he encouraged Spencer to deepen the stretch, to lean into the movements. Spencer followed along, his body moving with the grace and precision that had been drilled into him over the years. But as the routine progressed, Spencer found himself hesitating, the provocative nature of the dance making him feel exposed in a way he hadn't before.

"Good, Spencer," Val praised, his voice low and encouraging. "But you need to commit more. Don't be afraid to really let go. This is about confidence, about owning your body and your movements."

Spencer nodded, but the unease gnawed at him, making it hard to focus. He could feel the tension in Val's grip, the way his hands seemed to linger a little too long, to guide him a little too forcefully. It wasn't the femininity of the movements that bothered him—Spencer had always embraced the fluidity of dance, regardless of gender norms. It was the suggestiveness, the way the choreography made him feel vulnerable, like he was performing for an audience that wasn't there.

As they moved into a particularly provocative sequence, Spencer hesitated, his body stiffening slightly as Val's hands guided him into a deep, suggestive bend. The knot in his stomach tightened, and for the first time, Spencer found himself voicing his discomfort.

"Val... I'm not sure about this," Spencer said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "These moves... they feel a little too... I don't know, too much?"

Val's reaction was immediate and sharp, a flash of irritation crossing his face. He stopped the music abruptly, the sudden silence in the room amplifying the tension between them. Spencer felt his heart race as Val turned to face him, the warmth in his eyes replaced by something colder, something that made Spencer feel small and ashamed.

"What do you mean, 'too much'?" Val demanded, his tone laced with frustration. "Spencer, you need to understand that this is part of growing as a dancer. You can't stay in your comfort zone forever. This is the kind of dance you need to learn if you want to be taken seriously."

Spencer's face flushed with embarrassment, his mind racing as he tried to find the right words. He had never questioned Val before, had always trusted that Val knew what was best for him. But now, standing in the middle of the studio with Val's disapproving gaze fixed on him, Spencer felt like he had made a terrible mistake.

"I'm sorry," Spencer mumbled, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I didn't mean to question you. I just... I don't know if I'm ready for this."

Val stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he placed a firm hand on Spencer's shoulder. "Spencer, I wouldn't ask you to do anything that wasn't necessary for your development. You said you trusted me, didn't you?"

Spencer nodded quickly, the guilt and shame bubbling up inside him. "I do trust you, Val. I really do."

Val's expression softened slightly, but the tension in the room remained thick. "Good. Then trust me when I say that you need this. You're not a child anymore. You're a young man, and you need to start dancing like one. This is about pushing your boundaries, about finding your true potential."

Spencer forced a smile, desperate to make things right, to please Val and prove that he could handle whatever was thrown his way. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll try harder."

Val's smile returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's what I like to hear. Now, let's go through the sequence again. And this time, I want you to really commit to the movements. Don't hold back."

Spencer took a deep breath, nodding as he steeled himself for another round. When the music started again, he forced his body to move with the rhythm, to follow Val's lead without hesitation. He pushed the discomfort down, burying it beneath layers of trust and loyalty, telling himself that this was just another step in his journey, another challenge to overcome.

As they moved through the routine, Val's hands continued to guide him, pressing him into the suggestive poses, pushing him to embrace the provocative nature of the dance. Spencer could feel the unease swirling inside him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on the only thing that mattered—making Val happy.

By the time they finished, Spencer was drenched in sweat, his muscles shaking with an ache he's become increasingly familiar with. Val nodded approvingly, a satisfied smile on his face.

"You're getting there, Spencer. But remember, perfection comes from practice. We'll keep working on this until you've mastered it."

Spencer nodded, his heart heavy with a mixture of relief and lingering doubt. He had done what Val asked, had pushed through the discomfort to deliver the performance Val wanted. But as he left the studio that evening, the unease was still there, a quiet whisper in the back of his mind, reminding him that something wasn't quite right.

But Spencer was used to ignoring that voice, used to trusting Val above all else. And so, he buried the discomfort once again, telling himself that this was just part of growing up, part of becoming the dancer Val had always seen in him.

And yet, as he walked home alone in the fading light, Spencer couldn't shake the feeling that he was dancing on the edge of something he couldn't fully understand, something that made him feel both exposed and afraid.

Chapter Text

The conference room at the Las Vegas precinct was filled with the quiet hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional rustle of papers and the soft clicks of Garcia's keyboard. The team was focused, but there was an undercurrent of frustration that no one could ignore. They'd been digging into the club formerly known as Pride, hoping it would yield a lead on their unsub. Yet, as they sifted through the records, it was as if Pride had never existed. Beyond the legal documentation of the name change to Eden, there was nothing—no history, no incidents, no mentions in the press. It was as if someone had gone to great lengths to erase any trace of the club's past.

Hotch frowned as he scanned the report in front of him. "It's like the club was wiped off the map," he muttered, glancing up at Garcia. "Nothing at all? No records of complaints, inspections, nothing before 2000?"

Garcia shook her head, her bright demeanor noticeably dimmed by the lack of useful information. "Nada, Boss Man. It's like Pride just vanished. Whoever handled this rebranding was thorough. Too thorough, if you ask me."

Rossi leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the table. "That's unusual. Even in a city like Vegas, clubs don't just disappear like that without a reason. Someone went out of their way to cover this up."

As the team continued discussing the dead ends they were hitting with Pride, Spencer Reid remained uncharacteristically quiet. His focus was trained on the victimology, his brow furrowed in concentration. He knew the others were frustrated with the lack of information on the club, but he was doing everything in his power to keep the conversation away from Pride and what it could mean. He had redirected the discussion a couple of times already, guiding the team back to the victims, to the unsub's behavior, anything that didn't involve the dark connections the club held in his past.

It's just a coincidence, he told himself, repeating it like a mantra. Nothing about my relationship with Pride should matter. This is about the victims. Not me.

But deep down, the cold knot of fear was tightening in his gut. The statistics didn't lie, and neither did his instincts. He could feel the truth creeping up on him, the walls closing in.

A sudden flurry of movement outside the room drew their attention. Officers were rushing down the hall, voices raised in hushed urgency. The team exchanged curious glances, and Hotch caught the eye of Chief Hayes, who was standing just outside the room. Hotch raised a questioning eyebrow, asking him a silent question.

The chief shook his head, a quick, dismissive gesture that suggested the commotion probably had nothing to do with their case. Hotch hesitated for a moment but eventually turned back to the team, the matter put to the side for the time being.

"Let's stay focused," Hotch said, bringing the discussion back on track. "We need to figure out what connects these boys beyond the clubs. Garcia, keep digging into Eden. See if you can find any associates or regulars who might have a connection to the victims."

As the conversation continued, Spencer's mind drifted. He felt the tension building within him, the pressure of secrets he'd tried so hard to keep buried. It was becoming harder and harder to push back the memories, to ignore the signs that were pointing directly to his past.

He couldn't sit still any longer.

"I'm going to get a coffee refill," Spencer muttered, standing abruptly and heading for the door. The others barely acknowledged him, too engrossed in their discussion to notice his discomfort.

He made his way to the break room, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. The precinct coffee was bitter, almost undrinkable, but it gave him something to focus on, something to occupy his hands and his thoughts.

As he poured the steaming liquid into his cup, the sound of conversation drifted from a group of officers near the entrance. It was the usual chatter, nothing out of the ordinary—until a name slipped into the air. A name Spencer had strived for years to never hear again.

"Valentino."

The name sent a jolt of electricity through Spencer's body. His hands shook, and the coffee splashed over the rim of the cup, scalding his skin. He swore under his breath, the pain snapping him out of his trance. He grabbed a napkin and hastily wiped his hand, but his mind was racing.

Valentino. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be him. But as Spencer listened more closely to the officers' conversation, dread settled into his bones, heavy and unrelenting. The details they mentioned—someone fitting his description, the recent escape—everything aligned too perfectly. Too many factors pointed to the same conclusion, the one Spencer had been trying so desperately to avoid.

He stood frozen for a moment, the realization crashing over him. If Valentino was here, in Las Vegas, it meant that everything Spencer had feared—everything he had tried to run from—was now coming back to haunt him. The face he thought he'd seen last night, the one that had haunted his nightmares for years, wasn't a figment of his imagination.

He was here.

And this time, he wasn't just a ghost from the past. He was real, and Spencer knew that he was going to come for him.

The coffee cup clattered against the counter as Spencer set it down, his hands trembling too much to hold it. He needed to compose himself, to think, to figure out how to deal with this without letting the team know the full extent of what he was facing. But the walls were closing in, and the truth was becoming impossible to deny.

Spencer took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising panic. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now. He needed to get back to the team, to keep his focus on the case—on the victims. But how long could he keep the truth at bay before it overwhelmed him completely?

As he steadied himself and returned to the conference room, the reality of his situation settled like a weight on his shoulders. Valentino was back. And this time, he wasn't just a memory—he was a threat.

Spencer had always been a man of statistics, of logic, of facts. And the facts were undeniable.

Valentino was coming for him.

And Spencer wasn't sure he could outrun him this time.

Chapter Text

At fifteen, Spencer Reid had become a master of the many styles of dance that Val had taught him. His repertoire had expanded beyond what he had ever imagined, from classical ballet to contemporary, and now, to the more sensual, adult styles that Val seemed increasingly fixated on. He could dance in high heels with ease, his years of ballet en pointe training helping him find his balance in even the most challenging of routines. Spencer was admired by many for his versatility, but deep down, he missed the other kinds of dance—the expressive movements of lyrical, the athletic energy of hip hop, the structured grace of classical ballet. However, he continued to focus on the styles that Val insisted upon, driven by a desire to keep his mentor happy, to meet the expectations that had been set for him.

Val had always been a guiding force in Spencer's life, and despite the unease that occasionally surfaced, Spencer trusted him completely. Val had shaped him into the dancer he was today, and Spencer knew that Val only wanted what was best for him. So when Val announced that for Spencer's next competition, he wanted him to perform a partner dance—one that was sensual and intimate—Spencer didn't question it, even though the idea made him uncomfortable.

Val explained that the dance would involve another boy, someone from a studio in California. Spencer would be taking the more feminine role in the dance, given his slimmer build and lighter frame, which made him easier to lift and move. The routine would end with a small, choreographed kiss, something that Spencer had never done before in a performance. The thought of it made his stomach twist with nerves, but Val reassured him that it was necessary, that it was part of the art, part of what would make the dance memorable.

"The judges will love it," Val had said with a confident smile. "It's bold, different. You'll stand out."

Spencer nodded, trying to suppress the doubts that bubbled up inside him. "But how will we practice if he's in California?"

Val's smile widened, as if he had been waiting for Spencer to ask. "I'll be your partner during practice. I know the routine inside and out, and it's important that you get the movements just right before you meet your partner."

The idea of practicing such an intimate dance with Val made Spencer uneasy. The choreography required them to be close—very close—and while Spencer trusted Val more than anyone, there was something about the thought of Val filling the role of his partner that made him feel exposed, vulnerable in a way he wasn't sure he was ready for.

But Val had always been there for him, had always pushed him to be better, to be the best. Spencer knew Val would never do anything to hurt him, and so he pushed the discomfort aside, just as he had done so many times before.

The first practice session felt different from the others. The studio, usually a place of solace for Spencer, seemed smaller, the walls closer, the air heavier. The music Val chose was slow, sultry, the kind that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Spencer stood in the center of the room, his heart beating fast as Val approached him.

"Relax, Spencer," Val said, his voice calm and soothing. "This is just another dance, another routine. You've mastered everything I've taught you so far. This will be no different."

Spencer nodded, taking a deep breath as he tried to loosen the tension in his muscles. He knew Val was right—he had never failed before, and he wasn't going to start now. But as Val took his hands and guided him into the first position, the familiar unease crept back in.

The choreography was intricate, requiring Spencer to move with a fluidity and grace that he had perfected over the years. Val's hands were on him constantly, guiding him, correcting his posture, adjusting his angles. But this time, the touch felt different, more intimate. The movements were designed to be sensual, each step bringing them closer, each pose requiring them to hold each other in ways that Spencer wasn't used to.

As they moved through the routine, Spencer found himself hesitating, his body stiffening slightly as Val guided him into a deep, suggestive dip. Val's hand was on his lower back, pressing him closer, and for a moment, Spencer felt a flicker of panic.

"You need to relax, Spencer," Val said, his tone firm but gentle. "You're too tense. The judges will see it, and it will ruin the performance. You need to trust me."

Spencer swallowed hard, nodding as he forced himself to relax into the movement. "I'm sorry, Val. I'm just... I don't know. This is different from what I'm used to."

Val's eyes softened slightly, and he gave Spencer a reassuring smile. "I know it's different, but that's why it's so important. This dance is going to push you out of your comfort zone, and that's exactly what you need. You can't grow if you stay in the same place."

Spencer nodded again, his heart still racing. "I know. I just... I don't want to mess up."

"You won't," Val said, his voice full of confidence. "You're one of the best dancers I've ever trained, Spencer. You've mastered everything I've taught you, and this will be no different. You just need to trust the process, trust me."

Spencer felt a rush of pride at Val's words, the discomfort fading slightly as he focused on the praise. Val had always believed in him, had always pushed him to be better, and Spencer wanted nothing more than to live up to those expectations.

They continued the routine, Val leading Spencer through each movement with precision and care. The choreography was complex, requiring them to move together as one, their bodies intertwining in ways that felt both familiar and foreign. Spencer followed Val's lead, his trust in his mentor overpowering the unease that lingered in the back of his mind.

But as they reached the end of the routine, the part that required the small kiss, Spencer hesitated again. The music slowed, the tension building as they moved into the final pose. Val's hand was on Spencer's cheek, guiding his face closer, and Spencer felt his heart pounding in his chest.

"It's just part of the dance," Val whispered, his breath warm against Spencer's skin. "You need to commit to it, just like you do with every other move."

Spencer nodded, closing his eyes as he tried to ignore the voice in his head that told him something wasn't right. He leaned in, following Val's lead, and when their lips brushed together, Spencer felt a jolt of panic that he quickly pushed down.

The kiss was brief, barely more than a touch, but it left Spencer feeling shaken, exposed in a way he hadn't expected. He pulled back quickly, his face flushed with embarrassment, but Val's expression remained calm, collected.

"See? That wasn't so bad," Val said, his voice soothing. "You did great, Spencer. With a little more practice, you'll have this routine perfected in no time."

Spencer forced a smile, nodding as he tried to shake off the lingering discomfort. "Thank you, Val. I'll keep practicing."

Val gave him a reassuring pat on the back, his smile warm and approving. "I know you will. You always do."

As Spencer left the studio that evening, his mind was a whirlwind of emotions. He had always trusted Val, had always believed that Val knew what was best for him. But now, for the first time, Spencer found himself questioning that trust, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he was in too deep.

But then he reminded himself of all the times Val had been there for him, had protected him, had guided him through every challenge. Val wouldn't hurt him. Val wanted what was best for him. Spencer had to believe that. He had to.

And so, as he walked home in the fading light, Spencer pushed the doubts away, burying them deep inside where they couldn't interfere with his dancing, with his need to make Val happy. But even as he did, the unease remained, a quiet, insistent whisper in the back of his mind, reminding him that something had changed.

Chapter Text

The conference room was filled with an oppressive silence, the air heavy with the tension that had been building since Spencer returned from his coffee break. The team could sense it—something had shifted in their youngest member. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by a palpable anxiety that crackled in the air around him. He sat rigid in his chair, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the case file in front of him, eyes darting nervously between the documents and the door, as if waiting for something—or someone—to burst through at any moment.

Hotch, ever the observant leader, noticed the change immediately. Reid had always been a little high-strung, but this was different. This was fear, pure and unfiltered, seeping through the cracks of the usually composed genius. Hotch exchanged a glance with Morgan, whose expression mirrored his concern. Whatever had happened between the time Reid had left the room for coffee and when he returned had shaken him deeply.

Spencer's mind was in turmoil, a chaotic storm of thoughts and emotions that he couldn't control. He was panicking, and it was becoming harder and harder to hide it. Do I tell them? The question plagued him, looping endlessly in his mind. If he opened up, if he told the team about Valentino—about what he had endured, about what was happening now—he would be exposing himself in ways he had never imagined. They would see him differently, he knew it. They would pity him, maybe even judge him. And that terrified him more than anything.

But what other option did he have? He couldn't keep running from this. Valentino was here, he was free, and he was involved in this case. Spencer was sure of it. And if that was true, then the team needed to know. They needed to understand what they were up against, and why it was so important that they stop him.

But the idea of telling them—of letting them into that dark part of his past—made his stomach churn with fear. He could already see the looks on their faces, the confusion, the pity, the horror. It was a nightmare he wasn't ready to face.

Spencer tried to convince himself he could handle it alone, that he didn't need to bring the others into this. But deep down, he knew that wasn't true. He wasn't the same person he had been when Valentino had first entered his life. He wasn't that naive young man who had been so easily manipulated. But the memories, the trauma, it was all still there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to drag him down at the slightest provocation.

As these thoughts swirled in his mind, Spencer's panic began to manifest outwardly. His breathing became shallow, his hands trembling uncontrollably. He couldn't sit still; he felt like the walls were closing in on him. He had to do something, anything, to get away from the suffocating fear that was gripping him.

Morgan's voice broke through the fog in Spencer's mind. "Reid," he said softly, his tone laced with concern. "You okay, man? You've been really quiet since you got back."

Spencer's heart raced, his pulse pounding in his ears. He could feel the eyes of the entire team on him, their worry palpable. Morgan's voice, usually so comforting, now felt like a threat, a reminder that he couldn't hide his panic any longer.

"I'm fine," Spencer snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. The words tumbled out before he could stop them, a knee-jerk reaction to the pressure he felt building inside him. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie. And he knew that Morgan, Hotch, and the others knew it too.

Morgan frowned, taking a step closer. "Reid, something's wrong. Just talk to us, okay? We're here for you."

But the movement, the concern in Morgan's eyes, only made it worse. Spencer's mind was spiraling, his thoughts a jumbled mess of fear and shame. They're too close. They're going to find out everything.

"Back off, Morgan," Spencer spat, standing up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sudden movement startled everyone in the room. It was as if a tightly coiled spring had snapped, unleashing the full force of Spencer's panic.

The team froze, staring at him with a mix of confusion and concern. Hotch, who had been observing quietly from his seat, stood slowly, making a conscious effort to appear non-threatening. "Reid," he said gently, "whatever's going on, you don't have to handle it alone. We can help you."

But instead of the usual comfort Hotch's voice brought, it only pushed Spencer further into his spiral. He could feel their eyes on him, the pressure of their concern weighing down on him, crushing him. His breath hitched in his throat, and his vision blurred as panic took hold.

"I said I'm fine!" Spencer shouted, his voice breaking as he backed away from the team, his movements frantic. He felt like a trapped animal, desperate for a way out, for any escape from the suffocating panic that was threatening to consume him.

But there was no escape. Everywhere he turned, there they were—his friends, his family—looking at him with a mix of concern and helplessness. They wanted to help, but they couldn't. Not with this. Not with the darkness that was clawing its way out from the depths of his past.

Hotch held up his hands, palms out, as if trying to calm a wild animal. "Okay, Reid. Just take a deep breath. We're not going to push you. Just... just take a minute."

But Spencer couldn't take a minute. He couldn't breathe. The room was spinning, the walls closing in. He had to get out—he had to run.

Without another word, Spencer turned and bolted from the room, the door slamming behind him with a deafening bang. The team was left staring after him, shocked and confused, unsure of what had just happened.

"Reid!" Morgan called after him, starting to follow, but Hotch stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Let him go, Derek," Hotch said quietly, his voice tinged with worry. "He needs space."

But Morgan shook his head, his concern for his friend outweighing his instinct to listen to his boss. "Hotch, something's really wrong. We can't just let him run off like that."

Hotch sighed, knowing Morgan was right, but also understanding that Reid was in no state to be reasoned with. "Give him a minute. He'll come back. He just needs to calm down."

But even as he said the words, Hotch couldn't shake the feeling that this time was different—that whatever had triggered Spencer's panic was something far more dangerous than they realized.

The Streets of Las Vegas

Spencer ran. He ran through the precinct, his feet pounding against the tile floor, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He could hear the faint calls of his name behind him, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He had to get away—away from the station, away from his team, away from the suffocating memories that were crashing over him like a tidal wave.

He burst through the front doors of the station, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face. But he didn't stop. He kept running, his legs burning with the effort, his heart racing as adrenaline coursed through his veins. The city lights blurred around him, neon signs and car headlights blending into a kaleidoscope of colors as he sprinted through the crowded streets of Las Vegas.

People yelled at him as he bumped into them, but he paid them no mind. He had to keep running. He had to get away—away from Valentino, away from the memories that were tearing him apart.

The streets of Las Vegas were a blur of noise and light, but Spencer didn't register any of it. His mind was a maelstrom of panic and fear, the edges of his vision darkening as he pushed himself beyond his limits. His legs ached, his lungs burned, but he couldn't stop. Not yet.

Eventually, his body betrayed him, his desperate need for air forcing him to slow down. He stumbled into a dark alleyway, his hands clutching at his knees as he gasped for breath. The sounds of the city seemed distant now, muffled by the blood rushing in his ears. He felt the tears streaming down his face, hot and uncontrollable, but he didn't have the strength to wipe them away.

He couldn't breathe—couldn't think. The memories were too strong, too vivid, crashing over him in relentless waves. He could feel Valentino's hands on him, the phantom touches burning into his skin, the sickening feeling of being trapped, powerless, as the man he once trusted twisted his life into a nightmare.

Spencer's legs buckled beneath him, and he sank to the ground, his back pressed against the cold brick wall of the alley. His body shook with sobs, the emotional dam he had tried so hard to hold back finally breaking. He couldn't stop the flood of memories—couldn't stop the terror that gripped him.

He closed his eyes, trying to block it all out, but the darkness only made it worse. He could see Valentino in his mind, the predatory glint in his eyes, the cruel smile that never reached his heart. Spencer had once thought he could escape, that he could bury the past and move on. But he was wrong.

Valentino had found him. And this time, there would be no escape.

Spencer didn't know how long he sat there, his body wracked with sobs, his mind a swirling mess of fear and despair. Time seemed to lose all meaning in that dark alley, the world around him fading into the background as he was consumed by his memories.

When he finally opened his eyes, it was to a sight that froze his blood in his veins.

Standing a few feet away, partially obscured by the shadows, was the one person Spencer had hoped he would never see again. The dark eyes that had haunted his nightmares for years were staring back at him, filled with a twisted kind of pleasure at finding him so vulnerable.

Valentino.

Spencer's heart slammed against his ribcage, panic surging through him with a force that left him breathless. His mind screamed at him to run, to get up and run as fast as he could, but his body refused to move. He was paralyzed with fear, his legs trembling as Valentino took a slow, deliberate step closer.

"Well, well," Valentino's voice was smooth, like velvet wrapped around a blade. "Look who I've found. You've been running for so long, Spencer. But you knew you could never outrun me. You know you never really wanted to run."

Spencer tried to speak, tried to call out for help, but the words lodged in his throat, choking him. All he could do was stare, his vision blurred by tears, as Valentino closed the distance between them.

"You were always such a pretty little thing," Valentino murmured, his voice laced with cruel affection. "I missed you, but I knew you'd come back to me eventually."

Spencer's mind screamed in protest, but his body was frozen, every muscle locked in place by sheer terror. Valentino reached out, his fingers brushing against Spencer's cheek in a gesture that was both gentle and possessive, the touch sending a shiver of revulsion through Spencer's entire being.

And then, in one swift movement, Valentino's hand snapped around Spencer's throat, the pressure cutting off his air supply as his vision darkened at the edges.

Spencer's last thought before the world went black was a desperate plea for help that he knew would never come.

I wasn't fast enough.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Spencer Reid stood in front of his bedroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt and running a hand through his slightly unruly hair. He was excited—he and a few friends from school had made plans to go to the movies tonight, a rare break from his relentless dance schedule. It was a chance to be a regular teenager for a few hours, to laugh and enjoy some popcorn without worrying about perfecting his next routine. He smiled at his reflection, feeling a flicker of normalcy, a reminder that there was life outside the dance studio.

But just as he was about to leave, the home phone rang in the kitchen. It was a call from Val, asking if he could come to the studio for an extra practice session. Spencer hesitated, feeling a twinge of guilt. He had been looking forward to this night out, but the thought of disappointing Val made his stomach turn. Val had always been there for him, pushing him to be better, to achieve greatness. Could he really put that on hold for something as trivial as a movie?

Sighing, Spencer told Val that he had plans with friends tonight but could come to the studio afterward.

**Val:** "Friends? Spencer, we've talked about this. Those kids are a distraction. They're not helping you reach your goals. You're better than that."

Spencer bit his lip, the excitement he had felt just moments ago fading as he heard Val's words. He didn't want to believe that his friends were bad for him, but Val had always been so adamant about it. Val knew what was best for him—he had proven that time and again. And yet, Spencer couldn't shake the feeling of wanting, just for tonight, to feel like a normal kid.

"It's just a movie, Val. I'll be back in time to practice afterward."

The response was immediate, and the tone in Val's voice was sharper, more forceful.

**Val:** "Movies are a waste of time. And what about all that junk food? Popcorn, candy—it's all garbage. It'll ruin the physique we've worked so hard to perfect. Do you really want to throw all of that away for a few hours of mindless entertainment?"

Spencer felt his heart sink. He had been looking forward to a night of fun, but Val's words were like a bucket of cold water, dousing his enthusiasm. He knew how much work had gone into his training, how much he had sacrificed to get to where he was. Could he really risk all of that for something as insignificant as a movie?

**Val:** "Your friends don't understand the dedication it takes to be the best. They're not like us, Spencer. They don't get it. They're holding you back."

Spencer's grip tightened on the phone as he stared at the wall in front of him, his mind racing. He had always felt different from his friends—more focused, more driven. But they had been there for him, in their own way, providing a sense of normalcy that his life with Val often lacked. And yet... Val had always been right. Val had always known what was best for him.

"You're right. I'll skip the movie and come to the studio." Spencer reluctantly agreed and hung up the phone. The decision leaving him with a hollow feeling in his chest. But as much as it hurt, he knew it was the right choice. Val had never led him astray before.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Spencer's friends, who had come to pick him up, were standing there, grinning and ready for a fun night out. But their smiles faltered when they saw Spencer's expression.

"Hey, you ready to go?" one of them asked, noticing the uncertainty in Spencer's eyes.

Spencer hesitated, glancing back at the phone. "Actually, I think I'm going to skip the movie," he said, trying to sound casual about it. "Val wants me to come to the studio to practice. I think it's probably better if I do that instead."

His friends exchanged concerned looks, their smiles fading completely. "Spencer, you've been practicing nonstop. You need a break. Come on, it's just one night."

"Yeah, we've been worried about you," another friend added. "You're always with Val. You never hang out anymore. It's like he's taking over your life."

Spencer's stomach twisted at their words. He knew they meant well, but they didn't understand. They couldn't. Val had been there for him in ways they never had, guiding him, protecting him. How could they question that?

"You don't understand," Spencer snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. "Val knows what's best for me. He's the reason I'm as good as I am. You guys are just... you're just distractions."

His friends looked taken aback, hurt flashing across their faces. "Spencer, we're not trying to stop you from dancing," one of them said gently. "We just want you to have a life outside of it too. Val can't control everything you do."

Spencer felt a surge of anger, the frustration of feeling pulled in two directions overwhelming him. "You don't get it," he shouted, his voice rising. "Val is right. You're a bad influence. I need to focus on my dancing. That's what's important."

The room fell silent, the tension thick and heavy. His friends looked at him with a mixture of sadness and disbelief, their concern clear in their eyes. But Spencer couldn't take it—he couldn't stand the way they were looking at him, like he was making a terrible mistake.

"Just go," Spencer muttered, turning away from them. "I have to get to the studio."

His friends lingered for a moment, clearly torn, but eventually, they left, closing the door behind them with a quiet click. Spencer stood there, his hands clenched into fists, his heart pounding in his chest. He had pushed them away, just like Val said he should. It was the right thing to do... wasn't it?

Spencer grabbed his dance bag and headed out the door, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. As he made his way to the studio, he replayed the conversation in his head, trying to convince himself that he had made the right choice. Val knew what was best for him. Val had always known.

But as he walked into the empty studio, the lights dim and the air cool, Spencer couldn't shake the feeling of loss that settled deep in his chest. He had chosen Val, had chosen dance, but at what cost?

Val greeted him with a smile, his expression warm and approving. "I'm glad you made the right choice, Spencer," he said, placing a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "You're going to be great."

Spencer forced a smile in return, pushing the doubts down, burying them beneath layers of trust and loyalty. He had to believe that Val was right, that this was what he needed to do to be the best.

But as they began their practice, the unease that had become so familiar stirred once again, reminding Spencer that something wasn't right, that he was losing something he couldn't quite name. And yet, as always, he pushed it down, telling himself that it didn't matter, that Val's approval was all he needed.

And so, Spencer danced, his movements precise and flawless, even as the shadows in his heart grew deeper, darker, and harder to ignore.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere in the precinct had shifted from one of concern to one of palpable dread as the hours ticked by with no sign of Spencer Reid. Initially, the team had given him space, understanding his need to process whatever was troubling him. But as minutes turned into hours, the tension in the room grew heavier, each agent silently battling their own worst fears.

Hotch sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the door, willing it to open with Reid's familiar lanky frame. But it remained stubbornly shut. Across from him, Morgan paced restlessly, his usual calm replaced by a simmering anxiety that he couldn't shake. JJ sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white, while Garcia typed frantically on her laptop, searching for any sign of Spencer's whereabouts. Prentiss and Rossi were quiet, their expressions grim as they exchanged concerned glances.

Another hour passed, and then another, each one feeling like a lifetime. By the time four hours had come and gone, the team could no longer sit idly by, their worst fears gnawing at the edges of their thoughts.

"I can't just sit here anymore," Morgan finally snapped, breaking the heavy silence. "Something's wrong. We need to find him."

Hotch nodded, his face a mask of controlled worry. "Agreed. We've given him enough time. We need to start searching."

Without another word, the team gathered their things and headed out into the night, the bustling chaos of Las Vegas a sharp contrast to the gnawing fear they carried with them. The city was alive with lights and sounds, partygoers thronged the streets, and the steady flow of traffic created a cacophony that only heightened their sense of urgency. But the vibrant atmosphere was lost on the team; their focus was singular, their mission clear: find Spencer.

They split up, each agent taking a different part of the Strip, asking anyone and everyone if they had seen a young man matching Spencer's description. Morgan approached bouncers and doormen, showing them a picture of Reid on his phone, while JJ and Prentiss spoke to groups of partygoers and pedestrians. Garcia, with her usual flair for connecting with people, chatted up taxi drivers, hoping one of them had given Spencer a ride.

But every inquiry was met with the same answer: a shake of the head, a sympathetic but unhelpful "Sorry, haven't seen him."

As the night wore on, their desperation grew. Each dead end felt like a punch to the gut, and the team's hope began to dwindle. The fear that something terrible had happened to Spencer loomed larger with each passing minute.

Then, as Prentiss questioned a group of people waiting in line for a club, a man nearby overheard her. He turned, curiosity piqued by the description she was giving.

"Excuse me," he interrupted, his tone cautious. "Are you looking for someone? A guy with longish hair, looks kinda young?"

Prentiss's heart leapt into her throat. "Yes, that's exactly who we're looking for. Did you see him?"

The man nodded slowly. "Yeah, he bumped into me a few hours ago. Looked like he was in a hurry. I saw him duck into an alley near that bar over there." He pointed down the street to a neon-lit establishment, the sign above it glowing brightly in the night.

Prentiss's breath caught. "Did you see where he went after that?"

The man shook his head. "No, I didn't. I went into a different bar. But he definitely went into that alley."

Prentiss nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. "Thank you," she said quickly, her hand already on her earpiece. "Team, I've got something. A witness saw Reid go into an alley near a bar down the street. I'm sending you the location now."

The team converged on the alley within minutes, their hearts heavy with the grim knowledge that whatever they found here would likely confirm their worst fears. The alley was dark and narrow, lined with dumpsters and shadowed by the towering buildings on either side. It was the perfect place for someone to disappear.

"Spread out," Hotch ordered, his voice tense. "Check every corner, every inch."

They moved methodically, shining their flashlights into every dark crevice, searching for any sign of their missing teammate. The air was thick with the stench of garbage and the faint smell of urine, but they pushed through it, driven by the need to find Spencer.

After several minutes of fruitless searching, Rossi, who had been scouring the area near one of the dumpsters, suddenly froze. His flashlight caught a glint of something metallic on the ground, partially obscured by a crumpled piece of newspaper. He squatted down, pulling a glove from his pocket, and carefully picked up the object.

It was a pocket watch, old and ornate, with a brass chain attached. Rossi recognized it instantly, as did the rest of the team when they gathered around him.

"Is that...?" JJ's voice trembled, her face pale.

Rossi nodded grimly, holding up the watch for the others to see. "It's Spencer's."

They had teased him about it before, the way he always carried it with him, a reminder of his eccentricities. Now, that same pocket watch was a symbol of something far more sinister.

"No," JJ whispered, shaking her head in denial. "He could have just dropped it. It doesn't mean..."

But the words died on her lips, the reality of the situation settling over them like a dark cloud. Spencer hadn't just dropped his watch. He had been taken, and the unsub they were hunting was responsible.

Morgan clenched his fists, his jaw tight with anger and fear. "We need to find him. Now."

Hotch, his face ashen, nodded. "Garcia, get into the city's traffic cameras. I want every angle of this street, every feed you can find. We're going to track him down, and we're going to bring him back."

Garcia's voice crackled over the comms, her usual bubbly demeanor replaced by a hard edge of determination. "I'm on it, Boss. I'm going to find him."

As the team steeled themselves for the search ahead, the pocket watch dangled from Rossi's gloved fingers, a chilling reminder of how close they were to losing one of their own.

And somewhere in the darkness of Las Vegas, Spencer Reid was fighting for his life.

The longest night of their lives had just begun.

Chapter Text

The Las Vegas Police Department was a hive of frenzied activity. Officers rushed through the station, some focused on finding Spencer, while others continued to deal with the chaos surrounding the escaped prisoner. The team had returned to the cramped room they had been working out of, but now it felt suffocating, the walls closing in on them as their worst nightmare unfolded.

Spencer's face was now displayed on the whiteboard, a fresh photo pinned alongside the images of the other victims they'd been investigating. The TV screen flickered with the same image, a constant reminder of who they were now desperately racing against time to save.

Penelope Garcia, usually the bright, bubbly heart of the team, was barely holding herself together. Tears streamed down her face as her fingers flew over the keyboard, searching through endless streams of data, surveillance footage, and digital records. Her sobs were soft but relentless, a testament to the emotional toll this was taking on her. She had scoured the footage from the cameras outside the bars and clubs near where Spencer was last seen, but she had come up with nothing. All the footage showed was Spencer running into the alley and disappearing, as if he had vanished into thin air.

Derek Morgan was a bundle of pent-up energy, pacing back and forth in front of the TV. Anger radiated from him—anger at the unsub, at himself for not seeing the signs sooner, and even at Hotch for not pushing Reid harder when it was clear something was wrong. His fists were clenched, his jaw tight, as he wrestled with the fear and helplessness gnawing at him.

JJ sat at the table, her head in her hands, her knee bouncing uncontrollably under the table. Anxiety gripped her heart, a mother's instinctual fear for a child in danger, though Spencer was not her son. He was family, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. Emily Prentiss, sitting beside her, reached over and placed a hand on JJ's knee, a silent attempt to ground her. The touch was gentle but firm, a reminder that they had to stay strong, stay focused.

At the head of the table, Hotch sat with his hands clasped in front of him, his face a mask of stern determination. To anyone else, he would have appeared calm and collected, but the team knew him too well. They could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes flicked from one team member to the next, as if calculating their next move. Inside, he was panicking, the fear of losing another member of his team tearing at him, but he buried it deep, forcing himself to stay in control.

Rossi, sitting beside Hotch, was the calmest of them all. His years of experience had taught him to think with his head, even in the most dire of situations. But even he couldn't deny the cold dread creeping into his heart. Still, he forced his mind to stay sharp, to sift through the chaos for something they could use.

"We need to start from the beginning," Rossi said, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. "Something changed overnight. Reid was already on edge, but whatever happened after we got back to the hotel pushed him over. We need to figure out what that was."

Hotch nodded, turning to Garcia. "Garcia, pull up the camera footage from the hotel. I want to see everything from the moment we arrived last night."

Garcia wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, taking a deep breath to steady herself before pulling up the footage. The grainy video appeared on the TV screen, showing the team walking into the hotel lobby the previous night. They watched as the team exchanged brief goodnights before heading to their rooms, the image of the hotel lobby's TV playing a news channel flickering in the background. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Fast forward about an hour," Rossi instructed.

Garcia complied, and the footage sped up until Spencer reappeared, exiting the elevator and making his way to the hotel bar. They watched as he ordered a drink, sitting quietly as he sipped it, clearly trying to calm his nerves. He looked like he was struggling, his usual composed demeanor replaced by a tense energy they could almost feel through the screen.

As they watched, Spencer suddenly sat up straight, his body going rigid with alarm. He looked around, his eyes scanning the room, the unease evident on his face. Then, something—or someone—caught his attention. They watched as he turned on his stool, his face going pale as he stared at something off-camera.

"Pause it," Hotch said, his voice tight.

Garcia froze the frame, the image of Spencer's wide, frightened eyes staring at the screen. The team leaned in closer, trying to see what had spooked him, but whatever—or whoever—had caught his attention wasn't visible in this angle.

"Can you switch to another camera?" Prentiss asked, her brow furrowed with concentration.

Garcia nodded, switching to a different angle, but it showed nothing. Spencer was alone at the bar, the rest of the room filled with the usual crowd of hotel guests, none of whom seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

"Whatever he saw, it was real to him," Rossi said, thinking aloud. "He looked genuinely terrified. But the way he shook his head after—he must have thought he imagined it."

"Why didn't he say anything?" JJ asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "We could have helped him. We could have stopped this."

"Because he didn't want us to know," Rossi replied, his tone grim. "There's more to this than we realize. Something from Spencer's past. Something he's been trying to keep hidden."

Hotch's face darkened as he turned to Morgan. "Derek, I need you to go up to Reid's room. Use the extra key card and see if you can find anything that might point us in the right direction."

Morgan hesitated, his protective instincts warring with his discomfort at the thought of going through his friend's belongings. But he knew Hotch was right. They had to do everything they could to find Spencer, and that meant looking everywhere, even places they'd rather not.

"On it," Morgan said, already heading for the door.

Hotch then turned to Garcia, who looked back at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. "Garcia, I need you to dig into Spencer's past. Look at his FBI records, anything that might give us a clue about what he's been hiding. And I mean everything."

Garcia's breath hitched, the idea of prying into her friend's past making her feel sick. She hated the thought of invading his privacy, of uncovering secrets he'd kept hidden for a reason. But she also knew that if they didn't, they might lose him forever.

"I'll find something, Hotch," she whispered, her fingers trembling as she began the search.

The rest of the team gathered around the table, their eyes fixed on the images of Spencer alongside the other victims. They were all young, smart, with bright futures ahead of them. But there was a glaring difference between Spencer and the others: Spencer had succeeded. He had become someone. The unsub's rage didn't align with the typical profile of someone targeting young male prostitutes. There was something deeper here, something personal.

"If Spencer is at the core of the unsub's rage, why is he going after prostitutes?" Prentiss mused, her mind racing. "It doesn't make sense. Is it because they're low-risk? Or is there a deeper meaning?"

Hotch considered this, his brow furrowed in thought. "It's possible that the unsub sees them as stand-ins for Spencer—men who could have had potential, but didn't live up to it. Spencer, on the other hand, represents what they could have been, had circumstances been different. That kind of resentment could fuel a deep, violent anger."

"But why target them now?" JJ asked, her voice strained. "Why bring Spencer into this?"

Morgan returned to the room, his face set in a grim line as he handed over Spencer's laptop. "Found this on his desk. Garcia, can you go through it?"

Garcia took the laptop with trembling hands, her breath hitching as she booted it up. "I hate doing this," she whispered, the thought of invading Spencer's privacy gnawing at her. But she knew it was necessary. She knew Spencer would want them to do whatever it took to find him.

"If the unsub knows Spencer, then it's personal. Spencer must have wronged him in some way, at least in the unsub's mind. That kind of anger doesn't just come out of nowhere. It's deep-rooted."

"But why now?" JJ asked, her voice strained. "Why is he coming after Spencer now, after all these years?"

"We need to keep digging," Hotch said, his voice firm. "There's something in Spencer's past that connects him to this unsub, and we need to find it."

Just then, Garcia's eyes widened as something caught her attention on the screen of her computer. "I've got something," she said, her voice still shaky but more focused. "Spencer was enrolled in a dance studio years ago, before he joined the FBI. It was shut down the year before the name change for Eden."

Rossi's eyebrows rose in surprise. "A dance studio? Why would that be relevant?"

Garcia shrugged, her eyes still scanning the data. "I don't know, but it's in the same area as the club formerly known as Pride. Spencer has some connection to both, but I don't understand why. He would have been a teenager when the club was in its prime."

Hotch leaned forward, his expression intense. "Run a background check on the academy and the club. Look into any instructors or staff that might have worked at both places. If there's a connection, we need to find it."

Garcia nodded, her focus shifting entirely to the task at hand. The rest of the team exchanged glances, the puzzle pieces slowly starting to come together, but still lacking the full picture.

"Why target young male prostitutes if Spencer's the core of his rage?" Prentiss mused aloud. "It doesn't make sense. There has to be a reason—something that ties all of this together."

"Maybe they were low-risk," JJ suggested, though she didn't sound convinced. "But that doesn't explain why the unsub would escalate to targeting Spencer directly."

Hotch nodded, his mind racing through the possibilities. "We need to keep digging. There's more to this story—something Spencer didn't want us to know. And if we don't figure it out soon, we could lose him."

As the night wore on, the team continued to work tirelessly, the sense of urgency growing with every passing minute. They had only fragments of the truth, but they were piecing it together, slowly uncovering the dark secrets that tied Spencer to their unsub.

And somewhere in the shadows of Las Vegas, Spencer's life hung in the balance.

Chapter Text

The weeks had slipped by in a blur of rehearsals, quiet dinners, and late nights spent at Val's sprawling mansion. Spencer, had found himself growing more and more isolated from his friends and family. The demands of his dance training, coupled with Val's increasing presence in his life, had created a world where it was just the two of them—no one else seemed to matter. It wasn't that Spencer didn't think about his old friends, or his mom, but they felt distant, almost like characters in a story he used to read, but had since outgrown.

Val had become everything to him—mentor, confidant, even something like a father figure. But recently, Spencer had begun to notice things, small things that made him uncomfortable, that made him question the man he had come to trust so deeply. Yet every time these thoughts crept into his mind, he brushed them away, burying them under layers of denial. Val was the first person who had ever treated him like an adult, who had respected his talent and intelligence. Surely, these little things were nothing more than misunderstandings, or perhaps even a part of that maturity Val was always talking about.

It had started innocently enough. Val had invited Spencer over to his house one evening, saying he wanted to watch a movie and relax after a particularly grueling practice session. Spencer had been curious about Val's home—it wasn't something they had ever discussed in detail. When he arrived, he was stunned by what he saw. The house was huge, a sprawling mansion with high ceilings, polished marble floors, and artwork that looked like it belonged in a museum. There was a swimming pool out back, gleaming under the soft glow of strategically placed lights, and a private studio where Val often practiced alone or with Spencer in private sessions.

The first time Spencer stepped inside, he couldn't help but wonder how Val had managed to afford such a place. The thought flickered in his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside. Val was successful, that much was clear. He had connections, and he had been in the dance world for a long time. Maybe it wasn't so strange after all.

As the weeks passed, Spencer found himself spending more and more time at Val's home. They would watch movies, play board games, and sometimes even practice new routines in the private studio. Val had become a constant in his life, someone he could rely on, someone who made him feel special. But as comfortable as Spencer was in Val's presence, there was an undercurrent of something darker, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

It started with small, lingering touches. Val would brush a strand of hair out of Spencer's face, or place a hand on his shoulder for just a little too long. There were kisses on the cheek, hands that rested a little too low on his hips as they walked side by side, fingers that crept up his thigh as they sat together on the couch watching movies. Spencer knew what Val was doing, and deep down, he knew it was wrong. But there was a part of him that was flattered by the attention, a part that told him this was what it meant to be mature, to be treated like an adult.

One evening, Val invited Spencer to swim in the pool. The night was warm, the air thick with the scent of jasmine from the garden. As Spencer stripped down to his swim trunks, he noticed Val watching him, his eyes lingering a little too long on Spencer's bare chest. Spencer felt a shiver of discomfort, but he pushed it aside, diving into the cool water and letting it wash away his unease.

They swam together for a while, the water lit by the soft glow of underwater lights, casting rippling reflections on the mansion's walls. Val was playful, splashing Spencer and laughing, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made Spencer's heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the exertion of swimming. When they climbed out of the pool, Val handed Spencer a towel, his hand brushing against Spencer's arm in a way that sent a jolt of electricity through him.

"You've really grown into yourself, Spencer," Val said, his voice low and smooth. "You're becoming a man."

Spencer didn't know how to respond, so he just smiled awkwardly and wrapped the towel around himself, trying to ignore the way Val's eyes seemed to drink him in. He knew he should feel more uncomfortable than he did, but Val had always been there for him, always treated him with respect and care. This was just part of that, wasn't it?

But as the days went on, those small, lingering touches became more deliberate. Val's hand would slip lower, his fingers would trail longer, and the kisses on the cheek started to feel more intimate than friendly. Spencer was caught in a web of confusion, torn between the unease that gnawed at him and the desire to please the man who had done so much for him.

One night, after a particularly intense practice session in Val's private studio, they settled on the couch in the living room to watch the latest Star Wars movie. Spencer, exhausted but content, rested his head on Val's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his mentor's body against his own. Val's arm was draped around him, and Spencer felt a sense of comfort and safety, even as his mind raced with conflicting thoughts.

"Spencer," Val said softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "I have an opportunity for you. Something different, something special."

Spencer lifted his head slightly, intrigued. "What kind of opportunity?"

Val smiled, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something almost like hesitation. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the confident, reassuring smile Spencer was so used to seeing.

"There's a performance coming up, a chance for you to really shine. It's not a competition, but it's a big deal. You'll be on stage, in front of an audience, showcasing everything you've learned. It'll be a night to remember."

Spencer's eyes lit up with excitement. The idea of performing on stage, of showing off his skills without the pressure of competition, thrilled him. "That sounds amazing! What's the performance?"

Val's smile widened, though there was a tightness around his eyes that Spencer didn't notice. "It's a special event, one that will really let you express yourself. And I've already arranged for you to meet with one of the best costume designers in Las Vegas. You'll have a tailor-made outfit, something that will really make you stand out."

Spencer's excitement grew, the thought of a custom-made outfit filling him with a sense of pride. He had always had to make do with second-hand costumes, things that never quite fit right, that never quite matched his vision of how he wanted to look on stage. This was an opportunity to finally have something that was his, something that would make him feel like a true star.

"Thank you, Val," Spencer said, his voice full of gratitude. "I can't wait."

Val's smile softened, and for a moment, he looked almost... pained. He reached out, cupping Spencer's cheek with his hand, his thumb brushing lightly over Spencer's skin. "You deserve it, Spencer. You've worked so hard. This is just the beginning of what you're capable of."

Spencer leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment as he let himself relax. When he opened them again, Val was still watching him, his expression unreadable.

As they settled back into the couch, Spencer rested his head on Val's shoulder once more, feeling a warmth spread through him. He didn't see the sly smile that played on Val's lips, didn't notice the way Val's eyes darkened as he thought about the performance, about the venue he hadn't yet told Spencer about.

But even as Val's arm tightened around him, Spencer couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease, the feeling that something wasn't quite right. He pushed it down, burying it deep inside where it couldn't interfere with his excitement. This was his chance to shine, to show everyone what he could do. And Val—Val was the one making it all possible.

As the movie played on, Spencer's thoughts drifted between the excitement of the upcoming performance and the nagging doubts he refused to fully acknowledge. He wanted to believe that everything was as it should be, that Val truly had his best interests at heart. And yet, a part of him couldn't help but wonder... what if he was wrong?

Val's fingers brushed through Spencer's hair, a gesture that should have felt comforting but instead sent a shiver down his spine. Spencer forced himself to relax, telling himself that he was just overthinking things, that he was being silly. Val cared about him, more than anyone else ever had.

And so, as they sat there together, watching the movie in the dim light of the living room, Spencer allowed himself to believe in the picture-perfect world Val had created for him, even as the shadows began to creep in around the edges.

Chapter Text

The small bell above the door chimed softly as Spencer followed Val into the tailor's shop. The air inside was cool, almost too cold, and the smell of expensive fabrics and leather filled Spencer's nostrils. He looked around, taking in the opulence of the space. The shop was elegant, with dark wood paneling and large mirrors that seemed to reflect every angle of the room. The mannequins on display were draped in intricate, shimmering costumes, each one more elaborate than the last. The atmosphere was thick with a quiet tension, an undercurrent that set Spencer's nerves on edge.

Everyone in the shop seemed to know Val. The moment they walked in, heads turned, and a few hushed whispers passed between the staff. The workers moved with quick, precise motions, but there was an edge to their movements, a wariness that Spencer noticed immediately. It was as if they were afraid of Val, careful not to do anything that might upset him. Spencer had never seen Val in this light before—always charming, always in control—but now he wondered if there was more to his mentor than he had realized.

"Valentino, it's been a while," the tailor greeted as she approached them. She was a middle-aged woman, her hair streaked with gray but impeccably styled. Her name tag read Madame Élodie, and she had an air of no-nonsense professionalism about her. She was tall, with sharp features and a gaze that seemed to pierce through anyone who dared to meet her eyes. Despite her polished appearance, there was something about her that made Spencer uneasy, like she was someone who would do anything if the price was right.

"Élodie," Val responded smoothly, giving her one of his charming smiles. "Always a pleasure. I'm here for something special today. This is Spencer."

Madame Élodie glanced at Spencer, her eyes scanning him quickly before returning to Val. "I see. Well, let's get started, shall we?"

As Val and Élodie began discussing the details of Spencer's outfit, Spencer's attention drifted to the other people in the shop. The customers being fitted were all much older than him, beautiful in a way that seemed almost unnatural—perfectly sculpted, with smooth, tanned skin, some adorned with intricate tattoos. The women's bodies were flawless, their curves accentuated by the revealing outfits they were being fitted for. Spencer's eyes lingered on a group of women, their leotards cut high on the hips, shimmering with what looked like real diamonds. The designs were intricate, some with tassels that brushed against their thighs as they moved, others with daring cutouts at the waist or torso, covered only by mesh adorned with crystals.

He noticed the bruises next, faint but unmistakable, marring the skin on the insides of their thighs. The sight made his stomach churn, and he realized they looked like the bruises he had seen on pole dancers during the few lessons Val had made him take. The women with the bruises seemed the most wary of Val, their gazes flickering nervously toward him but never lingering long. They didn't even seem to notice Spencer standing next to Val, their focus entirely on his mentor, their expressions a mix of fear and wariness.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, turning his attention back to Val and Madame Élodie. They were deep in conversation, talking about the design of his outfit as if he wasn't even there.

"I'm thinking something bold," Val was saying, his tone thoughtful. "A bodysuit, of course. High-cut at the hips, with diamonds for that extra sparkle. Gloves that go up past the elbows, maybe some thigh-high boots with heels."

Spencer's heart skipped a beat as he listened, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. A bodysuit? Gloves? Heels? This wasn't what he had imagined for his performance. He had thought it would be a typical dance outfit—something sleek, sure, but masculine, something that would allow him to move freely on stage. But the way Val was describing it, this outfit sounded... different. Feminine. Revealing.

"Diamonds will catch the light beautifully," Madame Élodie agreed, nodding as she jotted down notes. "And for the finishing touch, we could add some embellishments—crystals, maybe, or something with a bit of texture. What about a corset to cinch the waist? It would give him a more defined silhouette, more... feminine, as you said."

Spencer blinked, his breath catching in his throat. Feminine? He had never been bothered by gender roles, but the way they were talking about making him look more feminine felt strange, uncomfortable in a way he couldn't quite articulate.

"Exactly," Val replied, his voice smooth and confident. "I want him to stand out. This performance is going to be something special, and he needs to look the part."

Spencer's confusion deepened as he listened to them discuss him like he wasn't even there. Val had never treated him this way before—so dismissive, so distant. Why was he acting like this now? The unease that had been simmering in the back of Spencer's mind for months surged to the surface, demanding his attention.

"Val," Spencer said quietly, his voice hesitant. "I... I don't understand. Why do I need to wear something like that? I thought this was just a normal performance."

Val glanced at him, his expression carefully neutral. "It is, Spencer. But this is a chance for you to push your boundaries, to show everyone that you're capable of more than just the usual routines. Trust me, this will make you stand out in the best way possible."

Spencer wanted to trust Val—he had always trusted him—but something about this felt wrong. The words Val and Élodie had used—corset, heels, feminine—swirled in his mind, each one tugging at the threads of doubt that had begun to unravel his faith in his mentor.

As Madame Élodie began taking Spencer's measurements, she and Val continued to discuss the details of the outfit. Spencer stood still, letting her work, but his mind was racing. He could hear them talking, their voices low but clear, and what they were saying made his stomach twist with dread.

"I was thinking we could create additional outfits for future performances," Val said, his tone casual. "Leather, perhaps. Something with collars and garters. It would add a bit of edge, make the routines even more captivating."

Spencer's blood ran cold. Collars? Garters? Leather? What kind of performances was Val planning? Surely, he wasn't talking about Spencer... right?

Madame Élodie nodded thoughtfully. "That could work. I have some materials in mind that would be perfect. I can start on the designs right away."

Spencer swallowed hard, his mind spinning. The measurements continued, the tape wrapping around his chest, waist, and hips as Madame Élodie worked quickly and efficiently. Val stood nearby, watching with an appraising eye, but he didn't meet Spencer's gaze. It was as if he were detached, focused solely on the outcome, ignoring the person standing in front of him.

"Why... why are you doing this?" Spencer found himself asking, his voice barely above a whisper.

Val finally looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Because I believe in you, Spencer. You have the potential to be extraordinary, to go beyond what anyone else can achieve. This is part of that journey. Trust the process."

Spencer wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that Val had his best interests at heart. But the words felt hollow, the unease gnawing at him like a persistent ache. He had followed Val's lead for so long, but now he found himself questioning everything—why Val wanted him to look more feminine, why he was talking about leather and collars, why this all felt so... wrong.

As Madame Élodie finished her measurements, she stepped back, making a few final notes. "I'll start working on the outfit immediately. It will be ready in time for the performance."

"Excellent," Val replied, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "We're going to make a statement, Spencer. This is just the beginning."

Spencer nodded numbly, his mind too full of conflicting thoughts to respond. He felt like he was being pulled in two directions—one part of him wanting to trust Val, to believe that this was all part of the plan, and the other part screaming at him that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

As they left the shop, the door closing softly behind them, Spencer couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into something he wasn't prepared for, something that went far beyond dance. He glanced at Val, who was smiling as they made their way to the car, his hand resting lightly on Spencer's back. The touch, once comforting, now felt like a weight pressing down on him, a reminder of how deeply Val had ingrained himself into Spencer's life.

And yet, despite the growing doubt, despite the fear that twisted in his gut, Spencer remained silent. He told himself that Val had a plan, that he wouldn't lead him astray. But as they drove away from the shop, Spencer couldn't help but wonder if he had already lost control, if the person he trusted most in the world had slowly, deliberately, taken it from him without him even realizing it.

Chapter Text

Spencer's world was a blur of pain and confusion as he slowly came to. His head throbbed, each pulse sending a wave of nausea through his body. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright, piercing through the fog in his mind like a knife. He groaned softly, trying to move, but his limbs felt heavy, uncooperative.

As he slowly regained consciousness, memories began to filter back in—fragmented, disjointed. He remembered running, the panic that had gripped him, the feeling of being watched. And then... darkness. The realization that something was terribly wrong settled over him like a shroud.

When he finally managed to pry his eyes open, the first thing he noticed was the room. It was dimly lit, the walls bare and cold, with a faint smell of mildew lingering in the air. He was lying on a hard surface, a makeshift cot that did little to cushion his aching body. Panic surged through him as he realized he was bound, his wrists tied together with coarse rope that bit into his skin.

He struggled to sit up, but the effort sent a sharp pain through his side, forcing him to stop. Spencer's breath came in ragged gasps as he fought against the panic rising in his chest. He tried to focus, to push through the fog in his mind, but every movement sent fresh waves of pain through his body.

Where am I? The question echoed in his mind, but no answers came. All he knew was that he had been taken, and whoever had him wasn't going to let him go easily.

He closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts, but the fear was overwhelming. He had faced danger before—serial killers, hostage situations—but this felt different. This felt personal. And deep down, he knew why.

Valentino.

The name surfaced in his mind like a dark specter, bringing with it a flood of memories he had tried so hard to forget. Memories of the dance studio, of Valentino's touch, his voice, the way he had manipulated and controlled Spencer during his most vulnerable years. Spencer had spent years burying those memories, trying to move past the trauma that had shaped his adolescence. But now, it seemed, the past had come back to claim him.

He forced himself to focus on the present, to assess his situation. The room was small, with no windows and only one door—a heavy, metal door that looked like it hadn't been opened in years. The walls were bare, the floor concrete, and the only light came from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the room.

Spencer tested the ropes around his wrists, wincing as the rough fibers dug into his skin. They were tight, expertly tied, and he knew there was no way he could free himself without help. His mind raced, trying to think of a way out, but every scenario ended in the same place—with him trapped, helpless, at the mercy of a man who had once held him in his thrall.

He shuddered at the thought, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. He had escaped Valentino once, with Harry's help, but now... now he was alone. And Valentino was here. He could feel it in his bones, the dread settling deep in his gut. Valentino had found him, and this time, he wasn't going to let him go.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door creaked open, the sound sending a jolt of fear through Spencer's body. He tensed, every muscle in his body screaming at him to run, to fight, but he was trapped, helpless. All he could do was watch as the door slowly swung open, revealing a figure standing in the doorway.

Valentino Marino.

He looked older than Spencer remembered, his once dark hair now streaked with gray, but the same cold, calculating eyes stared back at him. Eyes that had haunted Spencer's nightmares for years. Valentino stepped into the room, his movements slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment.

"Angel," he said softly, his voice sending a shiver down Spencer's spine. "It's been a long time."

Spencer swallowed hard, forcing himself to stay calm, to keep the panic at bay. He wouldn't give Valentino the satisfaction of seeing him afraid, even though fear was coursing through his veins like ice.

"What do you want, Valentino?" Spencer's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

Valentino's smile widened, a cruel twist of his lips that made Spencer's stomach churn. "Isn't it obvious? I want you back, Angel. I want to finish what we started."

Spencer's heart pounded in his chest, the reality of the situation crashing over him like a tidal wave. He had known, deep down, that this day might come, that Valentino might find him again. But he had hoped—prayed—that it never would.

"You're wasting your time," Spencer said, his voice firmer now, despite the fear gnawing at his insides. "I'm not the person I used to be. You can't control me anymore."

Valentino's smile faltered for a moment, a flash of anger passing over his face before he regained his composure. "We'll see about that," he said quietly, stepping closer to the cot. "You and I, we have a lot of catching up to do."

Spencer recoiled as Valentino reached out, his hand brushing against Spencer's cheek. The touch was cold, familiar, and it took every ounce of willpower for Spencer not to flinch away. He couldn't show weakness, couldn't let Valentino see how much this was affecting him.

"I've missed you, Angel," Valentino whispered, his voice soft, almost tender. "You were always my favorite."

Spencer's skin crawled at the words, memories of the past flooding back in vivid detail. He could still feel the way Valentino's hands had roamed over his body, the way he had whispered those same words in his ear, manipulating him, controlling him. He had been so young, so naive, and Valentino had taken advantage of that, shaping him into something he wasn't.

But Spencer wasn't that boy anymore. He was stronger now, smarter. He had fought his way out of the darkness once, and he would do it again. No matter what it took.

"You're a monster," Spencer said, his voice trembling with anger. "I'm not your Angel anymore. I'm not yours at all."

Valentino's eyes darkened, his expression hardening as he gripped Spencer's chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You'll always be mine," he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "No matter how far you run, no matter how much you try to forget, you'll always be mine."

Spencer's heart raced, his mind scrambling for a way out, a way to escape. But there was no escape, not yet. He had to bide his time, had to wait for the right moment. He had to survive.

Valentino released his grip, stepping back with a satisfied smirk. "We have plenty of time to get reacquainted," he said, turning to leave the room. "Don't go anywhere, Angel."

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the small room. Spencer was left alone, his heart pounding, his mind racing. He knew he had to stay strong, had to find a way out. But the fear was overwhelming, threatening to pull him under.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus. He wasn't a helpless child anymore. He was an FBI agent, a profiler. He knew how to think, how to strategize. And he would use every skill he had to get out of this alive.

But as he sat there, bound and alone in the darkness, the memories of his past clawed at him, threatening to drag him back into the abyss he had fought so hard to escape.

And for the first time in years, Spencer Reid wasn't sure if he was strong enough to fight his way out again.

Chapter Text

The conference room was filled with an oppressive silence as the team stared at the screen, their expressions a mix of shock, confusion, and unease. Garcia had just uncovered a series of old files on Spencer's laptop—photographs and videos that none of them were prepared for. As they delved deeper into Spencer's past, the picture that was beginning to emerge was far more disturbing than they had anticipated.

On the screen in front of them was a young Spencer Reid, barely recognizable as the man they knew today. In the photographs, he stood next to a man the team now knew to be Valentino Marino, the owner of the Marino Dance Academy and a figure from Spencer's past. Valentino had one arm casually draped over Spencer's shoulder, his smile wide and self-assured. But there was something off about the way he looked at the camera, and something even more unsettling about Spencer's expression—his smile was forced, his posture tense, as though he was trying to shrink away from the man beside him.

Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia stared at the images in stunned silence, their minds racing as they tried to process what they were seeing. This wasn't the Spencer Reid they knew—the brilliant, kind, if sometimes socially awkward, genius. This was a boy, a child, who had been caught in the orbit of a man who exuded control and manipulation.

"Look at him," JJ whispered, her voice trembling. "He's so young... so different."

Rossi nodded, his expression grim. "This man, Valentino... he had a hold on Spencer. You can see it in the way he looks at him, the way Spencer is trying to pull away but can't."

Garcia's hands shook as she navigated to another file. "There's more," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Videos... of Spencer dancing."

The team's attention snapped to the screen as Garcia clicked on the first video. The screen flickered to life, showing a dance studio bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun. The young Spencer appeared on screen, standing in the center of the studio, his expression serious and focused. He looked to be around fourteen years old, dressed in simple dance attire—a fitted shirt and loose pants that allowed him to move freely.

The music started, a slow, lyrical piece that immediately set a melancholic tone. Spencer began to dance, his movements fluid and graceful, his body moving in perfect harmony with the music. His expression was intense, his eyes filled with an emotion that seemed far too deep for someone so young. The dance was beautiful, heartbreaking even, and the team watched in silence, captivated by his talent.

"He's incredible," Prentiss murmured, her eyes wide with admiration. "I had no idea he could dance like this."

But as the video continued, a darker undercurrent began to make itself known. The expression on Spencer's face, the way he moved—it was as if he was trying to convey something beyond the dance itself, something painful and raw. The team couldn't shake the feeling that they were witnessing something deeply personal, something Spencer had never wanted them to see.

When the dance ended, the screen faded to black, and the room was once again filled with an uneasy silence.

"That was... intense," Morgan finally said, his voice low. "You can see the pain in his eyes."

JJ nodded, tears pooling in her eyes. "He was going through something... something that hurt him. You can see it in the way he dances, the way he holds himself."

"There's more," Garcia said quietly, her voice trembling as she clicked on the next video. The screen lit up again, this time showing Spencer in a different setting—the same studio, but with a different tone. The music was faster, more upbeat, and Spencer's movements matched the tempo, his body moving with a confidence and skill that was mesmerizing. This dance was more aggressive, more powerful, as if he was trying to fight against something invisible, something that was weighing him down.

"Why would he keep these?" Prentiss asked, her voice filled with confusion. "Why would he keep videos of himself dancing like this?"

Hotch's expression was unreadable as he watched the screen. "Maybe he couldn't bring himself to get rid of them. Maybe it was his way of holding on to a part of himself he thought he had lost."

The next video began to play, and the team immediately noticed the shift in tone. The music was different this time—LoveGame by Lady Gaga, a pop song with a catchy beat. The young Spencer appeared on screen once again, his body poised in the center of the studio. But this time, there was something off about the way he stood, the way he looked at the camera.

As the music started, Spencer began to move, his body swaying to the rhythm of the song. The dance was different from the others—more provocative, more sensual. His movements were fluid and confident, but there was a tension in his expression that was impossible to ignore. The way he moved, the way he performed—it was as if he was trying to embody someone else, someone who was far more comfortable with this type of dance than he was.

The team watched in stunned silence as Spencer continued to dance, his body moving in ways that seemed far too mature for someone his age. The dance was expertly executed, each movement perfectly timed to the beat of the song. But there was something deeply unsettling about it, something that made the team's stomachs churn with unease.

"Why is he doing this?" JJ asked, her voice filled with a mix of confusion and concern. "He looks... uncomfortable."

"He's doing it for someone else," Rossi said, his voice dark. "You can see it in his eyes. He's not enjoying this—he's doing it because he feels like he has to."

The camera zoomed in slightly, focusing on Spencer's face as he danced. His expression was a mix of concentration and discomfort, his eyes flickering with something that the team couldn't quite place—fear, perhaps, or a deep sense of unease. And as the camera panned slightly to the right, the team caught a glimpse of Valentino standing just out of frame, watching with a pleased smile.

"He's doing it for him," Hotch said, his voice tight with anger. "Valentino... he's making him do this."

As the video continued, the team felt a growing sense of dread. Spencer's movements became more provocative, more suggestive, as the dance reached its climax. But the look on his face told a different story—one of discomfort, of fear, of a young boy trying to please someone who held too much power over him.

When the video finally ended, the room was filled with a heavy silence. The team sat in stunned disbelief, the reality of what they had just witnessed sinking in. This wasn't just a dance—this was something far more sinister, something that had left a deep scar on the young Spencer Reid.

"That was..." JJ began, but her voice faltered as she tried to find the words. "That was wrong. He was just a kid."

"He didn't want to do that," Morgan said, his voice filled with anger. "You could see it in his eyes—he was doing it because he felt like he had no choice."

Garcia's hands shook as she closed the video file, her heart heavy with emotion. "Why would he keep these?" she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because he couldn't let go," Hotch replied softly. "This was a part of his life that he tried to bury, but he couldn't bring himself to forget. These videos... they're a reminder of what he went through."

The team sat in silence, the weight of what they had just discovered pressing down on them like a heavy blanket. They were beginning to understand the depth of the trauma Spencer had endured, the darkness that had followed him from his past. But there was still so much they didn't know, so much that Spencer had kept hidden.

And as they sat there, processing the implications of what they had seen, one thing became painfully clear—Spencer had been hiding a part of himself from them, a part that had been deeply scarred by a man who had manipulated and controlled him during his most vulnerable years.

"We need to find him," Hotch finally said, his voice filled with determination. "We need to bring him back and make sure that man never hurts him again."

The team nodded in agreement, their resolve stronger than ever. They knew that time was running out, that every second they spent in that room was a second Spencer was out there, alone, and in danger. They had to find him, and they had to do it fast.

But as they prepared to continue their search, the unease lingered, the image of a young Spencer Reid dancing to please a man who held too much power over him etched into their minds. They had seen a glimpse of the darkness that had shaped their friend's past, and it had shaken them to their core.

Chapter Text

Spencer Reid stood in front of the full-length mirror in Val's private dressing room, adjusting the straps of the bodysuit that clung to his skin like a second layer. The outfit, custom-made by Madame Élodie, was unlike anything he had ever worn before. It was a shimmering black bodysuit with high-cut hips that accentuated his slim frame, embellished with diamonds that sparkled under the harsh fluorescent lights. A corset cinched his waist, giving him an unnervingly feminine silhouette, and long, elbow-length gloves completed the look. He could hardly recognize himself—his reflection was that of a stranger, someone bold and confident, not the boy who had once been shy and uncertain.

He was fifteen years old, but tonight, as he stared at himself in the mirror, he felt much older. The makeup Val had applied earlier accentuated his features, giving his eyes a smoldering, almost dangerous look. His lips, painted a deep red, stood out starkly against his pale skin. The transformation was complete; he was no longer just Spencer, the dancer. He was a performer, a persona crafted by Val, one that existed solely for the stage.

The nightclub was called Pride, a place Spencer had never heard of before Val had told him about the performance. At first, he had been excited—performing in a real club, in front of an audience that wasn't just judges and other dancers. It had seemed like a thrilling new experience, a step into the world of professional dancing. But as the details unfolded, Spencer's excitement had quickly turned to dread.

He had learned that Val owned Pride, though he hadn't realized it at first. It was a sleek, dimly lit place, filled with people who exuded a kind of confidence and sophistication that made Spencer feel small and out of place. The crowd was older, much older, and they had a hunger in their eyes that made Spencer's skin crawl. He had tried to voice his concerns to Val, to tell him that maybe this wasn't the right place for him, that he wasn't sure he was ready for something like this. But Val had dismissed his worries with a cold, sharp anger that left Spencer feeling both ashamed and frightened.

"You're a dancer, Spencer," Val had snapped, his eyes blazing with a fury Spencer had never seen before. "This is what you've been training for. Don't you dare back out now."

The memory of that conversation replayed in Spencer's mind as he adjusted his bodysuit one last time. He had seen a side of Val that day that he hadn't known existed—a side that was ruthless, demanding, and utterly intolerant of weakness. Spencer had been too scared to argue further, so he had put on a brave face, telling himself that it would be just one performance, one night he needed to get through.

But it hadn't been just one night. It had been the first of many.

The first time he stepped onto the stage at Pride, Spencer had felt like his heart was going to explode from fear. The lights were blinding, the music loud and pulsating through his body, and the crowd... the crowd was unlike anything he had ever seen. They were mesmerized by him, their eyes following his every movement, their cheers growing louder with every spin, every jump, every suggestive gesture. He had danced like his life depended on it, every ounce of training he had received from Val channeled into that one performance. He had told himself that if he just got through it, if he just did what Val wanted, it would be over.

But it wasn't.

Val had praised him afterward, his anger from earlier replaced by an unsettling calm. "You were incredible, Spencer," he had said, his hand resting on Spencer's shoulder with a weight that felt more like a burden than reassurance. "The crowd loved you. You're going to be a star."

Spencer had forced a smile, nodding along as Val spoke, even as a pit of dread settled in his stomach. He had hoped it would end there, that Val would be satisfied and they could move on to something else, something less... intense. But Val had other plans. He started booking Spencer for more performances at Pride, each one more demanding than the last. The routines became more provocative, the outfits more revealing, and the makeup heavier. The transformation Val had started was now in full effect, turning Spencer into someone who wasn't quite himself, someone who existed only for the stage.

As the performances continued, Spencer found himself slipping deeper into the persona Val had created for him. The crowds grew larger, drawn by the allure of the hot new dancer who could move with a grace and sensuality that left them breathless. Word spread quickly about the mysterious performer who captivated the audience night after night, his identity a well-guarded secret. Val made sure no one knew Spencer's real age, keeping him hidden behind layers of makeup and costume, ensuring that even the other dancers at the club didn't know the truth.

Spencer became the star of the show, the highlight of every night at Pride. Val pushed him further, sometimes making him sing while he danced. Spencer had always had a good voice, but Val had insisted on refining it, coaching him until he could hit every note perfectly, his voice resonating through the club like a siren's call. The crowd loved it—loved him—and Spencer found himself thriving on the applause, on the validation that came with every performance. But beneath the surface, the unease that had been growing inside him for months continued to fester.

After each performance, Spencer would tell himself that this might be the last one, that maybe Val would finally be satisfied. But it never was. There was always another show, another outfit, another routine that pushed the boundaries even further. Val's praise, once a source of pride for Spencer, now felt like a chain, binding him to a life that was spiraling out of his control.

Tonight, as Spencer stared at himself in the mirror, the weight of it all pressed down on him like never before. The bodysuit clung to his skin, the diamonds glittering under the harsh lights, and for a moment, he felt like he was suffocating. He wanted to rip it off, to wipe away the makeup and walk out of the club, to be done with it all. But he knew he couldn't. Val's words echoed in his mind, reminding him of the expectations, the pressure, the need to be perfect.

"Spencer," Val's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He turned to see Val standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "It's time."

Spencer nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat as he turned away from the mirror. He followed Val out of the dressing room, down the narrow hallway that led to the stage. The sounds of the club grew louder with each step—the clinking of glasses, the hum of conversation, the low thrum of music vibrating through the walls. Val walked beside him, his presence a constant reminder of the life Spencer had been pulled into, a life that was slowly consuming him.

As they reached the stage, Val placed a hand on Spencer's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "You know what to do," he said, his voice low and steady. "Go out there and give them a show they won't forget."

Spencer nodded again, though his heart wasn't in it. He stepped onto the stage, the bright lights blinding him for a moment before his eyes adjusted. The music began, slow and sultry, and he moved with the practiced grace that had become second nature to him. Every movement was deliberate, every gesture designed to captivate the audience, to draw them in.

As he danced, he could feel the eyes of the crowd on him, could hear the cheers and applause growing louder with each step. He spun, leaped, and dipped, his body moving in perfect harmony with the music, but inside, he felt like he was falling apart. The persona he had created for the stage was slipping, the cracks starting to show as the weight of everything pressed down on him.

When the final notes of the music played, Spencer held his finishing pose, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. The crowd erupted into applause, their cheers ringing in his ears, but all he could feel was a deep, hollow emptiness. He straightened slowly, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching for something he couldn't quite name.

Val was waiting for him when he stepped off the stage, his expression one of satisfaction. "You were perfect," he said, his voice full of praise. "The crowd loved you."

Spencer forced a smile, nodding as Val spoke, but the words felt empty. He didn't feel perfect. He didn't even feel like himself anymore. He felt like a puppet, dancing on strings that Val controlled, each movement dictated by the expectations that had been placed on him.

As they made their way back to the dressing room, Spencer's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. He wanted to believe that this was all worth it, that the applause and the praise meant something, but deep down, he knew that he was losing himself, piece by piece. The boy who had once been excited about dancing, who had loved the art and the expression it allowed, was disappearing, replaced by a persona that existed only to please others.

Back in the dressing room, Spencer began to remove his costume, his movements slow and deliberate. The diamonds caught the light as he pulled off the bodysuit, and for a moment, he stared at it, feeling a surge of anger and frustration. He wanted to rip it apart, to destroy it, but he knew he couldn't. Instead, he carefully folded it and set it aside, his hands trembling slightly as he did.

Val watched him, his gaze steady and unyielding. "We have another performance next week," he said, his tone casual, as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. "I'll have Madame Élodie make a new outfit for you."

Spencer didn't respond, too exhausted to argue, too numb to care. He just nodded, his mind already shutting down, preparing for the next performance, the next time he would have to put on the persona that was slowly destroying him.

As he left the club that night, Spencer couldn't shake the feeling that he was trapped in a nightmare he couldn't escape from. The lights of the city blurred as he walked, the sounds of the club fading into the background. He had thought that this life, this world of dance, was what he wanted, what he needed to feel alive. But now, all he felt was empty.

Val had created a star, a performer who could captivate and enchant any audience, but in doing so, he had taken something from Spencer—something vital, something that couldn't be replaced. And as Spencer walked through the city, his heart heavy with the weight of it all, he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever find his way back to the person he used to be, or if that boy was gone forever, lost in the shadows of the spotlight.

Chapter Text

The team sat in stunned silence, the last remnants of the video they had just watched still playing in their minds. The image of a young Spencer Reid, forced to perform for a man who clearly held power over him, had left them all reeling. They had known Spencer had a troubled past, but this was something far beyond what any of them had imagined. The weight of what they had seen hung heavy in the air, a suffocating presence that none of them could shake.

But there was no time to dwell on it. They had a job to do, and every second they wasted brought Spencer closer to an uncertain fate.

Hotch was the first to break the silence, his voice firm despite the turmoil that he, too, was feeling. "We need to keep moving. We have to find him."

The door to the conference room opened suddenly, and the chief of police, Chief Hayes, stepped inside. His expression was grave, and there was a new intensity in his eyes as he looked at the team.

"I've heard about your agent," Chief Hayes began, his voice low and serious. "And I think I might have some information that could help you."

Hotch stood up, his attention fully on the chief. "What do you have?"

Chief Hayes glanced at the screen, still flickering with the frozen image of Valentino Marino from the video, and sighed heavily. "Valentino Marino wasn't just the owner of the Marino Dance Academy. He also owned a club called Pride—the same club that was later renamed Eden."

The team exchanged shocked looks. This connection was more than they had anticipated, and it was beginning to make a horrifying kind of sense.

"The man who escaped prison a couple of weeks ago," Chief Hayes continued, "was Valentino Marino. I didn't realize it at first, but with what I've learned about your case and the missing men, it all adds up. The timing of the murders, your team getting this case—it wasn't a coincidence. Valentino orchestrated everything to get your agent back in Las Vegas."

Rossi leaned forward, his mind racing as the pieces started falling into place. "He wanted Spencer back here. He needed him back here."

"And he was willing to kill to make it happen," Morgan added, his voice filled with barely controlled anger. "Those young men... they were just pawns in his game to get Spencer back."

Chief Hayes nodded. "That's what it looks like. And there's more." He hesitated, as if unsure how to proceed, but then steeled himself and continued. "The reason I recognized your agent—Spencer—is because I was there when he first came to the police with another young man. I was just a low-level officer at the time, not involved in the case so I have no clue what the case was about, but I remember his face. I never saw the other man, though. I think he was being protected by the higher-ups."

Hotch's expression darkened as the reality of what they were dealing with became clearer. Valentino Marino wasn't just a manipulative dance instructor—he was a man with far-reaching influence and a capacity for violence that had gone unchecked for years.

"We need to figure out if Spencer has any other ties to the club," Hotch said, turning to Garcia. "Dig deeper. There has to be more. And try to find this young man Spencer was with."

Garcia nodded, her fingers already flying over the keys. She was searching for anything that might give them a clearer picture of what had happened to Spencer, what he had been through. And then, suddenly, her screen flashed, signaling that she had cracked open the last encrypted file on Spencer's laptop.

"I've got something," she said, her voice filled with both excitement and dread. She clicked on the file, and what appeared on the screen made her breath catch in her throat.

The team gathered around the screen, their eyes widening as they took in the images before them. These weren't just any photos—they were CIA files, images taken from some of the most private moments in Spencer's past.

The first set of images showed Spencer dressed in an outfit that was both elaborate and disturbing. He was covered in diamonds, the bodysuit cutting off high on his thighs, with a corset cinching his waist. The outfit was almost completely black, except for the sheer mesh cutouts covered in more diamonds. A black garter around his thigh and high-heeled boots that went up just below his knees completed the look. In some of the pictures, Spencer was posing on stage, his expression distant, his eyes hollow. In others, he was draped over Valentino, his pupils blown wide, clearly from drug use, a look of complete disassociation on his face.

The next set of images was no less disturbing. Spencer was dressed in a leather bodysuit, with matching leather boots, elbow-length gloves, and a black choker around his neck. The photos varied—some showed him performing, others showed him standing next to Valentino, his expression vacant, lost.

The team was silent, the shock of what they were seeing sinking in. These images were evidence of the kind of control Valentino had exerted over Spencer, the lengths to which he had gone to mold him into something unrecognizable.

"My God," Prentiss whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the screen. "How did we not know about this?"

"Because it was buried," Rossi replied, his voice grim. "Someone wanted to make sure no one ever found out what happened to Spencer."

The images of Spencer Reid, captured in various stages of vulnerability and disassociation, hung in the air like a dark cloud over the team. They had known something terrible had happened to Spencer, but seeing it laid out so starkly, in such vivid detail, was a different kind of horror. Each photograph told a story of manipulation, of control, of a boy who had been stripped of his innocence and forced into a world he never should have known.

Garcia's hands trembled as she continued to navigate the files, her heart breaking with every click. The team stood around her, their faces grim, their minds racing as they tried to process what they were seeing. The photos, as disturbing as they were, were only a piece of the puzzle. They needed to understand the full scope of what had happened to Spencer, and they needed to do it quickly.

As the last few images of Spencer in those degrading outfits flashed across the screen, a new file appeared—security footage from inside Pride. Garcia hesitated for a moment, her finger hovering over the play button. She knew that whatever was on this footage would be difficult to watch, but they had no choice. They had to know the truth.

With a deep breath, Garcia clicked the play button, and the footage began to roll.

The screen flickered to life, showing the interior of Pride. The club was dark, with pulsating lights and the faint thrum of music in the background. The camera angle was positioned high, giving a clear view of the stage and the surrounding area. On the stage, a performance was underway, the figure at the center of it unmistakably Spencer.

He was dressed in the same elaborate outfit they had seen in the photos—the one covered in diamonds, with the high-cut thighs and corset that cinched his waist. But seeing him in motion, dancing on that stage, was even more jarring than the still images. His movements were precise, practiced, and technically perfect, to anyone else he seemed to be having the time of his life but to the trained eye it told a different story. His sultry eyes were vacant, his expression empty, as he moved through the routine with mechanical precision.

The audience was rapt, watching him with a mix of awe and something more predatory. The camera panned slightly, showing Valentino standing at the edge of the stage, his eyes fixed on Spencer with an intensity that made the team's skin crawl.

"This is hard to watch," JJ whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "He was just a kid..."

Rossi placed a hand on her shoulder, offering silent support as they continued to watch. The footage was a stark reminder of the kind of life Spencer had been forced into, a life he had never spoken of, not even to them.

The performance continued, the music building to a crescendo as Spencer moved through the final steps of the routine. As the song ended, the audience erupted into applause, Spencer blowing kissed to the audience, going through the motions. Flirting expertly with the men in the audience, like his life depended on it.

The camera cut to a different angle, this time showing a close-up of Valentino as he approached Spencer on stage. The way he moved, the way he looked at Spencer—it was possessive, controlling. He reached out, brushing a hand over Spencer's cheek, and the young boy flinched, but didn't pull away. The team watched in horrified silence as Valentino leaned in, whispering something in Spencer's ear. Whatever he said, it made Spencer's already pale face drain of what little color remained.

Morgan clenched his fists, his anger barely contained. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible but filled with fury.

Hotch, his face a mask of controlled rage, kept his focus on the screen. "We'll bring him to justice, Derek. We have to stay focused."

The footage continued, showing Valentino leading Spencer off the stage and into a back room. The camera followed them, giving the team a clear view of what happened next. In the privacy of the back room, Valentino's demeanor changed. The charm he had shown in front of the audience was gone, replaced by something far more sinister.

He backed Spencer against a wall, his hands gripping the boy's arms tightly. Spencer didn't fight, didn't resist—he simply stood there, eyes downcast, as Valentino spoke to him in low, menacing tones. The camera's audio wasn't strong enough to pick up the words, but the body language was unmistakable. Valentino was in complete control, and Spencer was terrified.

"This isn't just about control," Prentiss said, her voice cold with anger. "This is about ownership. Valentino sees Spencer as his possession."

The footage shifted again, this time to an even darker room, where Spencer was forced to change into another outfit—one of the leather bodysuits they had seen in the photos. Valentino watched, his gaze predatory, as Spencer reluctantly complied, his hands shaking as he struggled with the tight fabric.

"How did no one see this?" JJ asked, her voice trembling. "How did no one stop this?"

"They did," Chief Hayes said quietly, reminding them of his presence. "When Spencer came to the police with the other young man... they did what they could, but Valentino had powerful friends. It took time, and in the meantime, Spencer had to keep performing. But he was the one who took him down. He was the one who had the courage to come forward."

The footage continued to play, showing Spencer walk backstage, his face tense with unshed tears. He stands behind the curtain, getting into a pose as the music starts. And right when the curtain is about to open he snaps into a completely different person. The tears are gone, replaced by the sultry gaze they had seen earlier, his body is no longer tense, and he has a smirk on his face that could bring many people to their knees. He struts back on stage in the leather outfit, moving through another routine with the same flawless precision. The audience was even more enraptured, their cheers and whistles growing louder as the performance became more provocative.

The footage had been disturbing enough—the sight of a young Spencer Reid, manipulated and coerced, forced into degrading performances that no child should ever endure. But this... this was beyond anything the team had been prepared for.

The camera had cut away from the stage, leaving Spencer's performance in the background. The focus was now on Valentino Marino, his expression one of barely concealed annoyance as he conversed with a middle-aged man. The conversation was picked up in bits and pieces, but the meaning behind the words was unmistakable.

"I don't take anything below $1,000," Valentino had said, his tone laced with irritation, as if this was a conversation he had endured too many times.

The man—Mr. Perez, as Valentino had called him—seemed outraged by the demand. "For one hour? You've got to be fucking with me, man!"

Valentino's response was cold, final. "I believe I've made it very clear that I am in no way 'fucking with you,' Mr. Perez. $1,000 for the hour with him or nothing at all. Up to you."

The man's eyes had flicked back to the stage, where Spencer was still dancing. After a moment of consideration, Mr. Perez had sighed and relented, pulling out a wad of cash and shoving it into Valentino's hand. "The whore better be worth it, Marino."

The team had watched in stunned silence as Mr. Perez returned to the VIP section, continuing to watch Spencer's performance as if nothing was amiss. But it was Valentino's final words, muttered under his breath with a possessive gleam in his eyes, that had sent a wave of horror crashing over the team.

"Oh, trust me, Mr. Perez," Valentino had said softly, his gaze fixed on Spencer. "He is well worth it."

The screen went black, the footage coming to an abrupt end, but the damage was already done.

For a moment, no one in the room moved. They were frozen, each of them grappling with the implications of what they had just seen. The room was thick with disbelief, anger, and a sorrow so deep it threatened to swallow them whole.

Then, Morgan exploded.

"No. There's no fucking way!" he yelled, his voice echoing off the walls as he pointed at the now dark screen. His eyes were wild with a mix of rage and denial, his entire body trembling with the force of his emotions. "I refuse to believe that just implied what I think it did! It can't! It just..." His voice cracked, the anger giving way to something more painful, something raw and unguarded. He dropped into a chair, burying his face in his hands as if he could somehow block out the truth of what they had just witnessed.

The rest of the team was no better. JJ sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white as she fought to keep herself together. Tears streamed down her face, silent but unrelenting, as she stared at the screen in disbelief. Prentiss looked like she was on the verge of being sick, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock. Rossi's expression was one of grim determination, but even he couldn't hide the horror in his eyes.

Garcia had stopped breathing. Her hands were frozen over the keyboard, her mind unable to process the full weight of what she had just seen. Spencer, her sweet, brilliant Spencer, had been subjected to something so horrific, so vile, that she couldn't comprehend it. She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over, but it was a losing battle.

In the midst of it all, Hotch stood, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out in sharp relief. His eyes were dark, filled with a fury so intense that it seemed to radiate off of him in waves. He had always been able to maintain his composure, to keep his emotions in check for the sake of the team, but this... this was different.

This was personal.

Hotch's voice, when he finally spoke, was low, controlled, but there was a dangerous edge to it that sent a chill through the room. "Valentino Marino is going to pay for what he did to Spencer. I don't care what it takes. I don't care how far we have to go. We will find him.

Morgan lifted his head from his hands, his eyes red-rimmed but filled with the same determination. "We're going to take that son of a bitch down," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "For Spencer."

"For Spencer," Prentiss echoed, her voice trembling with barely suppressed rage.

Rossi nodded, his expression hardening. "We're not going to let him get away with this. Not after everything he's done."

Garcia finally found her voice, though it was shaky and thick with tears. "I'll find him," she whispered, her fingers hovering over the keys. "I'll find anything and everything about him. He won't be able to hide from us."

"This changes everything," Rossi said after a moment, his voice heavy. "This isn't just about Valentino wanting revenge. He wants Spencer back. He wants to reclaim what he thinks is his."

"And he's willing to kill to do it," Hotch added, his expression grim. "Those young men... they were just a means to an end. He's been planning this for years. We need to move fast. He has Spencer, and there's no telling what he might do now that we're closing in on him."

JJ, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, spoke up, her voice small but determined. "We need to be there for Spencer when we find him. He's going to need us more than ever."

The team nodded in agreement, their focus now solely on finding Spencer and bringing Valentino Marino to justice. The shock and horror of what they had just witnessed fueled their determination, hardening their resolve. They couldn't change the past, but they could make damn sure that Valentino would never hurt Spencer—or anyone else—ever again.

Garcia began typing furiously, searching through every database, every connection, every lead she could find. The room buzzed with a newfound energy, the team working as one cohesive unit, driven by a singular goal: to save Spencer Reid.

But beneath the surface, the pain and anger simmered, waiting to be unleashed when the time came. They had seen the darkness that had once consumed their friend, and they would stop at nothing to ensure that it never touched him again.

And somewhere in the city of Las Vegas, Valentino Marino was waiting, confident that he would succeed in bringing his "Angel" back into the darkness.

The team had to find him before it was too late.

Chapter Text

Trigger warning: This chapter is probably one of the darkest and most triggering chapters, please read at your own risk!

The lights of Pride flickered with a garish glow as Spencer, now seventeen, stood on the familiar stage, his body moving to the rhythm of the pounding bass. His makeup was heavier than ever, his skin glowing under layers of powder and shimmer, his lips painted a deep red that matched the tight bodysuit clinging to his frame. The once timid boy had vanished entirely, replaced by the persona Val had meticulously crafted over the past few years. Spencer was gone, buried deep beneath the surface, and in his place stood Angel, a hypersexualized, drug-fueled creation that catered to the whims of the audience and the ever-growing demands of Val.

Angel danced with an intoxicating mix of grace and abandon, his movements sharp and precise yet dripping with a seductive energy that left the crowd breathless. The transformation had been gradual, each performance pushing him further into the depths of this new identity. But what had started as a way to survive, a means to cope with the escalating demands and abuses of Val, had become a full-fledged persona, a shield that Spencer used to protect what little remained of his fractured psyche.

It had been a year and a half since Val's behavior had shifted from subtle manipulation to overt violence. The man who had once been a mentor, a guiding hand in Spencer's life, had grown increasingly volatile. When Spencer messed up a step during practice or on stage, Val's response was swift and brutal. A grip that left bruises, a shove that sent him stumbling, and, more recently, slaps that echoed through the empty studio after hours. Spencer had learned to dance perfectly not out of passion but out of fear—fear of what would happen if he didn't.

But no matter how flawless his performances became, it was never enough to satisfy Val. The praise was rare now, replaced by criticism, threats, and the occasional flash of violence that Spencer had learned to anticipate and avoid when possible. And still, he stayed. He stayed because he had nowhere else to go, because Val had isolated him from everyone who had once cared about him, because the persona of Angel was the only thing that made the pain bearable.

Val had always been driven by money and control, and over time, the seedy underbelly of Pride had become the perfect breeding ground for his ambitions. The nightclub was notorious for its decadent performances and its equally decadent clientele. The crowds were filled with those who had more money than morality, people who were willing to pay top dollar for a glimpse of something—or someone—out of the ordinary. Angel had become that someone.

Val kept a close eye on Spencer's interactions with the club's patrons, especially the wealthier ones who had taken an interest in the young dancer. The offers started subtly at first—compliments on his performance, drinks sent to the dressing room, propositions whispered in his ear after the show. Val had always turned them down, his greed tempered by a line he was unwilling to cross. But that line blurred when the right offer came along.

It happened one night after a particularly lucrative performance. A well-dressed man, older and reeking of expensive cologne, approached Val with a proposition. The man's gaze lingered on Angel as he made his offer, the amount of money enough to make even Val hesitate. Spencer, standing just out of earshot, watched the exchange with a numb detachment. He had seen this before, knew what these men wanted, but Val had always kept them at bay. Tonight was different.

The look in Val's eyes as he considered the offer sent a chill down Spencer's spine. The hesitation was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. Val's eyes flicked to Spencer, then back to the man, and in that moment, Spencer knew—something had changed.

Val agreed.

The arrangement was made quickly, discreetly. Spencer was told to prepare himself, given instructions to meet the man in one of the private rooms after his next performance. Val's voice was cold, clinical, as he laid out the details, as if they were discussing nothing more than a business transaction. And in a way, that's exactly what it was. Spencer was no longer a person in Val's eyes; he was a commodity, something to be bought and sold.

That night, something inside Spencer broke. He had been on the edge for so long, teetering between survival and collapse, but this pushed him over. The boy who had once loved to dance, who had trusted Val, who had believed that his talent could take him anywhere—was gone. In his place stood Angel, a persona forged in the fires of desperation and pain, a mask that Spencer wore to survive.

But the disassociation that had begun as a coping mechanism had become something more. Angel was no longer just a mask; he was a separate entity, a fully formed personality that Spencer retreated into whenever the world became too much to bear. Angel was everything Spencer wasn't—bold, flirtatious, unashamed. He didn't care about boundaries or propriety; he thrived on attention, on the adoration of the crowd, on the drugs that Val had introduced him to as a means of control.

The drugs had started as a way to numb the pain, to make the performances easier, to quiet the thoughts that threatened to tear Spencer apart. But they had quickly become something more, a crutch that Angel leaned on to maintain his façade. Val was more than willing to supply them, knowing that the drugs made Angel easier to manipulate, easier to control. Angel had become dependent on them, and by extension, on Val. It was exactly what Val wanted.

The night Val decided he wanted a taste of Spencer for himself was the night everything changed.

It had been a long, exhausting night of performances. Angel had danced like his life depended on it, drawing the crowd in with every movement, every sultry glance, every note that left his lips. The applause had been deafening, the tips generous, but Angel felt nothing. The drugs coursing through his veins dulled the sensations, made the world around him hazy and surreal. It was only when Val approached him after the show that the fog began to clear, replaced by a creeping sense of dread.

"Angel," Val said, his voice low and possessive, as he cornered Spencer in the dressing room. The door clicked shut behind him, the lock turning with a soft finality that sent a shiver down Spencer's spine.

Spencer turned to face him, a coy smile playing on his lips—Angel's smile, not his. "What can I do for you, boss?" he asked, his voice dripping with the playful flirtation that had become second nature.

Val didn't smile. Instead, he stepped closer, his eyes dark and predatory as he reached out to touch Spencer's face. The gesture was slow, deliberate, his fingers trailing down Spencer's cheek in a way that made his skin crawl. Angel's façade wavered, Spencer's real emotions bubbling to the surface for the first time in months.

"I've done a lot for you, haven't I?" Val continued, his tone silky but with an edge that set off alarm bells in Spencer's mind. "I've made you a star. I've given you everything you could ever want."

Spencer forced the smile to stay on his face, but his heart was pounding in his chest. He had seen this look before, had felt this touch before, but never from Val. Not like this. "Yeah, you've been real good to me," Angel replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Val's hand moved from Spencer's face to his shoulder, then down his arm, his grip tightening as he pulled Spencer closer. "I think it's time you showed me just how grateful you are."

Spencer's breath hitched, the meaning behind Val's words sinking in like a stone in his gut. He tried to pull away, but Val's grip was ironclad, holding him in place.

"Don't play games with me, Angel," Val whispered, his breath hot against Spencer's ear. "You owe me. Everything you have is because of me. And now, I want something in return."

Spencer's mind raced, his thoughts spiraling out of control as he tried to process what was happening. This was Val, the man who had taken him under his wing, who had molded him into the dancer he was today. But this wasn't the Val he had known—this was someone else, someone darker, someone who saw him as nothing more than an object to be used and discarded.

The panic that had been simmering beneath the surface finally broke free, shattering the fragile persona of Angel. Spencer's façade crumbled, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in a way he hadn't been in years.

"Please, don't," Spencer whispered, his voice trembling with fear. "Val, please..."

But Val didn't stop. He didn't even hesitate. He pushed Spencer back against the wall, his hands roaming over his body with a roughness that left no room for doubt. The reality of the situation hit Spencer like a freight train, the weight of it crushing him as he realized there was no escape. He pushed at Val's chest, the adrenaline helping him push him off long enough to run towards the door.

But he wasn't fast enough, he was never fast enough. Val grabbed his arm, pulling him away from his one chance at escape, twisting Spencer's arm painfully. The momentum throwing Spencer into the full body mirror installed into the wall, shattering it and leaving deep gashes down Spencer's forearms as he crumbled to the ground. The shattered glass underneath him cutting into his back and bare legs, grounding him. Val walked toward him, the glass crunching under his red bottom shoes, scratching the paint. Using the little strength he had he twisted his body to face the floor, using his hands to push himself up onto his knees, ignoring the bite of glass. "Val, I'm begging you, please..." He trailed off as he looked up at him, making eye contact with the stranger that has replaced Val he is slapped in the face by the realization that the last little bit of hope and innocence has shattered along side the mirror he's currently laying on.

Val was angry, he didn't care about the damage he was inflicting on his prize possession. His goal was always ownership, and this was the highest form of it. Val reached out and grabbed Spencer, ignoring his begging, kicking and screaming as he drug him towards the couch in the corner of the dressing room. He ignored the blood coating his hands as it ran from the cuts in His Angels arms. He ignored his tears as he pinned the pleading boy down and striped him down to nothing. And unbuckled his belt.

That night, Spencer snapped.

The persona of Angel surged to the forefront, drowning out Spencer's cries, his pleas for mercy. Angel was all that was left, a twisted reflection of the boy Spencer had once been. The fear, the pain, the betrayal—all of it was swallowed by the darkness that had taken root in his soul.

Angel looked up at Val, a wicked smile curling on his lips as he leaned into the touches, playing the role that had been forced upon him. If this was what Val wanted, then this was what he would get. Angel would give it to him, and in doing so, he would take back the control that had been stolen from him, piece by piece.

The world around them faded into a blur of sensation, the details lost in the fog of disassociation. Angel's mind had shifted into a place where pain was pleasure, where every touch, no matter how rough, was just another way to prove his power. He could see the surprise in Val's eyes, the brief flicker of uncertainty as the roles reversed, as Angel became the one in control. But Val was too far gone to stop, too consumed by his own desire to realize that this wasn't Spencer, the boy he had groomed and manipulated. This was someone else entirely.

When it was over, Val lifted himself off of the couch, his breathing heavy, his expression unreadable. Angel watched him dress with cold, calculating eyes, the smirk still playing on his lips as he adjusted the blanket covering him. There was no shame in his posture, no fear, no vulnerability despite the horrifying mix of blood and something worse collecting on the cushion beneath him. Angel had taken over completely, and Spencer was buried so deep that he could no longer feel the pain.

Val's eyes searched Angel's face, looking for something—remorse, guilt, fear—but he found nothing. What he saw instead was a reflection of himself, a monster he had created but could no longer control. For the first time, Val felt a pang of something he hadn't experienced in years: regret.

But that moment passed quickly, swept away by the cold logic of survival. Val had come too far, done too much, to back down now. He had a star on his hands, someone who could make him more money than he had ever dreamed of. Angel was everything he had ever wanted—obedient, alluring, and utterly broken.

The following weeks blurred together in a haze of performances, drugs, and more men being forced on Angel. Angel thrived on the attention, on the power he held over the audience, over the men and women who paid for a moment alone with him. He was the star of Pride, the one everyone wanted, the one who could make or break a night. But even as the crowds grew larger, as the money flowed in, there was a darkness that hung over every performance, a shadow that tainted every interaction.

Val had crossed a line, one that he could never uncross. The violence that had once been reserved for Spencer's mistakes on stage now bled into every aspect of their relationship. Val's temper was quick, his hands even quicker, and Angel learned to navigate the minefield of Val's moods with a precision that bordered on instinct. A wrong word, a wrong move, and the punishment would be swift and brutal.

But the real danger came not from Val, but from the patrons of Pride. Word had spread about Angel, the enigmatic dancer who could entrance an entire room with a single glance. The offers to spend time alone with him grew more frequent, more aggressive, and Val, driven by greed, began to accept them. The first time he agreed, it was for an amount that made even his head spin. Spencer had known it was wrong, had felt the terror clawing at the edges of his mind, but Angel had stepped in, pushing the fear away, taking control.

Angel knew how to play the game, how to keep the patrons interested without giving them too much, how to flirt and tease without ever truly giving in. But some nights, even Angel's control wasn't enough to keep the darkness at bay. The hands that touched him, the eyes that devoured him, were everywhere, leaving no room for escape. Val had promised protection, but that promise had long since been broken, replaced by the cold reality of exploitation.

It was during this time that Val decided Angel needed a bodyguard. The crowds had become too unpredictable, too handsy, and Val couldn't afford for his star to be damaged. That's when Harry entered the picture.

Harry was only a year older than Spencer, but the life he had lived made him seem far older. He had a roughness about him, a hardness that came from growing up in the kind of world where trust was a luxury no one could afford. When Val introduced him to Angel, Harry took one look at the flirtatious, drug-fueled dancer and immediately dismissed him as another spoiled party boy, the kind who thought the world revolved around him.

Angel's constant flirting annoyed Harry to no end. The coy smiles, the suggestive comments, the way Angel's hand would linger on his arm or shoulder—it all grated on his nerves. He didn't understand why Val had hired him to protect someone who seemed more interested in playing games than anything else. Angel was always high, always laughing at things that weren't funny, always pushing boundaries that Harry wasn't comfortable with.

To Harry, Angel was everything wrong with the world of the rich and privileged—a kid who had too much too soon and didn't know what to do with it. He didn't see the brokenness beneath the surface, the shattered pieces of Spencer that Angel was desperately trying to hold together. All he saw was a young man who flirted with danger like it was a game, who used drugs to escape from a reality Harry didn't think was that bad to begin with.

But Angel didn't care what Harry thought. He played his role perfectly, teasing and flirting, acting like nothing in the world mattered but the next high, the next performance, the next thrill. The truth was, Angel couldn't afford to care. Caring was for Spencer, and Spencer was gone.

The first time Harry saw a glimpse of the truth was late one night after a particularly rough performance. The crowd had been rowdy, more aggressive than usual, and despite Harry's best efforts, Angel had come off stage with a bruise blooming on his cheek where one of the patrons had grabbed him too hard. Val was furious, not at the patron, but at Angel for letting it happen.

"Are you trying to ruin me?" Val hissed as they stood in the dressing room, his hand tightening on Angel's arm until the dancer winced. "You think anyone wants to see a damaged product? You're lucky they didn't break your face."

Angel said nothing, his eyes glazed over, the effects of the drugs still keeping him numb. He didn't fight back as Val pushed him against the wall, didn't flinch as the slap landed on the other cheek, didn't react at all. It was like he wasn't even there.

Harry, standing just outside the door, heard everything. He wasn't supposed to be there, wasn't supposed to see Val like that, but something had made him stay, made him listen. When the door finally opened, and Val stormed out, Harry saw Angel standing there, his expression blank, his body sagging against the wall.

For the first time, Harry saw past the persona, past the flirtatious mask that Angel wore so well. He saw the emptiness in Angel's eyes, the way his hands trembled as he reached up to touch the bruise on his cheek. Harry stepped into the room, unsure of what to say, unsure of what to do.

"Angel," he started, his voice hesitant, unsure if he was even allowed to address him directly. "Are you... are you okay?"

Angel looked up at him, and for a brief moment, Spencer was there, staring back at Harry with a look of such profound sadness that it took his breath away. But then, just as quickly, the mask slipped back into place, and Angel smiled, the expression empty and hollow.

"I'm always okay, Harry," Angel replied, his voice light, playful, as if nothing had happened. "Don't worry about me."

But Harry couldn't help but worry. He had seen something real, something vulnerable, and it gnawed at him in a way he didn't like. He wasn't supposed to care. He was just there to protect Angel, to keep him safe from the rowdy crowds and overzealous patrons. But that night, as he watched Angel apply more makeup to cover the bruise, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

The days that followed were filled with more performances, more late nights, more of Angel's relentless flirtation. But now, Harry saw the cracks in the façade, the moments when Angel's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, the way his hands shook after every performance, the way he downed pills like they were candy.

Harry found himself watching Angel more closely, noticing the little things he had missed before. The way Angel would flinch when Val touched him, the way he seemed to withdraw into himself when he thought no one was looking. The way he clung to the drugs like a lifeline, even as they dragged him deeper into the darkness.

One night, after another brutal performance, Harry found Angel in the dressing room, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his legs drawn up to his chest. The makeup was smeared, his hair a mess, and the usually vibrant spark in his eyes was dimmed by the drugs.

"Hey," Harry said quietly as he crouched down next to him. "You okay?"

Angel looked up at him, and for a moment, Spencer was there again, just beneath the surface. "Does it matter?" he asked, his voice a broken whisper. "It's all just a game, right?"

Harry didn't know what to say. He had always seen Angel as this untouchable, larger-than-life persona, but now he was beginning to realize that it was all just a mask, a defense mechanism that was hiding something much darker, much more fragile.

"Maybe it's time to stop playing the game," Harry said, his voice soft, unsure.

Angel laughed, but it was a bitter, hollow sound. "It's too late for that, Harry. This is all I have left."

Harry watched him for a long moment, a knot of guilt and anger forming in his chest. He had hated Angel at first, resented him for his behavior, for his flirtations, for his seeming lack of care about anything. But now, he realized that what he had seen as indifference was actually despair, a desperation to cling to something, anything, that would keep the darkness at bay.

He wanted to help, but he didn't know how. He wasn't supposed to care—he was just the bodyguard, just there to keep Angel safe. But now he knew too much, had seen too much, and he couldn't turn away. Not anymore.

"Val... he's not good for you," Harry said carefully, watching Angel's reaction.

Angel's smile faded, replaced by a look of cold anger. "Val's all I have. He made me who I am."

"He's hurting you," Harry pressed, his voice firm but gentle. "You don't have to stay with him."

Angel shook his head, the anger giving way to something more fragile, more scared. "You don't understand," he whispered. "I can't leave. I'm not... I'm not Spencer anymore. I'm Angel. And Angel belongs to Val."

Harry felt a surge of frustration, a helpless anger that burned in his chest. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to reach the boy who was so deeply buried beneath the persona of Angel. But he couldn't give up, not now.

"Angel, you're not alone," Harry said, his voice firm. "I'm here. I'll help you. We'll figure this out together."

Angel looked at him, and for the first time, there was a glimmer of something in his eyes, something that hadn't been there before. Hope.

But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the familiar mask of indifference. "You're sweet, Harry," Angel said, his voice light and flirtatious once more. "But you can't save me."

Harry didn't respond. He knew that words wouldn't be enough, not now. But he made a silent vow to himself, to Spencer, that he would find a way to help him, to bring him back from the edge.

As they left the dressing room that night, Harry kept a close eye on Angel, watching for any sign that Spencer was still there, still fighting. And for the first time in a long time, he saw it—a flicker of defiance, a spark of life that hadn't been completely extinguished.

It was enough.

Harry didn't know how, but he was determined to help Spencer find his way back, to free him from the chains that Val had wrapped around him so tightly. It would be a long, difficult road, but Harry was ready to walk it with him, no matter how dark it got.

Chapter Text

The room was cold and dark, a stark contrast to the heat that throbbed through Spencer Reid's body. His head pounded with a relentless ache, the pain radiating from the point of impact where he had been struck. When did that happen? He doesn't remember being hit. He tried to move, but the restraints around his wrists and ankles bit into his skin, keeping him bound to the chair he was strapped to. The ropes were tight, expertly tied, leaving no room for escape. Val must've moved him from the cot while he was out, when did he fall asleep?

Spencer's vision was blurry, the edges of his world smeared and indistinct. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his sight, but the haze refused to lift entirely. He was vaguely aware of the faint, rhythmic sound of water dripping somewhere in the background, the occasional creak of old wood, and the low hum of distant machinery.

But above all, he was aware of the presence in the room with him. Valentino Marino. The name echoed in Spencer's mind like a taunt, bringing with it memories he had fought so hard to bury. Memories of a time when he had been vulnerable, naive, and under the control of a man who had taken everything from him.

Slowly, Spencer's vision began to sharpen, and he forced himself to focus on his surroundings. The room was small and bare, with concrete walls and a single, dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. There were no windows, no visible means of escape. It was a place designed to keep someone hidden, to keep them trapped. He was in the same room as before so at least there's that.

And then, there was Valentino.

He was standing just a few feet away, his posture relaxed, one hand in the pocket of his tailored pants. His face was calm, almost serene, as if this was just another day in his life—another day of manipulating and controlling the people around him. But his eyes, those cold, calculating eyes, were fixed on Spencer with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

"Angel," Valentino said softly, the name slipping from his lips like a dark caress. "c'mon now, wake up."

Spencer shuddered at the sound of the name, a name that no longer belonged to him. Valentino had given him that name, had shaped him into the persona of "Angel"—a puppet to be controlled, a dancer to be admired, and, when the time came, something far worse.

But Spencer wasn't Angel anymore. He had escaped that life, had fought his way back to himself with the help of Harry and the police. He had buried Angel deep inside, where he thought Valentino could never reach him again.

Yet here he was, trapped once more in the web of a man who had once had complete power over him.

"You're wasting your time," Spencer croaked, his voice rough from disuse and dehydration. "I already told you, I'm not that person anymore, Valentino. You can't control me."

Valentino's smile was slow, deliberate, as if Spencer's defiance amused him. "You've always been so strong, Angel. Even when you were just a boy, you had a will that intrigued me, drew me to you. But don't mistake your time away for freedom. You never escaped me. You were always mine."

Spencer swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat as Valentino's words washed over him. The years had done little to dull the man's ability to get inside his head, to twist his thoughts until he couldn't tell where they ended and Valentino's began.

But he wouldn't give in. Not this time.

"I'm not yours," Spencer said, his voice firmer now, even as his heart pounded in his chest. "I was never yours. You manipulated me, groomed me, but I broke free. I've spent my life rebuilding myself, becoming someone you can't touch."

Valentino's eyes darkened, his smile fading as he took a step closer. "You're wrong, Angel. You were always mine. From the moment you first stepped into my studio, I knew you were special. You had a light inside you, a beauty that was unmatched. And I nurtured that light, shaped it, made you into something extraordinary."

He reached out, his hand brushing against Spencer's cheek in a gesture that was meant to be tender but felt like ice against his skin. Spencer flinched, the contact sending a shiver down his spine.

"You were my greatest creation," Valentino continued, his voice laced with pride. "And you loved it, didn't you? You loved the attention, the admiration. You loved being the star of the show."

Spencer's stomach turned at the words, the memories they conjured up too vivid, too raw. He had loved dancing, had loved the feeling of losing himself in the music, of becoming someone else on stage. But that love had been tainted by Valentino, twisted into something dark and suffocating.

"I loved dancing," Spencer admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But not the way you made me do it. Not what you turned it into."

Valentino's hand dropped to his side, his expression hardening. "You were always so ungrateful," he said, his tone icy. "I gave you everything, Angel. I gave you a life most people could only dream of. And how did you repay me? By betraying me, by running to the police like a scared little boy."

Spencer's heart pounded in his chest, the fear clawing at the edges of his mind. He remembered that day all too well—the day he had finally broken free, the day he had run to the police with Harry by his side, desperate to escape Valentino's grasp.

"You were hurting me," Spencer said, his voice trembling with the weight of the past. "You were destroying me. I had to get away."

Valentino's eyes flashed with anger, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time. He moved closer, looming over Spencer, his presence oppressive.

"You were mine," Valentino hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "You were supposed to stay with me, to trust me. But instead, you betrayed me. And now... now you'll pay the price for that betrayal."

Spencer felt the panic rising, the old fear creeping back in. He had to stay strong, had to hold on to the knowledge that he was not the same person he had been all those years ago. But it was difficult—so difficult—when the man who had once held him in his thrall was standing so close, his words laced with the same venom that had once poisoned Spencer's mind.

"I'm not your Angel anymore," Spencer said, his voice shaking but resolute. "You can't control me."

Valentino's smile returned, but it was colder now, more predatory. "We'll see about that," he murmured, his hand reaching out to tilt Spencer's chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze. "We have plenty of time to get reacquainted, my dear Angel. And by the time I'm done, you'll remember exactly who you belong to."

Spencer swallowed hard, his throat dry, his heart racing. He knew what Valentino was capable of, knew the lengths he would go to reclaim what he believed was his. But Spencer wasn't a child anymore. He was an FBI agent, a profiler. He had faced down killers, had seen the worst humanity had to offer, and had survived.

He would survive this too.

"You won't win," Spencer said, his voice low but steady. "The team will find me. And when they do, they'll make sure you never hurt anyone again."

Valentino chuckled softly, his fingers tracing a path down Spencer's jawline. "Let them come," he said, his voice dripping with confidence. "By the time they find us, it will be too late. You'll be mine again, Angel. And this time, nothing will take you away from me."

Spencer's heart hammered in his chest, but he refused to let the fear take over. He had to stay strong, had to believe that the team would find him in time. He had to believe that he could fight back, that he could resist Valentino's control.

But as Valentino's hand slid down to rest on his shoulder, squeezing just a little too tightly, Spencer couldn't help but feel the old terror creeping back in, threatening to pull him under.

He had escaped once. He could do it again.

He had to.

As Valentino moved away, heading toward the door, Spencer closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to steady the rapid beat of his heart. He had to think, had to plan. He wasn't going to let Valentino win. Not again.

"You'll remember who you are, Angel," Valentino said as he reached the door, his voice soft, almost tender. "And when you do, you'll come back to me. Just like you always have."

The door closed with a heavy thud, leaving Spencer alone in the darkness once more.

He wouldn't let Valentino break him. He couldn't.

But as the minutes ticked by, and the memories of the past began to swirl around him, Spencer couldn't shake the feeling that the man he had fought so hard to bury—the man he had once been—was clawing his way back to the surface.

And he was terrified of what might happen if that man, Valentino's Angel, won the fight.

Spencer took a deep breath, willing himself to stay focused, to stay present. He wasn't Angel. He was Spencer Reid. He was stronger than this.

But as the darkness closed in around him, it was hard to remember that.

And somewhere in the depths of his mind, the ghost of Angel stirred, waiting for the moment when Spencer would let his guard down, when the walls he had built would finally crumble.

But for now, Spencer fought. Fought to keep the past buried, fought to stay in control.

Chapter Text

Harry walked down the dimly lit hallway of Pride, the thump of bass-heavy music reverberating through the walls. The night had been chaotic as usual, with the crowd pushing up against the stage, their cheers and catcalls growing louder with every provocative move Angel made. Harry had been on high alert, as always, scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. But tonight, something had felt off—an undercurrent of tension that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

As he approached Angel's dressing room, Harry noticed the door was slightly ajar. It was unusual; Angel was meticulous about his privacy, always locking the door behind him, especially after a performance. Harry hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Something in his gut told him to go in, to check on Angel, even though he knew the dancer would likely brush him off with a flirtatious comment or a sarcastic remark.

But as he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the scene before him shattered any expectation of a casual interaction.

Angel—no, Spencer—was sitting in front of the vanity, his back to the door, shoulders slumped in a way that immediately set off alarms in Harry's mind. The usually vibrant makeup that transformed Spencer into Angel was gone, wiped away to reveal the boy underneath—the real boy, the one Harry had only glimpsed in fleeting moments. And what he saw made his blood run cold.

Spencer's face was a canvas of pain. A dark bruise marred his left cheek, the skin swollen and tender from what could only be the forceful impact of a hit. A small, cruel cut sliced across the bruise, a jagged line that told the story of leather gloves connecting with skin. The sight of it was enough to make Harry's chest tighten with a mix of anger and fear.

Spencer's arms rested limply in his lap, his fingers twitching slightly as if trying to find something to hold on to. But what drew Harry's attention next were the bruises—deep, purple marks that wrapped around Spencer's forearms like dark bracelets. The skin was raw in some places, chafed from the pressure of fingers digging in too hard. And then there were the wrists, circled with dark, angry marks, the unmistakable imprint of cuffs—evidence of the cruelty that Spencer had endured at the hands of someone who had seen him not as a person, but as an object.

Harry's breath caught in his throat as he took in the full picture, his mind racing with disbelief and horror. This wasn't the Angel who flirted shamelessly, who danced with wild abandon, who seemed to revel in the attention. This was Spencer—a boy who was broken, bruised, and far more vulnerable than Harry had ever imagined.

"Spencer..." Harry's voice was barely above a whisper, thick with concern as he took a cautious step closer.

Spencer didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He just sat there, staring at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes empty, hollow—like he wasn't really there, like his mind had retreated to some dark corner where the pain couldn't reach him.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest as he approached, unsure of what to do, what to say. The anger that had flared up at the sight of Spencer's injuries was now tempered by a deep, gnawing concern. He had seen bruises on Angel before—small ones, easily hidden under makeup—but this... this was different. This was a boy on the edge of breaking.

"Spencer," Harry said again, more urgently this time, as he crouched down beside him, trying to get a better look at his face. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

The sound of Harry's voice seemed to snap Spencer out of whatever trance he had been in. His eyes flickered with something—fear, maybe, or realization—as he slowly turned to look at Harry. For a moment, he seemed utterly lost, like a child caught in a nightmare with no way out. Then, as if the weight of everything finally became too much to bear, Spencer's carefully constructed mask began to crack.

"No one was supposed to see this," Spencer whispered, his voice trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. "I was supposed to lock the door... I was supposed to keep it together..."

"Hey, it's okay," Harry said quickly, his voice soft and steady as he reached out, gently placing a hand on Spencer's shoulder. "You don't have to hide this from me. You don't have to pretend. Just... talk to me. Please."

The concern in Harry's voice was like a lifeline, something real, something Spencer could grasp onto in the sea of lies and pain that had become his life. The floodgates opened, and the tears that Spencer had held back for so long finally spilled over, streaming down his bruised cheeks as he crumpled, all the strength that had kept him going collapsing under the weight of his reality.

"Val..." Spencer's voice broke as he tried to speak, his hands shaking as he reached up to cover his face, ashamed of the mess he had become. "He's the one who... He hits me, Harry. He says it's my fault, that I'm not good enough, that I deserve it."

Harry felt a wave of rage surge through him at Spencer's words, but he forced it down, focusing instead on being there for Spencer in this moment. "Spencer, that's not true," he said firmly, his hand still on Spencer's shoulder, trying to offer some semblance of comfort. "You don't deserve any of this. None of this is your fault."

Spencer shook his head, his sobs growing more desperate, more raw. "I let it happen. I let him... I let him do this to me. I didn't fight back. I just... I just let it happen..."

The words came out in a rush, a torrent of guilt and self-blame that had been festering inside Spencer for so long that it had begun to eat away at him. Every moment of pain, every bruise, every degrading act—it had all been buried deep, locked away where no one could see. But now, with Harry there, with someone finally seeing the truth, it all came pouring out.

"He... he makes me do things, Harry," Spencer continued, his voice barely more than a whisper as he looked down at the bruises on his wrists, the evidence of the horror he had been subjected to. "Things I don't want to do. With the clients... with him. I tried to say no, I tried, but he... he gets so angry, and I'm scared... I'm so scared..."

Harry's stomach turned as he listened to Spencer's confession, each word slicing through him like a knife. He had known something was wrong—had seen glimpses of the pain Spencer was in—but hearing it laid out so plainly, so heartbreakingly, was almost too much to bear.

"You shouldn't have to go through this," Harry said, his voice thick with emotion as he squeezed Spencer's shoulder, trying to ground him, trying to offer him something solid to hold onto. "We'll figure this out. I won't let him hurt you anymore, I promise."

But Spencer's next words stopped him cold.

"It's too late, Harry," Spencer said, his voice hollow, defeated. "He owns me. I'm not even me anymore. I'm Angel. That's all I am now. That's all I can be."

Harry shook his head fiercely, refusing to accept that. "No. You're Spencer. I know you're still in there. I've seen you. You're not just some persona Val created. You're a person—a real person—and you don't deserve any of this."

Spencer looked at him, his tear-filled eyes searching Harry's face for any sign of doubt, any indication that Harry didn't mean what he was saying. But all he saw was sincerity, a determination that shook him to his core.

"I can't get out," Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. "He'll find me. He'll never let me go..."

"We'll find a way," Harry insisted, his grip on Spencer's shoulder tightening as if to convey just how serious he was. "I don't care what it takes—we'll find a way to get you out of this. But you have to trust me, okay? You have to let me help you."

For a long moment, Spencer just stared at him, his mind a whirl of fear and doubt. But there was something in Harry's voice, something in his eyes, that made Spencer want to believe him. He had spent so long trapped in the nightmare that was his life, so long believing there was no way out. But maybe—just maybe—there was a chance. Maybe Harry could help him. Maybe he didn't have to be Angel forever.

Slowly, hesitantly, Spencer nodded, the movement small but filled with the weight of a decision he wasn't sure he was strong enough to make.

"Okay," Spencer whispered, his voice trembling. "Okay, Harry... I'll trust you."

Harry exhaled a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, relief flooding through him as he gave Spencer's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We'll get through this, Spencer," he promised, his voice steady, unwavering. "We'll get you out. I'm not going to let him hurt you anymore."

Spencer's tears continued to fall, but there was something different in them now—something that felt like hope, fragile and uncertain, but there nonetheless. He didn't know what the future held, didn't know if he would ever truly be free from Val, from the nightmare that had become his life. But for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn't facing it alone.

Harry was there. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to give him the strength to fight back.

Chapter Text

The tension in the conference room was palpable as the team scrambled to find any clue that might lead them to Spencer Reid. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of what they had discovered about his past hanging over them like a storm cloud. They had already seen too much, and the fear of what might be happening to Spencer at that very moment drove them to work with a fevered intensity.

Penelope Garcia was at the center of it all, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she dug deeper into the newly decrypted files. The room was filled with the soft hum of computer fans and the occasional murmur of conversation as the team tried to piece together the puzzle of Spencer's past and how it connected to his current situation.

Garcia's mind was racing as she sifted through the data, her heart aching with every new revelation. The files on Pride were extensive, and now that they had access to them, the information was flowing in faster than she could process it. But she knew that somewhere in this digital mountain of evidence, there was something that would lead them to Spencer.

She focused on the mystery man who had been with Spencer the night he came to the police—the man who had helped him escape Valentino Marino's clutches. The name that kept coming up in the financial records of Pride was Harrison Montgomery. Garcia cross-referenced the payments from the club's account to Montgomery with the surveillance footage from inside the club. As she combed through hours of footage, comparing faces, she finally found what she was looking for.

"There!" she exclaimed, her voice sharp with excitement. "I've got something."

The rest of the team crowded around her as she brought up a series of videos. The footage showed a young Spencer Reid on stage, dressed in one of the provocative outfits they had seen earlier, performing for the club's patrons. But it was the man in the background that caught their attention—a man who was clearly watching over Spencer, his eyes scanning the crowd, always on alert.

"That's Harrison Montgomery," Garcia said, pointing to the man in the video. "He was a bodyguard at Pride. His job was to keep unpaying customers away from Spencer."

They watched as the man—Harry, as Spencer had probably known him—stepped in multiple times, putting himself between Spencer and various club-goers who got too close, too handsy. It was clear that he was protecting Spencer, but there was something more to his demeanor that caught the team's attention.

"In the earlier videos, he looks annoyed," Prentiss observed, her brow furrowed. "Like he's just tolerating Spencer."

"But look at the later ones," Rossi said, leaning closer to the screen. "They're different. He's... protective. Almost like he cares about Spencer."

Garcia nodded, pulling up more footage. "There's a shift in their relationship. At first, he's just doing his job, but later... later, they seem much closer. Friends, maybe even more than that."

Hotch's expression was thoughtful as he watched the interaction between Spencer and Harry in the videos. It was subtle, but the change in their dynamic was undeniable. In the earlier footage, Harry was distant, professional. But in the later videos, there was a softness in his eyes when he looked at Spencer, a gentleness in the way he guided him off the stage, away from the leering eyes of the patrons.

"Harry didn't know the truth at first," Hotch said, more to himself than anyone else. "But he must have found out. He saw what was happening to Spencer and decided to help him."

"That would explain why he was with Spencer when he came to the police," JJ added. "He wasn't just a bodyguard—he was a friend. Maybe even a protector."

Hotch nodded, his decision made. "Garcia, try to contact Harry. If he's still out there, he might have information that could help us. And if we do find Spencer, Harry might be able to help us reach him. Spencer obviously trusted him, and he's been through this kind of situation with him before."

Garcia's fingers flew over the keyboard as she began tracing Harrison Montgomery's current whereabouts. "I'm on it, Hotch. I'll find him."

As Garcia worked, Emily Prentiss sat back in her chair, thinking hard. Something was nagging at her, a thought just out of reach. She replayed the conversations they'd had, the footage they'd seen, and then it hit her.

"Wait," Prentiss said, her voice cutting through the room. "Spencer came to the police, right? This happened back in the 1990s, but even then, they would have had cameras in the interrogation rooms. If Spencer was interviewed when he came in, there might be footage of it somewhere."

Hotch's eyes narrowed, considering the possibility. "You're right. If there's footage, it could give us more insight into what happened, into what Spencer went through and what he told the police."

He turned to the chief, who had been standing quietly in the corner, watching the team work. "Chief Hayes, how far back do your records and interview videos go?"

The chief blinked, clearly not expecting the question. "Uh, probably late 1980s, or early 1990s. We've got archives in the basement. Why do you ask?"

"Do you remember what time of year it was when you saw Spencer at the station?" Hotch asked, his tone urgent.

Chief Hayes furrowed his brow, thinking hard. "It's been a long time, but... I think it was around fall or winter. The weather was cooler. That's all I really remember."

Hotch turned to Prentiss and Morgan, his voice authoritative. "Emily, Derek, I want you to go down to the archives and start looking for any interview footage from that time period. Focus on the fall and winter months. If there's anything there, we need to see it."

Morgan nodded, already on his feet. "We're on it, Hotch."

Prentiss followed, her expression determined. "We'll find it."

The two of them left the room, the urgency of their mission clear in their every movement. The tension in the room remained high, the team's focus unwavering as they continued to search for any clue that might lead them to Spencer.

As they headed down to the archives, Morgan couldn't shake the anger that still burned in his chest. The footage they had seen, the way Spencer had been treated—it was all too much. But he knew that anger wouldn't help them find Spencer. He had to stay focused, had to channel that anger into something productive.

Prentiss seemed to sense his turmoil and gave him a reassuring glance as they stepped into the cold, dimly lit basement. "We'll find him, Derek. We just have to keep pushing."

Morgan nodded, his jaw set. "I know. We will."

They reached the archive room, a musty, cluttered space filled with rows of metal shelves stacked with old tapes, records, and boxes of files. It was a daunting task, but they didn't have time to waste.

"Let's start with the fall of 1997," Prentiss suggested, grabbing a box labeled with the appropriate date. "If the chief's memory is right, that should be around the time Spencer came in."

Morgan nodded and began searching through the boxes, pulling out tapes and files that matched the time frame. They worked in silence, the only sounds the rustling of paper and the occasional clatter of a tape being pulled from a shelf.

After what felt like hours, Prentiss let out a small exclamation. "Got something."

Morgan quickly moved to her side as she held up a tape labeled Interview Room 2, November 1997. The label was faded, but the date was clear.

"This has to be it," Prentiss said, her voice filled with a mix of hope and apprehension. "This might be the interview where Spencer came forward."

Morgan nodded, feeling the same mix of emotions. "Let's get it upstairs. We need to see what's on this tape."

They hurried back to the conference room, where the rest of the team was still hard at work. Hotch looked up as they entered, his eyes immediately locking onto the tape in Prentiss's hand.

"You found something," Hotch said, more a statement than a question.

"We think so," Prentiss replied, setting the tape down in front of Garcia. "It's an interview tape from November 1997. It could be Spencer's interview from when he came to the police."

Garcia didn't waste a second. She quickly set up the tape, her hands steady despite the tension in the room. The screen flickered to life, showing the grainy footage of an old interrogation room. The image was slightly distorted, the sound faint, but it was clear enough.

The camera showed a young Spencer Reid, sitting at a metal table in the stark, cold room. He looked even younger than in the footage from the club—vulnerable, scared, but determined. He had a police station blanket wrapped around his shoulders, black shimmering crystals peaking out from beneath it like a peak into his dark life. Beside him sat a young man, about Spencer's age with a weary expression, clearly uncomfortable but protective. It was Harry.

The team leaned in, their breath held as they watched the footage, knowing that what they were about to see could be the key to understanding everything.

"Here we go," Garcia whispered, hitting play.

The room fell silent as the video began, the sounds of the past filling the present with the haunting echoes of a boy who had once faced the darkness alone. And now, they were about to learn just how deep that darkness went.

Chapter Text

Over the course of six months, Spencer's life became a delicate balancing act between survival and the slow, methodical gathering of evidence against Val. It was a journey fraught with fear, tension, and moments of doubt, but through it all, Harry remained by his side, a steadfast ally in a world that had once seemed hopelessly dark. Their relationship deepened in ways neither of them had anticipated, forged in the fires of shared secrets and a mutual desire for justice.

In the beginning, Spencer had been terrified. The idea of betraying Val, the man who had controlled every aspect of his life for so long, was almost unthinkable. But Harry had been patient, gently coaxing Spencer out of his shell, helping him see that there was a way out, that he didn't have to be trapped forever. It took time, but eventually, Spencer began to trust Harry—truly trust him—enough to take the first steps toward reclaiming his life.

The plan was simple in theory, but complex in execution. Spencer would continue performing at Pride, playing the role of Angel as convincingly as ever, all while collecting whatever evidence he could. Harry would be his eyes and ears, using his position as Spencer's bodyguard to keep Val's suspicions at bay and to gather information from the club's patrons and employees. It was a dangerous game, one that required them to tread carefully, but they both knew it was the only way.

Spencer started small, recording conversations with Val whenever he could, using a hidden microphone Harry had given him. The recordings were subtle at first, just snippets of Val's controlling behavior, his veiled threats, his cruel demands. But as the months went on, Spencer grew bolder, capturing more damning evidence—Val's instructions to lie about his age, his agreements with patrons for private sessions, and, eventually, his admissions of the violence he inflicted on Spencer when things didn't go his way.

Harry, meanwhile, kept a close watch on the club's activities, documenting the comings and goings of the wealthier patrons, noting down names, times, and details of transactions that could later be used as evidence. He even managed to gain the trust of a few of Val's less loyal employees, convincing them to share what they knew in exchange for the promise of protection once everything came to light.

As the weeks turned into months, Spencer and Harry's relationship shifted from one of protector and charge to something deeper, more complex. The initial wariness Harry had felt toward Spencer—the persona of Angel—began to melt away as he saw more and more of the real Spencer beneath the façade. Spencer, in turn, found himself relying on Harry in ways he had never relied on anyone before. Harry became his anchor, his confidant, the one person he could turn to when the weight of what they were doing became too much to bear.

Late at night, after the club had emptied and the lights had dimmed, they would sit together in Spencer's dressing room, whispering about their plans, about the future they hoped to build once Val was out of their lives for good. It was in these quiet moments that Spencer felt the full extent of what they were risking—not just their safety, but the fragile connection they had built, the bond that had grown out of the most unlikely of circumstances.

But through it all, Spencer's resolve only strengthened. He knew what he had to do, knew that this was the only way to free himself from the nightmare that had consumed his life. And with Harry by his side, he believed, for the first time, that he could actually do it.

The turning point came one night after a particularly grueling performance. Val had been in a foul mood, more volatile than usual, and Spencer had borne the brunt of it. He had returned to the dressing room with fresh bruises on his arms and ribs, the result of Val's frustration over a minor mistake in the routine. Harry had found him sitting in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection with a look of grim determination.

"I'm done," Spencer had said quietly, his voice steady despite the pain. "I can't do this anymore. We have enough, don't we?"

Harry had nodded, his expression serious. "We do. We've got more than enough to take to the police. But we need to be careful—Val can't suspect anything."

Spencer had taken a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he turned to face Harry. "Then let's do it. Let's end this."

The plan was set in motion the following day. Harry approached Val with a proposition, one that played perfectly into the older man's greed and arrogance. He told Val that he wanted to take Spencer to his own place for some "private time," framing it as a desire to have Angel all to himself for a night without the prying eyes of the club's patrons. The amount of money he offered was substantial, enough to make Val's eyes light up with interest.

Val had agreed, his smile predatory as he pocketed the cash. "Just make sure you bring him back in one piece," he had said, his tone dripping with condescension. "Angel's my star, after all."

Harry had forced a smile, playing his part to perfection. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of him."

As they left the club that night, Spencer's heart pounded in his chest, the weight of what they were about to do pressing down on him like a physical force. But Harry's presence beside him, the steady reassurance in his eyes, gave Spencer the strength to keep moving forward.

The drive to the Las Vegas police station felt surreal, the city lights blurring past them as they sped down the highway. Spencer sat in the passenger seat, his hands clenched tightly in his lap, his mind racing with a thousand different thoughts. What if the police didn't believe them? What if Val found out before they could get to safety? What if everything they had worked for fell apart at the last moment?

"Hey," Harry's voice broke through the chaos in Spencer's mind, grounding him. "We're going to be okay. We've got everything we need. Val won't be able to hurt you anymore."

Spencer nodded, though the fear still gnawed at him, refusing to let go. But he trusted Harry—trusted him more than anyone else in the world—and that was enough to keep the panic at bay.

When they arrived at the police station, the reality of what they were about to do hit Spencer full force. The building loomed ahead of them, its harsh, fluorescent lights illuminating the night like a beacon. Harry parked the car, turning off the engine before reaching over to give Spencer's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"You ready?" Harry asked, his voice calm, steady.

Spencer took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Yeah... I'm ready."

They walked into the station together, the cool, sterile air a stark contrast to the heat and chaos of Pride. The receptionist at the front desk looked up as they approached, her expression bored and indifferent—until she saw the look in Spencer's eyes, the bruises on his skin. Her demeanor shifted instantly, a flicker of concern crossing her face.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice more attentive now.

"We need to speak with someone about a case of abuse and exploitation," Harry said, his tone firm but respectful. "We have evidence."

The receptionist hesitated for only a moment before nodding and picking up the phone. "Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."

They sat in the waiting area, the minutes stretching out like hours as they waited for the officer to arrive. Spencer could feel his heart racing, his hands shaking slightly despite his best efforts to stay calm. But Harry was there, sitting beside him, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

Finally, a door opened, and a detective stepped out, her sharp gaze softening as she looked at Spencer and Harry. "I'm Detective Morales," she introduced herself, her voice carrying the weight of authority. "You said you have evidence?"

Harry nodded, standing up and gesturing for Spencer to do the same. "We do. It's all here," he said, pulling out a small USB drive from his pocket. "Recordings, documents, everything you need to take down a man named Valentino Marino. He's been exploiting Spencer—abusing him. We need your help to stop him."

Detective Morales studied them for a moment, her expression unreadable, before nodding and motioning for them to follow her. "Come with me. We'll take your statement and go through the evidence."

They were led through the station, Spencer looked around, the officers were looking at him funny but he was used to that. He made eye contact with a young officer who gave him a small smile.

Over the course of the next few hours, Spencer and Harry laid everything out—the years of manipulation, the violence, the exploitation. Spencer recounted every detail he could remember, his voice trembling at times. Harry filled in the gaps, providing context, explaining how they had gathered the evidence, how they had kept it hidden from Val for so long.

Detective Morales listened intently, her expression growing darker with each passing minute. She didn't interrupt, didn't ask any questions until they had finished. When they finally handed over the USB drive, she took it with a grim nod, plugging it into her computer and beginning to review the files.

The silence in the room was heavy as the detective went through the recordings, her eyes narrowing as she listened to Val's voice, his commands, his threats. When she reached the footage of Spencer's bruises, the evidence of the abuse he had suffered, Detective Morales's expression hardened, a flash of anger crossing her face.

"This is enough," Morales finally said, her voice tight with controlled anger. "This is more than enough to take him down. You did the right thing coming here. We'll take it from here."

Spencer felt a wave of relief wash over him, his body sagging in the chair as the tension that had been building for months began to ebb away. It was over. They had done it. Val would finally be stopped.

"What happens now?" Harry asked, his tone steady but edged with concern.

"We'll issue a warrant for Valentino Marino arrest," Morales explained, her voice firm. "We'll need you both to testify, but with the evidence you've provided, we should be able to build a strong case against him. He won't be able to hurt anyone else—not after this. Since you're a minor and there are photos and videos of you on the internet, as well as people knowing youre name."

Spencer nodded, the reality of what they had just done sinking in. It wasn't over yet—there would be trials, testimonies, possibly more threats from Val's associates—but for the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe.

As they left the police station that night, Spencer looked up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the haze of the city lights. Harry walked beside him, his hand resting lightly on Spencer's back, guiding him toward the car.

"You did it," Harry said quietly as they reached the car. "You were brave, Spencer. I'm proud of you."

Spencer smiled faintly, exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Harry shook his head. "You did this. You found the strength to fight back, to take control. I just helped."

Spencer looked at Harry, the warmth of his words sinking in, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope—real hope—for the future.

As they drove away from the station, Spencer knew that the road ahead wouldn't be easy. There would be challenges, setbacks, and scars that might never fully heal. But he wasn't alone anymore. He had Harry, and together, they had taken the first step toward a life free from the shadows of Val's control.

And that was enough to give him the strength to keep moving forward.

Chapter Text

The room was as cold and sterile, its harsh fluorescent lighting doing little to dispel the shadows that clung to the corners. Spencer Reid sat at the metal table, wrapped in a blanket that seemed to swallow his small frame. Beneath it, the black diamond-studded outfit he wore was a grotesque reminder of the world he had been forced into.

His eyes were wide, darting around the room, searching for something—someone—who wasn't there. The female officer seated across from him was trying her best to reach him, her voice soft and kind, but Spencer remained silent, frozen in place. His mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion, the events of the past days—or had it been weeks?—blurring together in a haze of terror and disbelief.

"Spencer," the officer said gently, leaning forward slightly in her chair. "I know you've been through something very difficult, but we're here to help you. We just need you to tell us what happened."

Spencer's gaze flicked toward her for a brief moment, but he quickly looked away, his eyes returning to the door. He was waiting—hoping—that someone would walk through it and make everything okay again. He didn't know how to explain what had happened, didn't know if he could find the words even if he tried. All he knew was that he needed to get out, needed to escape the suffocating weight of the memories that were pressing down on him.

The officer sighed softly, glancing at the two-way mirror that lined one wall of the room. She knew there were others watching from the other side, waiting for her to break through to this frightened boy, but it wasn't working. Spencer was too closed off, too locked inside his own mind. She needed to try something different, something that might help him feel safe enough to talk.

"Spencer," she tried again, keeping her tone as soothing as possible, "you're safe here. No one can hurt you now. Can you tell me about what happened? Can you tell me who did this to you?"

But Spencer's silence remained unbroken, his eyes still fixed on the door, his hands clutching the blanket as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. It was clear that he wasn't going to talk—not like this, not alone.

The officer bit her lip, thinking hard. She had seen this kind of reaction before, in other victims who had been through traumatic experiences. Sometimes, they just needed to see a familiar face, someone they trusted, to feel safe enough to open up. And she had a strong feeling she knew who that someone was for Spencer.

"We're going to take a little break," she said gently, standing up from her chair. "I'll be right back, okay? You just stay here."

Spencer didn't respond, his gaze never leaving the door as the officer quietly exited the room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Spencer alone in the cold, sterile space. The silence was oppressive, the ticking of the wall clock the only sound breaking through the stillness. Spencer's mind raced, his thoughts spiraling into chaos. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to escape the nightmare that was closing in around him.

Minutes passed, though to Spencer it felt like an eternity. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the terror that lurked just beneath the surface. He was waiting, hoping, for something—anything—that would break the silence, that would bring him back to reality.

And then, the door opened again.

This time, when the officer reentered the room, she wasn't alone. Behind her, Spencer's eyes immediately locked onto the figure of Harry as he stepped into the room. Harry was around Spencer's age, maybe a few months older, with dark hair that fell messily into his eyes. His expression was a mix of concern and determination, his eyes immediately finding Spencer's as he entered the room.

The change in Spencer was immediate and profound. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his grip on the blanket loosened. His wide, fearful eyes softened, relief washing over him like a wave. Harry moved quickly to sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched, and Spencer leaned into him, just slightly, as if the contact was the only thing keeping him grounded.

The officer noticed the change as well, her expression softening as she sat back down across from the two boys. "Spencer," she said gently, "I brought Harry in because I thought it might help. It's okay to talk now. You're safe here, and Harry's right here with you."

Spencer hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking to Harry, who gave him a small, reassuring nod. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent communication that spoke of trust and shared experiences. With that reassurance, Spencer took a deep breath, the first real breath he'd taken since entering the room.

"Okay." Spencer whispered, his voice trembling but determined.

The officer nodded encouragingly, her tone calm and patient. "Thank you, Spencer. Whenever you're ready, just start from the beginning."

Spencer swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. He looked down at his lap, at the blanket that still covered the glittering black outfit he was wearing, and took another deep breath. "It started when I was eight," he began, his voice quiet and hesitant. "My mom, she signed me up for dance classes at Marino Dance Academy. It was...normal. Val, he was my teacher."

The officer listened attentively, her expression calm and encouraging. "And did things stay normal, Spencer? Or did something change?"

Spencer's hands tightened around the blanket again, his eyes flicking to Harry before he continued. "It was normal at first. Just... just dancing. I was good at it. Val said I had talent, that I was special. He gave me extra lessons, private lessons. At first, it was... it was fine."

The words came slowly, as if each one was a struggle to release. But Spencer kept talking, the presence of Harry beside him giving him the strength to continue.

"But then... then things started to change. Val started... he started getting closer. The touches... they were different. Not like they were supposed to be. At first, I thought it was just him helping me with the dances. But then..."

Spencer's voice trailed off, his eyes dropping to his lap. He looked so young, so small in that moment, as if the weight of what he was saying was too much for him to bear.

Harry's hand reached out, gently resting on Spencer's arm. It was a simple gesture, but it was enough to keep Spencer grounded, to keep him from slipping back into the darkness of his memories.

"He started saying things," Spencer continued, his voice trembling. "Things that weren't right. He told me I was... mature for my age. That I could handle... things. I trusted him. I didn't... I didn't understand what was happening. He was my teacher, my mentor. I thought he cared about me."

The officer's eyes were filled with sympathy, but she remained calm, her voice steady. "When did you start to realize that something was wrong, Spencer?"

Spencer swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. "It was gradual. The touches... they got worse. He... he started making me wear things. Outfits that were... revealing. I didn't like them, but he said... he said it was part of the performance, that it was necessary."

He paused, his breath hitching as he remembered those early performances. The way the tight, glittering outfit feels against his skin, the way Val designed all of them to ensure they made him feel exposed, vulnerable.

"He said I was special," Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. "He said I had to look the part. That it was what the audience wanted."

The officer leaned forward slightly, her voice gentle. "Spencer, can you tell me about Pride? What happened there?"

Spencer shuddered, the memories of Pride almost too much to bear. But Harry was there, his presence a lifeline, and with that strength, Spencer continued.

"I thought... I thought it was just one performance," Spencer said, his voice shaking. "He... he told me it was just one time, that I'd be done. But then it wasn't just one time. It was every night. He made me dance for them. And... and then it got worse."

"He... he would get angry," Spencer said, his voice barely audible, but the microphone in the room picked up every word. "When I didn't do what he wanted, when I... when I didn't dance the way he wanted, he would... he would grab me. Hard. He'd push me against the wall, or... or pull my hair, or..."

Spencer's voice trailed off, his breath hitching in his chest as the memories overwhelmed him. Harry's hand moved to rest on his arm, and Spencer leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a moment as if to shut out the images in his mind.

"He started... he started doing things," Spencer continued, his voice trembling. "Things that... that weren't right. In private, he would... he would touch me. He said it was part of the training, that it would make me a better dancer, that it was... it was what I had to do to be special."

The team watched in horror as Spencer described the escalating abuse, the way Valentino had twisted his trust and used it to control him, to break him down until there was nothing left but the version of Spencer that Valentino wanted—a puppet, a tool to be used and discarded.

But it didn't stop there.

"He started letting other people..." Spencer's voice broke, and for a moment, it seemed like he wouldn't be able to continue. But Harry's presence gave him the strength he needed, and after a few shaky breaths, Spencer forced the words out. "He started letting other people... touch me. They would... they would pay him, and then he would... he would tell me to go with them. To... to do what they wanted."

The team was frozen in their seats, the horror of what they were hearing sinking in like a stone in their stomachs. This was systematic abuse, trafficking, orchestrated by a man who had once been trusted by a young, vulnerable boy.

Spencer's voice cracked, tears streaming down his face as he described the things that had been done to him, the way he had been treated like a commodity, a possession to be sold to the highest bidder.

The officer remained calm, her voice steady, though there was a visible tension in her posture, a tightening of her jaw as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Spencer," she said softly, "you're doing so well. I know this is hard, but you're so brave for telling us. Can you tell me more about what happened with Val? What he would do when you didn't... when you didn't follow his orders?"

Spencer nodded, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps as he tried to push the words out. "He would... he would hit me. Sometimes... sometimes he would use his hands, but sometimes... he would use other things. A belt, or... or a whip. He said it was... it was because I wasn't being good enough, because I wasn't... I wasn't doing what he wanted. He said it was to make me better, to make me perfect."

The team watched in stunned silence, their hearts breaking as they saw Spencer—a boy who had always been the embodiment of innocence and brilliance—describing the brutal reality he had lived through. Each word was a dagger to their hearts, a wound that they could feel as if it were their own.

"He would lock me in the dressing room," Spencer continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "He said I had to think about what I'd done, about how I had to be better. Sometimes... sometimes he wouldn't let me out for hours. I would... I would just sit there, in the dark, waiting for him to come back. And when he did... he would be even angrier."

Garcia had tears streaming down her face, her hands trembling as she covered her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that threatened to break free. She couldn't bear to hear what Spencer had gone through, couldn't bear to think of him suffering like this, alone and afraid.

Morgan's jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out, his eyes dark with rage. He wanted nothing more than to reach through the screen and tear Valentino Marino apart with his bare hands, to make him pay for every single moment of pain he had inflicted on Spencer.

Prentiss's eyes were fixed on the screen, her hands gripping the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. She felt sick to her stomach, the bile rising in her throat as she listened to Spencer describe the horrors he had endured. She couldn't imagine the strength it had taken for him to survive, to keep going despite everything that had been done to him.

Hotch was the calmest of them all, but even his mask of control was cracking. His eyes were cold, hard, filled with a fury that simmered just beneath the surface. He knew that they had to keep watching, had to hear everything Spencer had to say, but every fiber of his being was screaming for vengeance, for justice.

Rossi was the only one who had lived long enough to have seen this kind of evil before, but that didn't make it any easier. His heart ached for Spencer, for the boy who had been so deeply hurt by someone he should have been able to trust. He knew that they were going to have to do something about this, to make sure that Valentino Marino never had the chance to hurt anyone else ever again.

"He would make me perform," Spencer said, his voice shaking with the effort of holding back tears. "Even when I was hurt, even when I was... when I was bleeding. He said the show had to go on, that it didn't matter how I felt. I had to be perfect. I had to be... Angel."

The word hung in the air, heavy with the weight of everything it represented. At this point the team knew that Valentino had given Spencer that name, had used it to turn him into something he wasn't—a performer, a commodity, a tool to be used and discarded.

But they also knew that Spencer had fought back, had escaped, had found the strength to come forward and tell the truth, even when it had seemed impossible. He had found a way to survive, to keep going, to rebuild himself piece by piece.

And they were determined to do whatever it took to help him, to make sure that he never had to face that darkness again.

The officer's voice was soft, filled with a mix of compassion and anger. "Spencer," she said gently, "you're so brave for telling us all of this. I know it's hard, but you've done the right thing. We're going to help you. We're going to make sure that Valentino can never hurt you—or anyone else—ever again."

Spencer nodded, tears streaming down his face as he leaned into Harry, who wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. The sight of the two boys—one so broken, both so strong—was almost too much for the team to bear.

The officer paused, giving Spencer a moment to collect himself before she asked the next question. "Spencer, can you tell me more about Harry? How did he fit into all of this? How did you two meet?"

Spencer took a deep breath, his voice still trembling but more steady now that he had Harry's support. "Harry was... he was hired to protect me. At first, I didn't know why he was there. I thought he was just another... another person who was going to hurt me. But he didn't. He... he saw what was happening, and he... he tried to stop it. He... he helped me."

The team watched as Spencer described how Harry had been hired as a bodyguard, tasked with keeping the club's patrons from getting too close to Spencer. But as time went on, it became clear that Harry wasn't just there to keep the unpaying customers at bay—he was there to protect Spencer from something much worse.

"I didn't trust him at first, and he didn't like me either," Spencer admitted, his voice soft. "But... but after a while he was different. He didn't look at me the way the others did. He... he cared. He would... he would talk to me, make sure I was okay. And when Val wasn't around, he... he would try to help me, to get me out of there. But Val always... always knew. He always found out."

The officer nodded, her eyes filled with a deep sadness. "Harry was trying to protect you," she said gently. "And it sounds like he did everything he could to keep you safe."

Spencer nodded, his voice trembling as he continued. "He did. He... he saved me. He was the one who... who helped me get away, who helped me come here. If it wasn't for him... I don't think I would have made it."

The team watched in silence as Spencer leaned into Harry, his small frame, much too small for a nearly 18 year old boy, shaking with the weight of everything he had just shared. Harry's arm tightened around him, pulling him close, offering silent comfort.

It was clear that Harry had been Spencer's protector, his guardian in the darkest moments of his life. And now, as they sat in that interrogation room, it was clear that the bond between them had only grown stronger—that Harry was still, even now, the one person Spencer could rely on.

The officer gave Spencer a small, encouraging smile. "Thank you, Spencer. You've been so brave. We're going to make sure you're safe now, okay? We're going to take care of you."

Spencer nodded, the tears still falling as he leaned into Harry's embrace. The team watched in stunned silence, their hearts heavy with the weight of what they had just witnessed.

They had seen a glimpse into the darkest parts of Spencer's past, had heard the truth from his own lips. And now, more than ever, they were determined to find him, to bring him back, and to make sure that Valentino Marino would never have the chance to hurt him—or anyone else—ever again.

Chapter Text

The room was still thick with the heavy silence that had followed the end of the video, a silence filled with the weight of everything the team had just witnessed. They had seen the footage from Pride, had seen the twisted ways in which Spencer had been manipulated and abused, but hearing him speak those horrors aloud during his interview with the police had been different. It was raw, unfiltered, the pain etched into every word. The team had always known that Spencer's past held dark secrets, but they hadn't expected to face them so directly, so personally.

Hotch was the first to break the silence, his voice low and resolute. "We need to focus on finding him. We can't let what we've seen paralyze us. Spencer needs us now more than ever."

The rest of the team nodded in agreement, forcing themselves to push past the shock, to channel their emotions into action. Penelope Garcia, who had been quietly weeping during the video, wiped her eyes and sat up straighter, her fingers already moving to transfer the encrypted files to JJ, Derek, and Hotch's computers. If there was anything in those files that could help them locate Spencer, they were going to find it.

As they searched through the many files a quiet sniffle broke through the tension in the room. They all turned to see Penelope Garcia, her tear-filled eyes fixed on her computer screen, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips.

"What is it, Garcia?" Prentiss asked gently, curious about what had brought that particular expression to their normally effervescent tech analyst.

Garcia sniffed again, wiping away a stray tear before she spoke. "I found something else," she said softly. "Some new videos in another file. They're... different."

She connected her computer to the large TV on the wall, and the screen flickered to life, revealing a video of Spencer. But this wasn't the Spencer they had seen in the previous footage, trapped in a glittering costume under harsh lights. This Spencer was sitting on a comfortable-looking bed, soft lighting casting a warm glow behind him. The corner of a bookshelf peeked into the frame, hinting at a more personal, intimate setting.

The team watched in silence as Spencer, still so young, a smudge of eyeliner under his eye as if he missed a spot while washing the rest of it off earlier, adjusted a guitar in his lap. He was bruised—faint marks marring the skin of his arms—but there was a calmness in his demeanor that hadn't been present in the other videos. He lightly strummed the guitar, humming softly to himself, occasionally pausing to write something down in a journal just out of view.

"This must have been during his time at Pride," Garcia murmured, her voice filled with a mix of sadness and awe. "But look at him. He's... he's finding peace, even in the middle of all that chaos."

The video continued, the soft strumming filling the room with a gentle melody. Spencer took a deep breath, and then, with a voice that was both haunting and beautiful, he began to sing.

"I... Want you to know, I'm a mirrorball..."

The team listened, captivated by the sound of Spencer's voice. The song was soft, melancholic, each note laced with emotion. It was clear that this was more than just a song—it was a reflection of how Spencer felt about his life, about everything he had been through.

"I'll get you out on the floor, shimmering beautiful and when I break, it's in a million pieces..."

There was a sadness in the lyrics, a deep vulnerability that struck a chord with everyone in the room. The team remained silent, each of them lost in their thoughts as they listened to Spencer's voice, so full of pain yet so achingly beautiful.

"When no one is around, my dear. You'll find me on my tallest tiptoes, spinning my highest heels, love. Shinin' just for you..."

As the song came to an end a few minutes later, the final notes lingering in the air long after Spencer had stopped singing. The team sat in silence, the weight of the song's meaning settling over them. It was a glimpse into Spencer's soul, into the fragile, broken pieces he had tried so hard to keep hidden.

Without a word, Garcia clicked on the next video in the file. This one showed Spencer at a small keyboard, his fingers moving gracefully over the keys. The song he played was different—darker, with an edge that hinted at anger and betrayal. He sang calmly the first couple minutes, his voice shaking occasionally, but as he reached the end of the song he pressed the keys harder, singing louder, angrier.

"Were you sent by someone, who wanted me dead? Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed? Were you writing a book, were you a sleeper cell spy? In 50 years will this be declassified?"

The lyrics were sharp, pointed, clearly directed at Valentino. The team watched as Spencer's voice wavered, a tear slipping down his cheek as he continued to sing, the pain behind the words palpable.

"And you'll confess why you did it and I'll say 'good riddance' because it wasn't sexy once it wasn't forbidden. I would've died for your sins instead I just died inside and you deserve prison, but you won't get time..."

The song ended with Spencer's voice breaking on the last note, the raw emotion leaving the team shaken. It was clear that these songs were Spencer's way of coping, of trying to make sense of the horrors he had endured. Each lyric was a testament to the strength it had taken for him to survive, even as he felt like he was dying inside.

Garcia scrolled through the rest of the videos, each one showing Spencer in various states of introspection—sometimes with a guitar, sometimes at the keyboard, always pouring his heart out through music. The team watched in awe, moved by the raw talent and the depth of emotion in every note.

But then, the tone shifted. Garcia clicked on a video that brought a smile to her lips, a welcome reprieve from the heaviness of the previous footage.

This time, the video was different. Spencer had set up the camera at the end of the stage at Pride, but the club was empty, the lights dimmed to a soft glow. Spencer was wearing sweats and a hoodie, a stark contrast to the glittering outfits he had worn before. He looked comfortable, relaxed, a small smile playing on his lips as he pulled Harry onto the stage.

The two of them were laughing quietly, the sound echoing in the empty club. Spencer had convinced Harry to let him teach him a dance, and the camera captured every moment of their playful interaction.

The team watched as Spencer tried to explain the moves to Harry, who, despite his best efforts, kept tripping over his own feet. Spencer's laughter was infectious, his face lighting up in a way they hadn't seen before. It was clear that, in this moment, he was happy—truly happy, even if just for a brief time.

At one point, Spencer took Harry's hand, trying to guide him through the steps. But Harry tripped again, pulling Spencer down with him, and the two of them collapsed into a pile of hysterical laughter on the stage floor.

The team couldn't help but smile as they watched the scene unfold. It was a moment of pure joy, a reminder that even in the darkest times, there had been light. There had been moments of laughter, of friendship, of something that resembled normalcy.

As the video played on, the team felt a sense of hope stirring within them. They had seen the darkness, but they had also seen the light. And they knew that as long as Spencer could hold on to that light, as long as he had something to fight for, he would survive.

And they would find him. They would bring him back, no matter what it took.

The video ended, and the team sat in silence, each of them lost in their thoughts as they processed what they had just watched. They all looked at one another, now filled with a new determination they dug back into the case.

JJ focused on her screen, scrolling through the dense case report that had been buried in the encrypted file. She skimmed over the details they already knew, her eyes narrowing as she neared the end of the document. There was something there, something that caught her attention. She hesitated for a moment, then called out to the others.

"I think I've found something," JJ said, her voice drawing the team's attention. "It's confirming a lot of what we suspected, but there's more."

The room quieted as JJ began to read aloud from the report. "The encrypted file was full of CIA files and reports because of how deep Valentino's connections went. Spencer's age at the time, combined with the extensive list of clients that paid for Spencer's 'time,' made this a case that the local police couldn't handle alone. They brought in the CIA to help track down all of Valentino's clients and associates who knew about Spencer's age and what was really happening at the club."

The team exchanged glances, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. This was why Spencer had been so deeply protected, why his past had been buried so thoroughly. The CIA had been involved from the beginning, ensuring that Valentino's entire operation was dismantled and that Spencer's role in it was erased from public record.

"Spencer's the reason Valentino was in jail," JJ continued, her voice steady despite the gravity of what she was saying. "He had the courage to come forward, and that's what took Valentino down. The CIA used the list that Harry and Spencer gave them to track down every client who paid for Spencer's time and arrested them, along with any of Valentino's associates who knew what was really going on behind the scenes. They shut down the club and Valentino's dance academy."

The team listened in silence, each of them processing the magnitude of what Spencer had done. He had been so young, so vulnerable, but he had found the strength to stand up against a monster and bring down an entire operation. And yet, despite everything, Valentino had come back. And now he had Spencer once again.

Hotch's voice was firm as he spoke, breaking the somber silence. "We know Valentino is dangerous, but we also know that Spencer is strong. He survived this before, and he'll survive it again. But we need to find him, and we need to do it quickly."

JJ nodded, her eyes scanning the rest of the report. "There's one more thing," she said. "The club was bought by new owners who changed the name, but the dance academy building is still vacant."

The team exchanged looks, the implications of that information sinking in. If Valentino was trying to recreate the past, the dance academy might be the key.

"We need to find that dance academy," he said. "If it's still vacant, it could be where Valentino is keeping Spencer. We need to move, now."

The team nodded in agreement, the weight of their task clear. They had seen the darkness that had shaped Spencer's past, but they had also seen his strength, his resilience. And they would do whatever it took to bring him back to the light.

As they prepared to move out, there was a sense of unity, of shared purpose. They were more than just a team—they were a family. And they would not rest until Spencer was safe in their arms once again.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the small, unassuming office in downtown Las Vegas. Spencer sat in one of the chairs, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, his heart racing despite the calm exterior he tried to maintain. Harry sat beside him, his presence as steady and reassuring as it had been since the day they walked into the Las Vegas police station together. Across from them, Detective Morales and two agents from the CIA—a man and a woman—were seated, their expressions serious but not unkind.

It had been months since Spencer and Harry had handed over the evidence to the police, months since they had set in motion the events that would lead to the takedown of Pride and everyone involved in the exploitation and abuse Spencer had suffered. The journey to this point had been long and difficult, filled with moments of doubt and fear, but now, as Spencer sat in that small office, he felt something he hadn't felt in years—a sense of closure.

"We've reviewed everything you've provided," the CIA agent, a woman named Agent Harper, began, her tone professional but gentle. "Thanks to your courage, Spencer, we were able to build a strong case against Valentino Marino and the others involved in Pride. The club has been shut down, and everyone who knew about your real age or participated in the exploitation has been arrested or is currently under investigation."

Spencer nodded, the information sinking in slowly, like a stone dropping into a still pond. It was over. Pride was no more, and Val was finally facing the consequences of his actions. But even as the relief washed over him, a part of Spencer couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow—sorrow for the boy he had been, for the dreams that had been twisted and corrupted by Val's manipulation.

"What about Val?" Spencer asked quietly, his voice steady despite the tumult of emotions churning inside him.

Detective Morales exchanged a glance with Agent Harper before answering. "Valentino Marino has been arrested and is awaiting trial. Given the evidence we have, along with the testimonies of others who were victimized, we're confident he'll be convicted. His dance studio has been permanently shut down, and we're working to ensure that he never has the chance to harm anyone else again."

Spencer swallowed hard, nodding slowly as he processed the detective's words. Val's studio, the place that had once felt like a second home, was now gone—a casualty of the darkness that had festered within its walls. It was a bittersweet victory, but Spencer knew it was necessary. The studio had become a prison, a place where dreams were twisted into nightmares. Its closure was a small but significant step toward healing.

"There's more," Agent Harper added, her voice taking on a tone of careful deliberation. "We've taken steps to ensure that your involvement in Pride, along with any details about your time there, has been completely erased from the internet. Any traces that could connect you to the club have been wiped clean. Additionally, everyone involved, including those who were aware of your age or paid Val for access to you, has been required to sign strict non-disclosure agreements. These contracts legally bind them to keep quiet about everything related to Pride and your involvement. If anyone breaks those terms, they will face severe legal consequences."

Spencer blinked, the weight of her words slowly sinking in. The idea that his past, the horrors he had endured, could be erased from public knowledge was almost too good to be true. For so long, he had feared that the shadows of Pride would follow him, tainting any chance he had at a future. But now, with the CIA's help, that fear was being put to rest.

"You're telling me... it's really gone?" Spencer asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "No one will ever know what happened?"

Agent Harper nodded, her expression softening. "That's right, Spencer. We've done everything in our power to protect you. The goal is to give you the chance to start over, to have the future you deserve without the burden of your past weighing you down."

Spencer let out a shaky breath, the tension he had been carrying for so long beginning to ease. It was over. Truly over. The future was his to shape, free from the chains of his past.

"What happens now?" Harry asked, his voice steady as he placed a reassuring hand on Spencer's knee.

"Now, it's up to Spencer," Detective Morales replied, his tone respectful. "You've been through more than anyone should ever have to endure, and you've come out the other side. Whatever you choose to do next, we'll support you in any way we can."

The room fell silent as Spencer absorbed their words, the enormity of the situation pressing down on him. He had spent so many years under Val's control, so many nights wondering if he would ever be free. And now that freedom was finally within his grasp, it felt almost unreal. For the first time in a long time, Spencer had a choice—a real choice—about his future.

With the weight of the past lifting, Spencer found himself reflecting on everything that had led him to this point. The manipulation, the abuse, the exploitation—it had all left scars, both physical and emotional. But with Harry's support and the help of a compassionate therapist, Spencer had begun the difficult process of healing. It wasn't easy. There were days when the memories were too much to bear, when the trauma threatened to pull him under. But each day, with Harry by his side, Spencer found the strength to keep going, to keep fighting for the life he wanted.

Their relationship had grown deeper over those months, evolving from a bond forged in crisis to something more profound. Harry had become more than just a protector—he was a friend, a confidant, and someone Spencer trusted with his heart.

Spencer took a deep breath, his mind made up. He looked at Detective Morales and Agent Harper, his voice steady as he spoke. "I want to move forward. I want to rebuild my life, to focus on my future. But I don't want to forget what happened. I want to remember so I can help others who might be going through the same thing."

Agent Harper smiled softly, nodding in understanding. "That's a brave decision, Spencer. And if that's what you want, we'll do everything we can to support you."

"There are organizations, support groups, and resources that could use someone like you," Detective Morales added. "You've been through hell and back, and your story could help others find the strength to fight back, just like you did."

Spencer felt a warmth spread through him at their words. For so long, he had been defined by the pain he endured, by the persona of Angel that had been forced upon him. But now, he had the chance to redefine himself, to take the experiences that had nearly destroyed him and turn them into something meaningful, something that could make a difference.

"I want to help," Spencer said firmly, his resolve solidifying. "I want to be there for people who need it. And I want to make sure no one else has to go through what I did."

Harry's hand tightened on Spencer's knee, a silent show of support. "You're going to do amazing things, Spencer," he said quietly, pride evident in his voice. "I know you will."

Spencer smiled, the first genuine smile he had felt in a long time. It wasn't an easy road ahead, but it was one he was ready to walk. With the shadows of Pride finally behind him, he could see a future filled with possibility, one where he could make a real difference.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of activity. The trial against Val was set to begin, and Spencer's testimony would be crucial in ensuring that Val received the punishment he deserved. The thought of facing Val in court, of speaking out about everything he had endured, was terrifying, but Spencer knew it was necessary. He wouldn't back down, not now. Not after everything they had been through.

Harry was there every step of the way, helping Spencer prepare for the trial, offering comfort and reassurance when the weight of it all became too much. Their bond only grew stronger, a testament to the trust and care that had developed between them. Spencer found solace in their late-night conversations, in the quiet moments where they could just be themselves, free from the fear and pain that had once defined their lives.

When the day of the trial finally arrived, Spencer walked into the courtroom with his head held high. He was nervous, his hands shaking slightly as he took his place on the witness stand, but he knew he wasn't alone. Harry was there in the audience, his eyes locked on Spencer, a silent source of strength and support.

The trial was intense, the evidence overwhelming. Spencer recounted his experiences with a calmness that surprised even him, laying bare the horrors of his time under Val's control. He spoke of the manipulation, the abuse, the exploitation, and the fear that had been his constant companion. He didn't shy away from the truth, didn't downplay the impact of what had been done to him. This was his moment to take back his power, to show Val—and the world—that he was no longer a victim.

Val sat across the courtroom, his once-confident demeanor replaced by a hollow, defeated expression. Spencer didn't look at him, didn't acknowledge his presence. Val was nothing to him now—a shadow of the past that no longer held any power over his life.

When the verdict was finally delivered, the weight that had been pressing down on Spencer for so long finally lifted. Val was found guilty on all charges, his sentence severe enough to ensure that he would never have the chance to hurt anyone else again. The dance studio that had once been a place of both joy and torment was gone, shut down permanently, its legacy tainted by the darkness that had festered within its walls.

As Spencer left the courtroom that day, the sunlight warm on his face, he felt a sense of peace that had eluded him for so long. The future was his now—his to shape, his to build. The shadows of Pride were gone, wiped clean by the efforts of those who had believed in him, who had helped him reclaim his life.

With Harry by his side, Spencer began the process of rebuilding. He threw himself into his therapy sessions, determined to work through the trauma that still lingered, to heal the wounds that Val had inflicted on his body and soul. It was hard work—painful, exhausting—but it was necessary. And with each session, each conversation, Spencer felt himself growing stronger, more confident in who he was and who he wanted to become.

The CIA had kept their promise, erasing any trace of Spencer's connection to Pride from the internet, ensuring that his past wouldn't come back to haunt him. They had also provided him with the resources he needed to move forward and create a new life without shadows.

6 Months Later

Spencer stood in his new apartment, the soft hum of Virginia's evening settling in around him. The room was still sparsely furnished, the boxes stacked in one corner a reminder of the fresh start he was about to embark on. It had been a whirlwind of change over the past few months—moving away from Las Vegas, leaving behind the shadows of Pride, and saying goodbye to Harry, the one person who had been his rock through it all.

After the dust had settled and Val was safely behind bars, Spencer found himself at a crossroads. The thought of what came next had weighed heavily on his mind, the uncertainty of his future both daunting and thrilling. For so long, his life had been dictated by others, by the manipulation and control that Val had exerted over him. But now, with the help of the CIA, the police, and Harry, Spencer had been given a rare gift—a chance to start over, to carve out a life that was truly his own.

The decision to leave Las Vegas hadn't been an easy one. The city had been his home for years, a place filled with memories both good and bad. But it was also a place that held too many reminders of the person he used to be, the person he had been forced to become. Moving to Virginia felt like the right choice, a way to leave the darkness behind and step into the light of a new chapter.

Harry had understood, of course. He had always understood Spencer in ways that no one else ever had. Their goodbye had been painful, more difficult than Spencer had anticipated, but it was also necessary. Harry had become so much more than a friend—he had been Spencer's protector, his confidant, and, in many ways, the person who had saved him from himself. But as much as it hurt to part ways, Spencer knew that this was something he needed to do alone.

"Are you sure about this?" Harry had asked him the night before Spencer left, the two of them standing in the doorway of Spencer's soon-to-be-empty apartment.

Spencer had nodded, though the lump in his throat made it hard to speak. "I need to start fresh," he had said, his voice steady despite the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. "I need to figure out who I am without... without everything that happened. And I think joining the FBI is the right way to do that."

Harry had pulled him into a tight embrace then, holding him close as if trying to memorize the feel of Spencer in his arms. "You're going to do great things, Spencer," he had whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so proud of you."

They had parted with a promise to stay in touch, but both of them knew that this was a new chapter, one that Spencer needed to write on his own. It wasn't goodbye forever, but it was a step that Spencer needed to take alone.

Now, standing in his new apartment, Spencer allowed himself a moment to reflect on how far he had come. The CIA had done more than just wipe his past from the internet—they had given him the tools to build a future, one that wasn't tainted by the shadows of Pride. The decision to join the FBI had come naturally after that. Watching how the agents had worked to bring down Val and his operation, seeing firsthand the impact that their work had on people's lives, Spencer had felt a pull, a calling, that he couldn't ignore.

He wanted to help others the way he had been helped. He wanted to use his experiences, his knowledge, to make a difference, to ensure that no one else had to go through what he did. The FBI offered him that chance, the opportunity to turn his past into something positive, something meaningful.

The process of joining the FBI had been rigorous, but Spencer had thrown himself into it with a determination that surprised even him. The training, the evaluations, the long hours spent studying—he approached it all with a sense of purpose that he hadn't felt in years. It wasn't just about proving something to himself; it was about reclaiming his life, about becoming the person he was always meant to be.

The night before his first day at the FBI, Spencer found himself standing by the window of his apartment, looking out at the city lights twinkling in the distance. Virginia was different from Las Vegas in every way that mattered—quieter, more subdued, a place where he could finally find the peace he had been searching for. He hadn't expected to feel so at home here, but the city had welcomed him with open arms, offering him the fresh start he so desperately needed.

As he stood there, lost in thought, his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He walked over, picking it up to see a message from Harry.

Harry: Thinking of you tonight. Good luck tomorrow. You've got this. Proud of you.

Spencer smiled, warmth spreading through him as he read the message. He typed out a quick reply.

Spencer: Thanks, Harry. I'll keep you updated. Take care of yourself.

It was a simple exchange, but it was enough to remind Spencer that he wasn't truly alone, even if Harry was miles away. Their bond would always be there, a connection that had been forged in the most difficult of circumstances and had emerged stronger for it.

The next morning, Spencer stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the tie on his crisp, new suit. The reflection staring back at him was different from the one he had seen in the mirror all those months ago. The boy who had been trapped in the persona of Angel was gone, replaced by a man who was ready to take control of his life, to make a difference in the world.

As he walked into the FBI headquarters for the first time, the nerves that had been simmering in the background were overshadowed by a sense of determination, of purpose. This was where he was meant to be, where he could use everything he had been through to help others, to ensure that justice was served.

His first day was a whirlwind of introductions, paperwork, and training sessions, but through it all, Spencer felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. This was his new life, his new beginning, and for the first time in years, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

As the day came to an end, Spencer found himself standing outside the headquarters, looking up at the imposing building with a mixture of awe and resolve. This was the start of something new, something that had the potential to be great. And as he walked to his car, the weight of his past finally beginning to lift, Spencer knew that he was ready—ready to embrace the future, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

The shadows of Pride were behind him, and in their place, Spencer saw a future filled with possibility, with purpose, and with the freedom to finally be himself.

It was a future worth fighting for.

And Spencer was ready.

Chapter Text

Spencer Reid sat in the cold, dark room, his body aching from hours of being tied to the unforgiving chair. The only sounds were the faint, rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the distance and the occasional creak of old wood. Valentino had left him alone, the door closing with a heavy thud hours ago, leaving Spencer to grapple with the pain and fear that gnawed at him like a relentless predator.

He had taken the time to assess his condition, forcing himself to stay calm, to think logically despite the terror threatening to overwhelm him. His head pounded with a relentless ache, the result of whatever had struck him when he had been taken. The blow had left him with a concussion—he was sure of that, the dizziness and nausea a constant reminder of the injury. His wrists and ankles were raw, the rope burn growing worse with every slight movement, the rough fibers biting into his skin with each shift. He could feel bruises forming around his throat, the tender skin throbbing from the pressure Valentino had applied earlier.

Spencer knew this knot—Valentino had used it on him many times before. He had spent countless hours struggling against it, trying to find a way out, only to learn that it was impossible to escape without someone untying him. The knot was designed to be inescapable, a physical manifestation of the control Valentino had once held over him. He had known, even then, that he was trapped. And now, years later, he was trapped once more.

The chafing of the ropes, the pounding in his head, the bruises on his throat—each sensation was a reminder of the past, a past he had fought so hard to escape, to bury deep within himself. But now, that past was clawing its way back to the surface, chipping away at the walls he had built around Angel, the persona Valentino had crafted for him.

Spencer could feel Angel stirring, pushing against the barriers he had erected to keep him at bay. With every passing minute, with every pulse of pain, Angel grew stronger, his presence more insistent. Spencer was terrified, knowing that it wouldn't take much for those walls to come crashing down.

He had held Angel at bay for years, had forced him into the darkest corners of his mind, where he couldn't influence or control him. But here, in this room, with Valentino's presence looming over him like a dark cloud, Spencer felt those walls begin to crumble. The fear and pain were too familiar, too potent, and he was losing the strength to keep Angel locked away.

Just as the last vestiges of light from the world outside began to fade, the door creaked open, and Valentino stepped back into the room. Spencer's heart leaped in his chest, a mixture of fear and dread washing over him as Valentino's silhouette filled the doorway.

Valentino didn't speak at first. He stood there, silent, his eyes fixed on Spencer with an intensity that made his skin crawl. There was something predatory in that gaze, something that told Spencer that Valentino was calculating, thinking, deciding what he would do next. His silence was more terrifying than any words could have been.

As Valentino stepped closer, Spencer instinctively tried to pull away, but the back of the chair kept him in place. There was nowhere to go, no escape from the man who had once held complete power over him. Spencer's eyes fluttered closed as Valentino's hand reached out, his touch soft at first, but Spencer knew better than to trust it. Valentino's touch had never remained gentle for long, and this time was no different.

Valentino's fingers brushed lightly against Spencer's cheek, trailing down to his jawline, then to his neck, where they lingered on the bruises he had left earlier. Spencer flinched at the contact, his body tense with anticipation, knowing that this was only the beginning.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you, Angel," Valentino murmured, his voice low and smooth, like a dark lullaby. "I've waited so long to have you back where you belong."

Spencer kept his eyes closed, willing himself to stay strong, to resist the pull of Valentino's words. But it was difficult—so difficult—when every touch, every whispered word was a reminder of the control Valentino had once wielded over him.

Valentino's hands moved with a slow, deliberate precision, tracing over Spencer's arms, his chest, his shoulders. It was as if he were reacquainting himself with a possession he had lost, savoring the return of something he believed was rightfully his.

And then, suddenly, the touches stopped.

Spencer's eyes flew open, his heart pounding in his chest as Valentino walked behind him. He could hear the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet click of a buckle being undone, and then Valentino's hands were on him again, this time trailing down his arms, reaching his bound wrists.

For a moment, Spencer felt a surge of hope as he realized Valentino was untying his hands from the chair. But that hope was short-lived, as Valentino quickly tied Spencer's wrists back together behind his back, leaving him still bound, still trapped.

With his hands freed from the chair, Spencer made a desperate attempt to run, his body lurching forward in a frantic bid for freedom. But Valentino was faster, stronger. He grabbed Spencer with ease, his grip like iron as he yanked him back and threw him onto the hard cot in the corner of the room.

The impact knocked the wind out of Spencer, his vision blurring for a moment as he struggled to catch his breath. He looked up, dazed, as Valentino loomed over him, his expression one of satisfaction, of triumph.

And in that moment, something inside Spencer broke.

He could feel Angel slipping through the cracks, pushing forward with a strength that Spencer had forgotten he possessed. It was like a floodgate had been opened, the persona that Valentino had crafted so carefully rushing back to the surface, overpowering the fragile defenses Spencer had built to keep him locked away.

"No," Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible as he fought to hold on to himself, to keep Angel at bay. "No, no, no..."

But it was too late. Angel was here, fully awakened, fully present.

Valentino's smile widened as he saw the change in Spencer's eyes, the moment when Spencer was no longer the man he had become, but the boy Valentino had shaped and molded into his perfect creation.

"There you are," Valentino purred, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. "My Angel. I knew you hadn't gone far."

Spencer felt himself fading, slipping into the background as Angel took control. It was as if he were watching from a distance, powerless to stop what was happening. Angel was everything Spencer had fought so hard to escape—obedient, submissive, willing to do whatever Valentino asked of him.

And Valentino knew it.

Angel looked up at Valentino, his eyes wide and compliant, a small, shy smile playing on his lips. It was a smile that had once charmed so many, a smile that promised obedience, that promised to be everything Valentino wanted.

Valentino reached down, brushing a strand of hair away from Angel's face. "Welcome back, my dear," he whispered. "I've missed you."

Angel said nothing, just looked up at Valentino with those wide, trusting eyes, the ones that had once hidden so much fear, so much pain. But now, they were blank, devoid of the fight that had once burned so brightly in Spencer's soul.

Spencer, the real Spencer, was trapped inside, watching helplessly as Angel reemerged, as Valentino took back what he believed was his. He wanted to scream, to fight, to claw his way back to the surface, but the walls had crumbled, and Angel was too strong, too ingrained in him to be pushed away again.

Valentino's hand moved down to Angel's cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. "You're home now," he said softly. "And this time, I won't let you go."

Angel nodded, the motion slow and deliberate, a gesture of acceptance, of submission.

And as Valentino crawled fully on top of him, his breath warm against Angel's skin, Spencer felt himself slipping further and further away, his consciousness dimming, his spirit fading into the darkness that had once consumed him.

Valentino had won.

Angel was back.

And Spencer was gone

Chapter Text

The conference room at the Las Vegas Police Department was filled with tension as the members of the BAU prepared to deliver the profile. The officers who had gathered were eager for answers, desperate to understand the man they were hunting and why one of the FBI's own had been taken. Hotch stood at the head of the room, his expression grim but composed, ready to share what they had learned.

"As many of you know," Hotch began, his voice steady and authoritative, "we're dealing with a man named Valentino Marino. He's a former dance instructor who ran a prestigious academy and a nightclub that was shut down years ago. Marino is a manipulative, sadistic individual who preyed on young, vulnerable individuals, exploiting them for his own gain."

Hotch paused, making eye contact with each of the officers, ensuring they understood the gravity of the situation. "One of those individuals was our colleague, Dr. Spencer Reid. Marino manipulated and abused Reid for years, beginning when he was just a child. Reid eventually managed to escape, and it was his bravery that led to Marino's arrest and the dismantling of his operation."

The room was silent, the officers absorbing the information. They had known this case was personal for the BAU, but hearing the details made it even more poignant. They could sense the underlying fury in Hotch's voice, the barely contained anger that simmered beneath the surface.

"Marino has taken Reid because he believes he still owns him," Hotch continued. "In his twisted mind, Reid was his greatest creation, and he's spent years obsessing over getting him back. We believe Marino is holding Reid at the abandoned dance studio where he once taught. It's a place filled with memories for both of them, and Marino is likely using that to his advantage."

One of the officers raised a hand, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Why would he choose the studio? Why not some random place? Wouldn't he know we'd figure it out?"

JJ stepped forward to answer. "The studio is more than just a building to Marino—it's symbolic. It's where he created 'Angel,' the persona he forced Reid to become. By taking Reid back there, he's trying to reclaim what he believes he's lost. It's not just about hiding—it's about control, about breaking Reid down and making him feel like he's never truly escaped."

The officer nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. The rest of the team exchanged glances, the plan clear in their minds. They were going to storm the studio and bring Spencer home, no matter what it took.

Hotch looked around the room, the determination in his eyes reflected in the faces of his team. "Our priority is getting Reid out safely. Marino is dangerous, and he won't hesitate to use Reid against us. But we have to be smart, methodical. We've got officers surrounding the building, snipers on nearby rooftops, and a helicopter overhead. Marino won't be able to escape."

With a final nod, Hotch led the team out of the room, their focus shifting to the task at hand. They donned their FBI vests, checking their guns to ensure they were loaded and ready. The tension was palpable, a quiet intensity that underscored their every move. Deep down, they all wanted to take Valentino down, to make him pay for everything he'd done to Spencer, but they knew they had to stay focused on their main objective: getting Spencer back safely.

They rushed to the SUVs, the lights and sirens blaring as they sped toward the abandoned studio. The red and blue lights reflected off the wet pavement, the rain from earlier that night leaving the desert streets slick and shining. Garcia's voice crackled through their earpieces, guiding them as they navigated the darkened streets.

"Turn left here," Garcia instructed, her voice steady despite the anxiety she was undoubtedly feeling. "The studio is just up ahead. You'll see it on the right."

The SUVs screeched to a halt in front of the run-down building, the team hopping out of the vehicles with guns drawn, officers following close behind. The studio loomed before them, a hulking, decayed structure that had once been beautiful. The large front doors were weathered and worn, the windows shattered by years of neglect and vandalism.

Hotch pointed with two fingers, signaling for the officers to split up and cover the back of the building. The officers moved quickly, circling around the structure to block any potential escape routes. They had the building surrounded, with snipers positioned on nearby rooftops, their scopes trained on any possible exits. A police helicopter hovered above, its spotlight shining down on the decrepit building.

The BAU team approached the large front doors, the air thick with tension. Hotch and Morgan stepped forward, pushing against the heavy doors. The hinges creaked in protest, rusted from years of disuse, but after a few hard shoves, the doors groaned open, revealing the darkness inside.

The team moved in, flashlights mounted on their guns illuminating the lobby. The space was eerie, filled with the remnants of what had once been a grand, bustling place. Couches and chairs were draped with dusty sheets, shattered glass and debris crunching under their feet as they walked. The air was stale, the scent of decay lingering in the corners of the room.

They moved silently, methodically, canvassing the area as they made their way through the building. The officers who had entered from the back met them in the middle, their expressions tense as they continued to sweep the area. They moved through large dance studios, the mirrors on the walls reflecting their flashlight beams back at them. The sight was unsettling, the cracked and dirty mirrors warping their reflections.

As they passed through the different rooms, the team couldn't help but recognize some of the spaces from the videos they had seen—videos of a much younger Spencer, his life stolen from him in these very rooms. The thought made their stomachs turn, the horror of what had happened here only fueling their determination.

They searched every room, every corner, but the building was empty. The sense of dread grew with each passing minute, the realization that they might have been wrong starting to take hold. They had been so sure this was the place, that Valentino would bring Spencer here, to the heart of his past.

It was Rossi who noticed it—a shelf, oddly placed against a wall, slightly askew as if it had been moved recently. He called Morgan over, the two of them pushing the shelf aside to reveal a dark set of stairs leading down into a cold, damp basement.

The walls and steps were made of concrete, a stark contrast to the once-beautiful architecture of the rest of the academy. Water dripped from somewhere in the shadows, the sound echoing off the walls. The basement was different, far more sinister, and it left the team with a sense of foreboding. But there was no time to dwell on it. They were too close to finding Spencer, too close to getting him out of this nightmare.

Without a word, the team began their descent down the stairs, their flashlights piercing the darkness as they moved deeper into the unknown. The air grew colder with each step, the oppressive weight of the building's history pressing down on them.

They didn't know what they would find at the bottom of those stairs, but they knew one thing for certain: they would bring Spencer home. No matter what it took.

And with that determination, they continued down, into the abyss, ready to face whatever awaited them in the darkness.

Chapter Text

The room was silent, save for the faint echoes of water dripping somewhere far away, the rhythmic sound blending into the background like a distant heartbeat. Spencer Reid—no, not Spencer, Angel—lay on the hard cot, his half-naked body shivering slightly in the damp, cold air. The sweatpants Valentino had given him were soft against his skin, a stark contrast to the rough, unforgiving concrete beneath him. Angel's mind was eerily calm, his thoughts quiet and subdued, as if this was where he belonged, as if he had never truly left this place, this life.

Valentino Marino was all he knew, had always been all he knew. Pain was familiar, comforting in a twisted way, like a well-worn blanket wrapped tightly around his soul. Angel found solace in that pain, a sense of peace that he hadn't felt in years. Spencer's voice, once so strong and resilient, was nothing more than a faint whisper now, struggling to break through the thick walls that Angel had constructed around himself.

When the door creaked open, Angel turned his head slightly, his eyes catching the light as it flickered from the hallway into the dim room. Valentino stepped inside, his movements slow, deliberate, as if savoring every second of this reunion. Angel's lips curled into a sly, flirtatious smile, a reflex he hadn't lost even after all these years. He knew what Valentino wanted—he had always known—and he was ready to give it to him, no matter the cost.

Valentino's eyes roved over Angel's body, a predatory glint in his gaze as he approached. In his hands, he held something that made Angel's breath catch—a familiar black leather ensemble that had once been a part of his very identity. His mouth went dry as he recognized it, memories flashing through his mind like a slideshow of torment and twisted affection. Where had Valentino found that? Everything had been taken as evidence years ago, locked away in some cold, sterile room far from where Angel could see it. But now, it was here, in Valentino's hands, and there was no escape.

But escape was the last thing on Angel's mind. As Valentino walked toward him, that predatory smile spreading across his lips, Angel felt an unsettling mixture of dread and anticipation. Spencer screamed from somewhere deep within, his voice echoing against the walls of the prison that had become his mind, but Angel paid him no heed. He knew what Valentino was going to make him do, and he would do it. He had to.

Valentino set the outfit down on a chair in the middle of the room, each piece laid out with care: the leather bodysuit, gloves, boots, collar, the tights he wore underneath, and the specially designed underwear that would make any man look like a Ken doll, even in an outfit as tight as that. The sight of it all made Angel's heart race, a mixture of fear and something darker, something he couldn't quite name.

After placing the items on the chair, Valentino turned and left the room, only to return moments later with a small mirror, a bucket of soapy water, and a makeup bag. He placed the mirror and the bucket on the floor near the cot, then handed the makeup bag to Angel with a quiet, almost affectionate smile.

"Clean yourself up, Angel," Valentino instructed, his voice soft yet commanding. "Make yourself look pretty for me. After all I've done for you, it's the least you can do, right? No one wants to see you looking like this."

Angel nodded obediently, his movements fluid as he accepted the makeup bag. Valentino leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to Angel's forehead, his lips warm against Angel's cool skin.

"I'll be back soon," Valentino murmured, his voice sending a shiver down Angel's spine. And then, thankfully, he was gone, leaving Angel alone to prepare himself.

Angel stood slowly, his legs wobbly beneath him, the concussion still making his movements unsteady. He stripped off the sweatpants, letting them pool on the floor at his feet, and then dipped the rag into the soapy water, squeezing out the excess before he began to clean himself. The soap stung the cuts on his body and face, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the dull ache that had settled deep in his bones.

As the water dripped from his skin, pooling on the cold concrete beneath him, Angel felt a strange sense of relief. It wasn't much, but at least he could feel somewhat clean again, even if the cleansing was only skin-deep.

When he was done, Angel wrapped a towel around his shivering frame, the dampness of the room seeping into his bones. He moved to the small mirror and sat down in front of it, his reflection staring back at him with hollow eyes. Spencer was there, somewhere in that reflection, but Angel couldn't see him. He was hidden away, trapped in the dark corners of Angel's mind, unable to break free.

Angel opened the makeup bag and began to apply the foundation, his hands steady, his movements precise. He knew exactly how much to use, not too heavy, not too little, just enough to create the perfect illusion of natural beauty. The blush came next, then the eyeliner, the mascara, each stroke bringing Angel closer to the image Valentino wanted, the image he had always wanted.

When Angel finished, he stared at himself in the mirror, his face a perfect mask of what Valentino had created. There was no sign of Spencer, no trace of the man he had become. Only Angel remained, beautiful and broken.

With a deep breath, Angel stood and walked over to the chair in the middle of the room. He stared down at the pile of clothes, his fingers trembling as he reached for the underwear. Spencer's voice screamed in the back of his mind, begging him not to do it, not to touch those clothes, not to even look at them. But Angel couldn't hear him, or rather, he chose not to.

He slipped on the specially designed underwear first, the fabric smooth against his skin, erasing any trace of masculinity beneath its tight embrace. The tights came next, the nude Capezio fabric making his legs shimmer as they caught the light. Angel looked at himself, appreciating the way the tights made his legs look long, elegant, otherworldly.

Next came the leather bodysuit, the most familiar piece of the ensemble. It was tighter now than it had been before, but it still fit, molding to his body like a second skin. The days spent with Derek in the gym, the older man pushing him through grueling workouts, had paid off in ways that Spencer could never have imagined. Valentino would undoubtedly appreciate the changes, even if Spencer did not.

Angel cinched the corset at his waist, tightening it just enough to create a smooth, curved, feminine line, completely erasing the hard lines of a grown man who had spent years in the field as an FBI agent. The transformation was startling, the stronger body he had worked so hard to build traveling back in time, transforming into a younger, more vulnerable version of himself.

The gloves followed, black leather pulled over his fingers, adjusted to fit perfectly just below the crook of his elbow. Angel flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar constriction of the material, the way it made every movement feel controlled, deliberate.

Finally, Angel slipped on the boots, the black leather hugging his legs up to just below his knees. It had been years since he had worn heels, but he found his balance easily, the muscle memory coming back as if no time had passed at all.

Just as Angel was reaching for the collar, the door creaked open again. He turned, his eyes meeting Valentino's as the man stepped into the room. Valentino's eyes darkened with desire as he took in the sight before him, his lips parting slightly as he drank in every detail of Angel's transformed appearance.

Valentino noticed the changes in Angel's body, the way the bodysuit clung to his more developed muscles, the way the corset enhanced his waistline, creating a perfect hourglass figure. He clearly approved, his gaze lingering on the curves that had been sculpted through years of training.

Slowly, Valentino walked toward Angel, his eyes never leaving him, his predatory smile growing with each step. When he reached Angel, he didn't speak, didn't have to. His hands moved with a practiced ease, reaching around Angel to pick up the collar from the chair, his body pressing close to Angel's as he did so.

With the collar in hand, Valentino began to circle Angel, his eyes roving over every inch of him, drinking in the sight of his creation returned to him after so long. There was a hunger in Valentino's gaze, a possessiveness that made Angel's skin prickle with both fear and anticipation.

Valentino stopped behind Angel, his breath warm against the back of Angel's neck as he reached around to fasten the collar in place. The symbolism was unmistakable: he owned him. Angel was his, had always been his, and now, with this simple gesture, Valentino was reclaiming what had once been lost.

The buckle clicked into place, the leather tight against Angel's throat, a constant reminder of the control Valentino had over him. Valentino's hands didn't stop there, though. They trailed down Angel's shoulders, his arms, before sliding lower, exploring the curves that had been hidden for so long.

Angel leaned into Valentino's touch, his body responding automatically, knowing his role in this moment. It was a role he had played countless times before, a role that had been ingrained into his very being. Spencer's voice was a distant echo now, fading into the background as Angel took full control.

Valentino's touch was everywhere at once, his hands roaming over Angel's body, possessive. Valentino's hands moved with a slow, deliberate intent, each touch calculated to remind Angel of the control he had once wielded so effortlessly. The leather collar around Angel's neck was tight, a constant, suffocating reminder of his ownership. With each caress, each brush of Valentino's fingers against his skin, Angel felt himself slipping further and further away from the reality he had known for years.

Valentino circled around Angel, his gaze never leaving him, eyes dark and hungry. He had waited so long for this moment, for the chance to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his. And now, with Angel standing before him, dressed in the familiar black leather that had once defined him, Valentino felt the rush of power surge through him.

Angel stood still, his body swaying slightly as he adjusted to the tightness of the bodysuit, the constraints of the leather gloves and boots. He was a vision of perfection, just as Valentino had always intended him to be—pliant, obedient, and willing to do anything to please the man who had created him.

"Look at you," Valentino murmured, his voice low and reverent as he continued to circle Angel, admiring the transformation. "Just as beautiful as I remember. You were always my masterpiece, Angel. And now, you're finally back where you belong."

Angel's lips curled into a small, submissive smile, his eyes dropping to the floor as he nodded in response. This was what he knew, what he had been trained to do. There was no need for words, no need for resistance. Valentino was the only thing that mattered now, and Angel was more than willing to give him anything he wanted.

Valentino's hands reached up to cup Angel's face, his thumbs brushing gently over his cheeks. "I've missed you," he whispered, his voice soft, almost tender. "All these years, I've been searching for you, longing for you. And now, here you are, right back where you belong."

Angel leaned into the touch, his body instinctively craving the contact, the validation that came with it. The years of pain and manipulation had trained him well—he knew how to play his part, how to be the perfect companion, the perfect creation.

"You're mine," Valentino continued, his grip tightening slightly on Angel's face, his eyes narrowing as he looked deep into Angel's soul. "You were always mine, Angel. No one else can have you. No one else can touch you. Do you understand?"

Angel nodded again, the motion slow and deliberate, a gesture of complete submission. "Yes, Val," he whispered, his voice soft and breathy, the words rolling off his tongue as if they had been waiting there all along. "I'm yours."

Valentino smiled, a dark, satisfied smile that sent a shiver down Angel's spine. This was what he had wanted—what he had always wanted. Angel was his, completely and utterly his, and nothing could change that now.

Valentino's hands slid down from Angel's face, trailing along his shoulders and down his arms, before coming to rest on his waist. He pulled Angel closer, his breath warm against Angel's ear as he whispered, "Show me."

Angel's heart raced in his chest, his body reacting automatically to the command. He knew what Valentino wanted, what he expected. He had done it so many times before, back when he was nothing more than a puppet in Valentino's hands. And now, after all these years, he was ready to do it again.

Without a word, Angel began to move, his body flowing into the familiar rhythm of the dance that Valentino had taught him so long ago. The movements were fluid, graceful, every step carefully calculated to please, to entice. The leather bodysuit clung to his skin, restricting his movements just enough to remind him of the control Valentino had over him, the way his entire being had been molded to fit this role.

Valentino watched, his eyes dark with desire as Angel danced for him, the room silent except for the soft shuffling of feet against the cold, concrete floor. There was no music, no sound except for the faint rustle of leather and the quiet, controlled breaths that Angel took with each step. It was a dance of submission, of obedience, and it was exactly what Valentino had been craving.

As Angel moved, his mind drifted further away from the present, sinking deeper into the persona that had been forced upon him. Spencer's voice was gone now, completely silenced, buried beneath the layers of conditioning that Valentino had instilled in him. All that remained was Angel—the perfect creation, the obedient puppet, the one who existed solely to please Valentino.

The dance continued, each movement more fluid and seductive than the last, Angel's body twisting and turning in ways that should have been impossible given the tightness of the leather. But Angel had been trained for this—had been shaped and molded until every part of him knew exactly what to do, how to move, how to bend to Valentino's will.

Valentino's eyes never left Angel, his gaze intense, predatory, as if he were watching a rare and precious creature performing just for him. There was satisfaction in his eyes, a deep, dark satisfaction that came from knowing that he had won—that Angel was his once again, just as he had always been.

When the dance finally came to an end, Angel stood still, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts, his body trembling slightly from the exertion. Valentino stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his hands reaching out to grip Angel's shoulders, pulling him close.

"You haven't lost your touch," Valentino murmured, his voice filled with dark admiration. "You're still as perfect as ever, Angel. My perfect creation."

Angel's head tilted back slightly, his eyes half-closed as he leaned into Valentino's touch. "Thank you, Val," he whispered, the words automatic, devoid of any real emotion. He was a puppet, nothing more, nothing less, and he had learned long ago that this was what he was meant to be.

Valentino's hands roamed over Angel's body, his touch possessive, claiming every inch of him as his own. "You're mine," Valentino whispered again, his voice low and dangerous. "You're mine, and no one will ever take you away from me again."

Angel's heart pounded in his chest, his body reacting to the words, the touch, the presence of the man who had shaped him into what he was. There was no escape, no way out, no way back to the person he had once been. Spencer was gone, locked away in the darkest corners of Angel's mind, and there was no way to bring him back.

As Valentino's hands continued to explore, to claim, to possess, Angel felt himself slipping further and further into the role he had been forced to play. The walls around him were thick, impenetrable, and there was no way out. He was trapped, locked inside his own mind, with no hope of escape.

Valentino's touch grew more insistent, more demanding, and Angel responded automatically, his body moving in ways that had been ingrained in him for years. There was no thought, no resistance, only obedience, only the desire to please, to submit.

And as Valentino's hands continued to move, as his breath grew heavier, as his presence became more overwhelming, Angel knew that he was lost. He was no longer Spencer Reid, the FBI agent, the brilliant mind who had solved countless cases. He was Angel, Valentino's creation, his possession, his puppet.

And there was no way out.

As Valentino leaned in, his lips brushing against Angel's neck, Angel closed his eyes, letting go of the last remnants of who he had once been. He was lost, consumed by the darkness that had always been a part of him, a darkness that had finally taken over completely.

And as Valentino's hands continued to roam, as his breath grew hotter, Angel knew that this was his life now. This was who he was meant to be, who he had always been. And there was no escape.

Valentino had won.

Angel was his.

And Spencer Reid was gone.

Chapter Text

The Team's Perspective

The stairwell was a tight, suffocating space that seemed to draw out the tension with each step the BAU team took. The smell of mildew and damp concrete hung in the air, clinging to their skin like an unwelcome presence. The narrow walls seemed to close in around them, amplifying every breath, every footfall, until the sound of their own movements felt almost too loud, too intrusive. They were on edge—every one of them.

Hotch led the way, his face a mask of steely resolve, but the concern etched in the tight line of his mouth was unmistakable. Behind him, Derek Morgan moved with the taut energy of a man barely holding back his anger, his eyes scanning every shadow, every dark corner. Prentiss and Rossi flanked the rear, their guns drawn, their expressions mirroring the dread that gnawed at their collective gut. They all knew what they might find on the other side of that door, and the thought terrified them.

Hotch's earpiece crackled as Garcia's voice cut through the oppressive silence, fraught with tension. "I've been through every square inch of that building, Hotch, and it's the only place left. He has to be there. Please... find him."

"We will, Garcia," Hotch replied with a calmness he didn't feel. He had to keep it together; they all did. The time for emotion would come later. Now, they had to focus on bringing Spencer home.

Finally, they reached the end of the narrow corridor. The door before them was solid, heavy with the weight of whatever secrets it held. Hotch paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob, feeling the cool metal radiate through his skin. He could feel the team's collective breath hold behind him, each of them bracing for whatever was about to unfold. This was it.

Morgan moved into position beside Hotch, his knuckles white around the grip of his gun. "We get him out of there, Hotch," he whispered, his voice tight with the promise of violence. "No matter what."

Hotch nodded, his resolve hardening. "No matter what."

He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Spencer/Angel's Perspective

Angel lounged on the small cot, his body relaxed in a way that felt eerily natural in the dim, cold room. The leather bodysuit clung to him like a second skin, its tight embrace a comforting reminder of the role he was born to play. His arms were draped casually over his head, his legs crossed at the ankles, a picture of nonchalance that belied the storm brewing within.

The room was shrouded in shadows, the air thick with the scent of mildew and something else—something darker, more sinister. But Angel wasn't afraid. Fear was a distant memory, a relic of a life that no longer mattered. All that mattered now was the man who had made him, who had shaped him into the perfect creation he was always meant to be.

When the door creaked open, Angel's lips curled into a slow, sultry smile, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and anticipation. Valentino stepped into the room, his presence filling the space with a heavy, oppressive energy that Angel welcomed like an old friend.

"Val," Angel purred, his voice dripping with flirtation, "you're back. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

Valentino's eyes swept over Angel's form, lingering on the curves and lines of his body with a dark hunger that sent a thrill through Angel's veins. "I could never forget about you, my Angel," he murmured, his voice smooth as velvet. "You're too perfect to forget."

Angel's smile widened, his eyes half-lidded as he gazed up at Valentino with a look that was both adoring and calculating. "I aim to please."

Valentino moved closer, his gaze predatory, every step deliberate as he closed the distance between them. "You've always been my most obedient student," he said, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Even now, after all these years, you're still mine."

Angel's heart quickened, a shiver of excitement coursing through him at Valentino's words. This was what he lived for—this was who he was. But somewhere deep inside, buried beneath layers of manipulation and pain, Spencer Reid's voice screamed in desperate silence.

"You belong to me," Valentino continued, his hand reaching out to caress Angel's cheek, his touch possessive and firm. "You've always belonged to me, and you always will."

Angel leaned into the touch, his eyes closing as he savored the sensation. "Of course, Val. I'm yours."

Valentino's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. "Good," he whispered, his hand sliding down Angel's neck, tracing the edge of the leather collar that marked him as Val's. "You remember your place."

"I do," Angel whispered, his voice filled with a strange mixture of contentment and resignation. "I remember everything."

Valentino's hand continued to roam, his touch both possessive and calculated, as if reaffirming his control over Angel with every movement. Angel's body responded instinctively, arching into Val's touch, seeking more, wanting to be the perfect puppet he had always been.

"Angel," Valentino said softly, his voice a dark caress. "There's something I need you to do for me."

Angel opened his eyes, gazing up at Valentino with a look of adoration. "Anything," he breathed, his voice a sultry promise.

Valentino's lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. "Good."

The Team's Perspective

The door swung open with a slow, ominous creak, revealing a room that should have been filled with answers but instead offered only more questions. The team flooded inside, their eyes scanning the small, dimly lit space, but what they found left them paralyzed with a sinking sense of dread.

The room was empty.

There was a chair in the middle of the room, and a cot shoved into a corner but Spencer wasn't there. Valentino wasn't there. The room was cold and abandoned, as if the two had simply vanished into thin air.

"Where the hell are they?" Morgan demanded, his voice rising in frustration as he turned in a slow circle, searching for any sign of their missing teammate.

Hotch's composure cracked, his jaw tightening as he scanned the room, his mind racing with possibilities. How could they have been wrong? The door had led to nothing but an empty room, and yet the feeling that they were too late gnawed at him with merciless precision.

JJ felt tears welling in her eyes, the lump in her throat making it hard to breathe. "We were so sure," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We were so sure they were here."

Emily's hand tightened around her gun, her knuckles white as she fought back the tears that threatened to spill. "We have to keep looking," she said, forcing strength into her voice. "They can't have gone far."

Rossi's composure finally broke, the mask of calm he had maintained shattering as he ran a hand through his hair, despair weighing heavily on his shoulders. "We've lost them," he muttered, his voice thick with the realization that they might have missed their only chance.

Morgan, his anger barely contained, slammed his fist against the wall, the sound echoing through the empty space. "Damn it!" he shouted, the frustration and fear boiling over as he struggled to maintain control.

Hotch closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to regain control of the situation. But the sense of failure hung heavy in the air, suffocating them all.

And then, suddenly, their earpieces crackled to life, a new voice cutting through the thick fog of despair. It was the sniper positioned across the road.

"Movement inside the academy," the sniper's voice came through, tight with urgency. "In one of the larger dance studios—north wing."

Hope surged through the team, igniting a new wave of adrenaline. They moved as one, rushing back down the hallway, their footfalls echoing off the cold, damp walls as they retraced their steps to the stairwell. The climb was a blur, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.

As they burst through the stairwell door, they drew their guns, moving swiftly and silently toward the north wing, their flashlights slicing through the darkness. The faint sound of music reached their ears, growing louder as they approached the largest studio in the building.

They didn't pause. They didn't hesitate.

They pushed forward, desperate to find Spencer.

Spencer/Angel's Perspective

The music was soft, a seductive melody that filled the darkened studio with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The moonlight spilled in through the large windows, casting a silvery glow over the room, illuminating the figure draped seductively across the armchair in the center of the space.

Angel lay horizontally across the chair, one leg swinging lazily over the armrest, the other bent at the knee, his body posed with an effortless grace that came from years of practice. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest in time with the music, a coy smile playing on his lips as he waited for Val to return.

He didn't have to wait long.

The sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway made Angel's smile widen, a thrill of anticipation running through him as he imagined Val's reaction to finding him like this. But as the door to the studio creaked open, Angel's gaze lazily shifted toward the intruders.

His smile didn't falter, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes as he recognized the figures standing in the doorway—guns drawn, expressions tense and filled with concern. It was his team.

"Spencer!" Hotch's voice cut through the music, sharp and commanding, but Angel barely reacted. His head fell to the side, a sly smile curving his lips as he gazed at them with a mixture of amusement and pity.

"Spencer's not here, sorry," Angel purred, his voice dripping with genuine sadness, as if he, too, was disappointed by the fact. His eyes glinted with a mischievous light, the tilt of his head a gesture of playful defiance.

The team was taken aback, their hearts sinking as they realized the truth—this wasn't Spencer. This was the twisted creation that Valentino had cultivated over years of manipulation and control. The man draped across the chair, dressed in a tight leather bodysuit that left little to the imagination, was Angel, and Spencer was nowhere to be found.

"Spencer, listen to me," Hotch called out again, his voice firm but laced with desperation. "We're here to bring you home."

Angel's gaze slid lazily over to Hotch, his smile widening slightly as if the idea amused him. "Home?" he echoed, his tone playful. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. This is home, isn't it?"

Morgan's jaw tightened, his frustration growing as he watched the man before him—a man who looked like Spencer but acted like someone else entirely. "Spencer, don't do this. We know you're in there. We know you can fight this."

But Angel only laughed softly, the sound rich and seductive. "Fight what, exactly?" he asked, his voice a sultry drawl. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

The team exchanged uncertain glances, the reality of the situation sinking in like a lead weight. This wasn't going to be easy—getting through to Spencer was going to take more than just words.

Hotch was the first to realize what needed to be done. He locked eyes with Morgan, a silent understanding passing between them before he turned his gaze back to Angel. "Angel," he said, his voice calm, measured, "why don't you tell us more about this place? It seems... important to you."

Angel blinked, the question catching him off guard. "It's... it's where I belong," he replied, but there was a hesitation in his voice, a flicker of something uncertain.

Prentiss stepped forward, her voice gentle but probing. "And what about Spencer? Where does he belong?"

Angel faltered, his smile wavering as he considered the question. "Spencer... Spencer is..." His voice trailed off, his brow furrowing in confusion.

The team exchanged hopeful glances—this was progress, however small. But before they could press further, the music in the room changed, shifting from the soft piano melody to something more seductive, more dangerous. The team's focus snapped to the doorway as a figure emerged from the shadows.

Valentino.

He walked confidently into the studio, his presence commanding as he approached the armchair where Angel lounged. The smirk on his face was one of triumph as he placed his hands on the back of the chair, looking down at Angel with a possessive glint in his eyes.

At Val's entrance, Angel's demeanor shifted immediately. The confusion, the flicker of Spencer that had been so close to the surface, vanished, replaced by the confident, seductive persona of Angel. Spencer was gone again, retreating to the depths of his mind where he couldn't be reached.

Valentino held up a phone, his thumb hovering dangerously over a button on the screen. "You might want to put down the guns," he said, his voice smooth and commanding. "Or else he might..." He trailed off, his eyes flicking to Angel, who mimicked an explosion with his hands, a slow, seductive smile playing on his lips.

The realization hit the team like a freight train—Valentino had rigged the building. The button on the phone was a detonator, and he was willing to take them all down with him, Spencer included.

The team's eyes went wide with fear and anger, their guns lowering as the gravity of the situation settled over them. They couldn't risk a firefight, not with Spencer's life hanging in the balance.

Valentino's smirk widened as he watched them lower their weapons, his arrogance palpable. He walked around the chair, his eyes never leaving the team as Angel stood with a flourish, moving to the back of the chair where Val had just been. Angel's hips swayed as he walked, every movement dripping with confidence, his gaze locked onto the team through half-lidded eyes.

For a brief moment, the team saw why Spencer had drawn such a crowd at Pride, why he had been so popular, why Valentino had been so desperate to keep him. There was a magnetic quality to Angel, a raw, captivating allure that was impossible to ignore.

Valentino sat in the armchair, his legs spread wide, leaning back with the arrogance of a man who believed he had already won. Angel leaned over the back of the armrest, his hands dipping into the collar of Val's shirt, his eyes glinting with a mischievous light.

The team lowered their guns, knowing that brute force wasn't going to save Spencer. They had to outthink Valentino, had to find a way to get Spencer back without triggering the detonator in Val's hand.

"Angel," Hotch said, his voice calm but firm, "if you love Val so much, why did you go to the police back then? If he's everything to you, why would you betray him?"

Valentino's smirk faltered, a flicker of anger crossing his face as the words hit their mark. But Angel's expression didn't change—he stared blankly at the team, as if the question didn't make sense.

Prentiss took a step forward, her voice soft, coaxing. "Angel, if Val loves you so much, why did he hurt you? Why did you need to be saved?"

The words seemed to penetrate the facade, Angel's confident demeanor wavering for the first time. His eyes flickered with something uncertain, something vulnerable.

"You were stronger than this once," Rossi added, his voice calm, steady. "You were strong enough to fight him, to escape him. Spencer was strong enough."

Angel shook his head lightly, as if trying to clear his thoughts, the name "Spencer" sending a ripple of confusion through him.

"He betrayed you before," Morgan said, his voice hard, challenging. "What makes you think he won't do it again? Spencer wasn't loyal to you back then, and neither is Angel."

Valentino's anger flared, his hand tightening around the phone as he shot a glare at Angel, doubt creeping into his eyes. Angel's confident smirk faltered, replaced by a look of uncertainty.

Hotch seized the moment, his voice firm but gentle. "Spencer, you're stronger than this. You don't have to be Angel. You can fight him."

Angel's expression shifted, his brow furrowing in confusion as the team's words started to break through the fog that Valentino had wrapped around him. He straightened, his hand slipping from Val's collar as he took a step back, his eyes locking onto Hotch's with a clarity that hadn't been there before.

But the team didn't let Valentino see the change. They kept their focus on Angel, their words still directed at him, still pushing him to remember who he really was.

"Show us how loyal you are, Angel," Emily said, her voice a calculated mix of challenge and encouragement.

Hotch gave Spencer a meaningful look, a silent plea that they were running out of time, that this was his chance.

Angel's lips curled into a seductive smile, the false persona slipping back into place as he turned to Valentino. "I'd love to," he purred, his voice low and sultry. He began to sway to the music, moving slowly around the armchair, his hips swinging to the beat, drawing Val's attention completely.

Valentino's eyes followed Angel, a smug smile curling his lips as he watched his creation dance for him. His guard lowered, his focus entirely on Angel, his hand holding the phone loose on the armrest.

Angel moved closer, his fingers trailing lightly over Val's shoulders, a seductive smile on his lips. He leaned down, his body pressing against Val's as he whispered something inaudible into his ear. Val's smirk widened, his guard dropping further, lost in the moment.

And then, as the music reached its crescendo, Angel struck.

In a blur of motion, he ripped the phone from Val's hand, leaping out of his lap and sprinting toward the team, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he reached the safety of their protective circle. JJ and Emily moved quickly, positioning themselves in front of him, their guns trained back on Val.

Valentino's face twisted in shock and rage, his eyes narrowing as he realized what had happened. "You... you traitor!" he screamed, his voice filled with venom as he lunged toward Spencer.

But Derek and Hotch were faster, moving in tandem as they overpowered Valentino, forcing him to the ground with a force that knocked the wind out of him. Val struggled, cursing and shouting obscenities at Spencer and the team, but his words were nothing more than desperate, hollow threats.

As Derek cuffed Valentino, reading him his rights with a voice that shook with barely contained fury, the rest of the team turned to Spencer. They gathered around him, their expressions a mixture of relief and concern, their hearts heavy with the knowledge of what he had just endured.

Spencer stood there, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as he tried to steady himself. His hands shook, the reality of the situation crashing down on him with the force of a tidal wave. The leather bodysuit that had once felt like a second skin now felt suffocating, constricting, a reminder of everything he had tried so hard to escape.

The team looked at him with poorly disguised pity, their eyes filled with a sorrow that made Spencer's stomach turn. He had fought so hard to keep Angel at bay, to keep that part of him locked away where it couldn't hurt him anymore. But now, as he stood there in front of his team, exposed and vulnerable, Spencer almost wished he had Angel to hide behind.

For the first time, Spencer was left alone with the raw, unfiltered reality of his past, with no mask to shield him, no persona to protect him. He was Spencer Reid again, and for the first time, he wasn't sure he wanted to be.

As Derek dragged Valentino out of the studio, his curses and threats fading into the distance, the rest of the team closed in around Spencer, their presence a comfort and a burden all at once.

But Spencer couldn't bring himself to look at them. Not yet. Not while the echoes of Angel still rang in his ears.

And as the moonlight streamed in through the broken windows, casting long shadows across the empty studio, Spencer Reid felt more alone than ever.

Chapter Text

The studio was suffocatingly silent in the wake of Valentino's arrest. The only sounds were Spencer's gasping breaths and the distant echoes of the world outside—a world that felt a million miles away. The moonlight that had once cast an eerie glow over the room now seemed to highlight the devastation etched across Spencer's face.

Hotch and the rest of the team could only watch in helpless horror as Spencer began to unravel before their eyes. His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling with increasing rapidity as the weight of everything that had happened began to crash down on him like a tidal wave. The calm, controlled Spencer they knew was gone, replaced by a man on the brink of collapse.

"Spencer," JJ whispered, her voice trembling with fear as she took a cautious step forward. But her words seemed to fall on deaf ears, Spencer's wide, unseeing eyes darting around the room, as if trying to find an escape that didn't exist.

In Spencer's mind, a million thoughts raced at once, all of them tangled and incoherent. The statistic he had once read about the human body generating entirely new skin cells every seven years played on a loop in his mind, taunting him. It had been years—he had been clean, untouched by Val for so long. And now, in just 48 hours, everything had been stripped away. He was back at square one.

He had been so close to being free. So close.

Now, he could feel the phantom weight of Val's hands on his skin, like fresh burns that would never heal. The thought of those hands, those cruel, possessive hands, made his stomach churn, bile rising in his throat. He felt dirty, contaminated, as though every inch of his body had been tainted by Val's touch.

His thoughts spiraled, each one more frantic and disjointed than the last. The panic took hold, tightening its grip around his chest until he could barely breathe. He was hyperventilating, the air in his lungs coming in short, sharp gasps that did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside him.

The team watched in terror as Spencer began to back away, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, until his back hit the wall. With nowhere left to go, he slid down to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Tears streamed down his face, his sobs becoming more desperate with each passing second.

"No, no, no..." The word fell from his lips in a broken, pitiful whisper, repeated over and over again like a prayer to a god who wasn't listening.

And then, the sobs turned into screams—raw, animalistic cries that tore through the team's hearts, leaving them shattered in the wake. Spencer's nails dug into his arms and legs, scratching frantically at his skin, as if trying to tear away the sensation of Val's touch. He clawed at himself with such force that blood began to well up from the gashes, staining his hands red.

"No!" Spencer screamed, his voice cracking with the weight of his anguish. "Get him off me! Get him off me!"

"Spencer, stop!" JJ cried out, rushing toward him, but Emily held her back, her eyes wide with horror as she realized how far gone Spencer was. He couldn't hear them, couldn't see them. He was lost, trapped in the nightmare that had consumed him.

"Hotch, do something!" Morgan shouted, his voice laced with desperation as he watched Spencer tear into his own flesh. "He's hurting himself!"

Hotch's heart broke as he looked at the man he had come to think of as a son, now reduced to a terrified, broken shell. He knew there was only one way to stop this, but the thought of causing Spencer more pain made him hesitate.

But there was no time left to hesitate.

Steeling himself, Hotch took a step forward. Spencer's eyes were shut tight, but it was as if he could sense Hotch's presence, and the terrified young man tried to push himself further into the wall, his sobs growing louder, more desperate.

"Spencer, I'm sorry," Hotch whispered, his voice thick with emotion, knowing what he had to do. Without another moment's hesitation, he rushed forward, closing the distance between them in an instant.

As soon as Hotch's hands touched him, Spencer's reaction was immediate and violent. He thrashed against Hotch's hold, kicking and screaming, his voice hoarse and raw from the hours of crying and shouting. "No! Let me go! Let me go!"

Hotch struggled to keep his grip on Spencer, using all of his strength to pin the young man's arms to his sides to prevent him from doing any more damage to himself. Spencer fought like a wild animal, his body driven purely by the instinct to escape what he thought was Val's grip.

The rest of the team stood frozen, horror etched on their faces as they watched the scene unfold. Derek had thrown Valentino into the back of the nearest cop car and was running back as soon as he heard Spencer's anguished cries. But even he couldn't hide the tears that streamed down his face as he watched Hotch struggle to keep Spencer from tearing himself apart.

"Get a medic!" Rossi shouted, his voice snapping everyone back to reality. The team began shouting for help, their voices blending into a cacophony of desperate pleas. Morgan bolted out of the studio, racing to the front entrance to flag down the medics who had just arrived on the scene.

In the chaos, no one noticed Garcia's voice crackling through their earpieces, her frantic cries for information going unanswered. When she finally realized she wasn't getting through, she broke down, her sobs filling the void left by Spencer's screams.

Finally, the medics arrived, rushing into the room with their equipment. Morgan explained the situation as they knelt beside Hotch and Spencer, one of the medics pulling out a vial of sedative and a syringe.

Spencer's struggles had weakened, but he was still fighting, still trying to get away from the hands he thought were Val's. Hotch held him steady, tears streaming silently down his face as he whispered words of comfort that fell on deaf ears.

The female medic filled the syringe and cautiously approached Spencer. "I'm going to help you, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice soft and calming. She waited for Hotch to hold Spencer still before quickly injecting the sedative into his neck.

The team watched in silence as the sedative took effect, Spencer's thrashing slowing until his body finally went limp in Hotch's arms. The room was eerily quiet, the only sound the ragged breathing of the team as they tried to process what they had just witnessed.

The other medic returned with a stretcher, lowering it to the floor so they could carefully lift Spencer onto it. Hotch gently placed Spencer down, his hands trembling as he pulled away, his shirt and hands sticky with Spencer's blood. The medics strapped Spencer to the stretcher, explaining that the restraints were necessary to prevent further injury to himself and others.

Morgan opened his mouth to protest, but the medics quickly reassured him that it was for everyone's safety. He could only nod, unable to find his voice as he watched them wheel Spencer out of the studio.

The team followed closely behind, their eyes never leaving Spencer's still form. They watched as the medics loaded him into the ambulance, the reality of the situation sinking in with crushing finality.

"If you're coming, get in now," the female medic called out, urgency in her voice.

JJ didn't hesitate. She climbed into the back of the ambulance, her heart breaking at the sight of Spencer lying so still on the stretcher. She couldn't let him out of her sight—not again.

The medic jumped out and slammed the doors shut, running to the front of the ambulance as it roared to life, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The rest of the team watched as it sped away, carrying Spencer off into the night.

Derek stood frozen, his head in his hands as he watched the ambulance disappear down the road. Emily stumbled to the side of the building, throwing up the remnants of yesterday's dinner into a bush, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. Rossi stood with his eyes closed, one hand covering his mouth as if trying to hold back the urge to be sick himself.

Hotch looked down at his once white dress shirt, now stained red with Spencer's blood. His hands were coated in it, the drying blood sticking to his skin like a brand, a reminder of the pain he had just caused. The tears that had fallen silently now dripped onto his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to wipe them away.

Garcia's sobs continued to echo through their earpieces, a heartbreaking reminder of the woman who was miles away, unable to be there for her team, her family.

And then, another siren pierced the night, drawing the team's attention. They looked up in time to see the cop car carrying Valentino drive off, flanked by two other police vehicles. The sight made their hearts race with anger and frustration, each of them silently wishing that Val had given them a reason—just one reason—to pull the trigger.

As the forensic team arrived on the scene, the BAU wasted no time. They rushed to the SUV, knowing they had already spent too much time standing there in shock. Hotch jumped into the driver's seat, waiting only long enough for the doors to slam shut before peeling out of the parking lot, speeding toward the hospital.

"Garcia, get a ride to the hospital," Hotch ordered, his voice tight as he spoke into his earpiece. "We're on our way."

Garcia didn't waste a second. She grabbed her things and sprinted out into the bullpen, demanding a ride from anyone who would listen.

The drive to the hospital was filled with a heavy, suffocating silence, each member of the BAU holding their breath as they prayed—some to a god they didn't believe in—that Spencer would make it through this.

But for the first time, they weren't sure if he was strong enough

Chapter Text

Penelope Garcia practically flew out of the car as it screeched to a stop in front of the hospital. Her mind was a whirl of panic and fear, the only thought driving her forward being Spencer's safety. She rushed through the sliding glass doors, her heart pounding in her chest as she approached the front desk.

"Spencer Reid, I need to see Spencer Reid," she blurted out, her voice tinged with desperation. The woman behind the desk looked up, her expression one of mild concern as she took in Garcia's frantic appearance.

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down," the woman said, her tone professional but firm. "We have procedures—"

"Please," Garcia cut her off, her voice breaking. "He's my friend, he's... he's everything. I need to know he's okay."

The woman hesitated, glancing at her computer before looking back at Garcia. "I can't give you any information unless you're family. I'm sorry."

Garcia felt a wave of helplessness crash over her, her hands shaking as she clutched her laptop bag to her chest. She opened her mouth to plead again, but before she could say anything, the sliding doors opened behind her, and the rest of the team arrived.

Hotch led the way, his stride purposeful as he marched up to the desk, flashing his badge in one swift motion. "Aaron Hotchner, FBI. I need to know the status of Dr. Spencer Reid."

The nurse's demeanor shifted immediately. She took one look at Hotch's bloodstained shirt and grim expression, and her hands flew to her keyboard. After a moment that felt like an eternity, she looked back up at him with a more sympathetic expression.

"They're still running tests on Dr. Reid," she said softly. "It might be a while before we have any updates. Please, make yourselves comfortable in the waiting room. I'll have a doctor come out as soon as there's any news."

Hotch let out a slow, controlled breath, nodding his thanks. "We appreciate it."

He turned to the team, guiding them toward the small waiting room just down the hall. Garcia followed in a daze, her mind struggling to process the nurse's words. Tests. What kind of tests? Her thoughts swirled with anxiety as she took a seat, her eyes flicking between the faces of her teammates.

Hotch addressed the team, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion. "The nurse says they're still running tests on Spencer. We might be here for a while."

The team exchanged knowing looks, the gravity of the situation settling over them like a heavy blanket. They knew what kind of tests were being done. It was procedure in cases like this. But knowing didn't make it any easier.

Garcia's eyes darted between them, her confusion growing. "What kind of tests?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of fear and uncertainty.

No one answered at first. It was Emily who finally spoke, her voice soft and gentle, as if she didn't want to say the words out loud. "They're... they're running a rape kit, Penelope."

Garcia's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening with horror. "No," she whispered, shaking her head as if denying it could make it untrue. "No, not Spencer..."

Derek turned on his heel, pacing back and forth in a futile attempt to burn off the anger and frustration boiling inside him. Emily dropped into one of the uncomfortable chairs, burying her face in her hands, while Rossi sat beside her, rubbing her back in a comforting gesture, though his own expression was no less stricken.

Garcia's gaze followed Derek as he paced, her heart breaking for him, for Spencer, for all of them. She stood and crossed the room, wrapping her arms around Derek in a tight hug. He froze for a moment before his arms came up to hold her, his own tears mingling with hers as they stood there, holding on to each other in the midst of the storm.

Hotch remained standing, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to maintain his composure. His fingers were sticky with Spencer's blood, a constant reminder of how badly things had spiraled out of control. He looked around the room, taking in the sight of his team—his family—falling apart, and for the first time in years, he wasn't sure where to go from here.

It felt like an eternity before JJ finally rounded the corner, her appearance haggard and drained. The team swarmed her, bombarding her with questions, their desperation palpable.

"Do you know anything?" Rossi asked, his voice taut with worry.

"How is he?" Emily added, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

But JJ shook her head, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I don't know any more than you do," she admitted, her voice heavy with guilt. "They took him away as soon as we got here. I've been waiting in another room... they told me to wait until someone came to get me."

The news hit the team like a physical blow, and they all went back to their places, resuming the tense, anxious waiting. JJ leaned against the wall, her head hung low, the weight of the situation pressing down on her.

Hours passed in agonizing silence. The minutes dragged on, each one stretching into eternity. Exhaustion settled over the team like a thick fog, but none of them could find any peace.

JJ and Emily eventually sat down next to each other, leaning on each other for support as they drifted into an uneasy sleep. Rossi sat beside them, his head tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed though sleep eluded him. Derek and Garcia took the couch, her head resting on his shoulder as she finally succumbed to the overwhelming fatigue, her quiet sobs fading into soft, rhythmic breaths. Derek remained awake, his mind racing with thoughts of what he could have done differently, how he could have prevented this.

Hotch sat alone, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his folded hands as he stared unblinking at the doorway, waiting for someone—anyone—to walk through with news.

And finally, someone did.

The door to the waiting room creaked open, and an older woman in a white doctor's coat stepped inside, a file in her hands. She called out Spencer's name, her voice gentle but firm.

Every single person in the room snapped to attention, those who had been asleep now wide awake. They all rushed toward her, crowding around her with wide, expectant eyes.

The doctor looked a little surprised to see so many people, but she quickly composed herself and began to speak. "Dr. Reid is stable," she started, her tone calm and measured. "He's suffering from dehydration and a concussion. His throat is bruised, but there's no permanent damage. He also has some bruising on his waist from the corset we removed, as well as on his arms. The self-inflicted scratches on his arms and legs were quite deep; some required stitches. There may be some scarring, but overall, he should recover physically."

The team listened intently, absorbing each word with a mixture of relief and dread. But they knew there was more—there had to be more.

The doctor took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knew she had to say. "We also conducted a rape kit, which came back positive. We've collected DNA evidence that can be used in court, should it be necessary."

The news hit the team like a sledgehammer, the air being sucked out of the room as they tried to process the enormity of what Spencer had endured. Garcia let out a quiet sob, burying her face in Derek's chest as he tightened his grip around her, his own tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

Hotch swallowed hard, his voice tight as he asked the question on everyone's mind. "Can we see him?"

The doctor nodded, though her expression remained serious. "He's still asleep from the sedative we administered, and he might not wake up for a while. When he does, please be very gentle with him. He's... fragile right now."

They all nodded in understanding, but the doctor wasn't finished. "One more thing. All the doctors on his case are women. When Dr. Reid briefly woke up earlier, he saw a male doctor and... We had to sedate him to prevent him from injuring himself further. Just... be mindful of that when you see him."

Derek frowned, concern etched on his face. "Should we stay out of the room, then? Me, Hotch, and Rossi?"

The doctor shook her head. "Seeing familiar faces might help. But you need to be careful. He's terrified, and anything could trigger another episode. You'll need to tread lightly."

With that, she gave them the room number and walked away, leaving the team to process everything they had just heard.

The team made their way to Spencer's room in silence, each step heavy with the weight of what awaited them. When they reached the door, they noticed that the small window had the curtain drawn, blocking their view inside.

Derek reached for the door handle, but Hotch stopped him, placing a hand on his shoulder. The rest of the team paused, looking to Hotch for guidance.

"Listen to me," Hotch said, his voice low but firm. "Spencer is fragile right now. He's not just scared of Val—he's scared of us too. We know everything about his past now, and he knows we saw him at his worst. The idea of us pitying him, of seeing him differently... it's triggering for him. That's why he didn't ask for help in the first place."

He looked around at each of them, making sure they understood. "When he wakes up, we need to treat him like he's the same old Spencer. We need to remind him that he's still one of us, no matter what."

Garcia nodded, her eyes filled with tears. "I'll keep trying to get ahold of Harry," she said, her voice trembling. "He might be the only person who can really help Spencer right now."

Hotch gave her a small nod of appreciation. "Good. Keep trying."

After ensuring that everyone was on the same page, Hotch reached for the door handle himself. The team held their breath as they watched him turn the knob, the tension in the air so thick it was almost suffocating.

The door creaked open and they stepped inside to the dark room, ready to face whatever awaited them on the other side.

Chapter Text

The room was dark, the air thick with the quiet hum of machines and the steady, rhythmic beeping that echoed like a heartbeat through the small space. The soft glow from the hallway lights seeped through the cracks in the door, casting faint shadows on the walls and floor, but it did little to cut through the gloom that hung over the room like a shroud.

Spencer Reid lay still in the hospital bed, his body dwarfed by the stark white sheets that covered him. His skin was pale, almost translucent, the dark circles under his eyes standing out like bruises against the pallor of his face. His lips were chapped and cracked, a testament to the dehydration and exhaustion that had taken their toll. The black stitches crisscrossed his arms and legs, a stark reminder of the self-inflicted wounds, each one standing out sharply against his fair skin.

His eyebrows were furrowed, even in sleep, as if he was still trapped in the nightmares that had haunted him, unable to escape the horrors that had become his reality. His breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible, and the only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the occasional mechanical hiss of the IV pump delivering fluids to his battered body.

Garcia was the first to move, stepping forward and gently taking Spencer's hand in both of hers. She sat down in the chair on the right side of the bed, her fingers curling around his cold, limp hand as she tried to offer whatever warmth and comfort she could. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to be strong for him.

Emily followed suit, moving to sit on the same side as Garcia. She perched herself on the edge of the bed, her hand resting on the blanket that covered Spencer's calf. She began to rub her thumb back and forth in a soothing motion, her touch light and careful, as if she was afraid of causing him any more pain.

JJ moved to the left side of the bed, standing at the head, her hand reaching out to gently run her fingers through Spencer's hair. The gesture was motherly, protective, as if she could somehow chase away the nightmares with just a touch. She stroked his hair softly, her heart breaking at the sight of her friend—her brother—in such a vulnerable state.

Derek dragged a chair from the corner of the room to the left side of the bed, placing it close enough that he could keep watch over Spencer but far enough that he wouldn't crowd him. He sat down heavily, his hands folded in his lap, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the young man he had always seen as a brother. His chest ached with a mix of guilt and anger, emotions he couldn't quite reconcile as he struggled to understand how they had missed so much.

Hotch stood at the foot of the bed, a few feet away, his posture rigid as he stared at his agent—his friend, the young man he had come to see as a son. His normally stoic expression was marred by the worry and sadness that had etched deep lines into his face. He felt a wave of helplessness wash over him, an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling that he couldn't seem to shake.

Rossi lingered farther back, not wanting to crowd the room or overwhelm Spencer should he wake up. He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the fragile figure in the bed. He felt a deep sense of protectiveness for Spencer, but there was also a profound sadness in knowing how much pain Spencer had endured—pain they hadn't been able to prevent.

The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. It was Derek who finally broke the silence, his voice low and filled with regret.

"I should have known," he said, his eyes never leaving Spencer's face. "I should have done more. Why didn't he trust me enough to tell me?"

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, no one had an answer. It was a question they had all asked themselves, a question that gnawed at them like a persistent, painful itch. They had done everything they could, but it hadn't been enough. Spencer had still suffered—alone, in silence, bearing a burden that should never have been his to carry.

Emily sighed softly, her hand stilling on Spencer's leg as she glanced over at Derek. "He didn't want to be seen differently," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "He didn't want us to see him as anything other than the Spencer we know. He's always preferred to be seen as... innocent, naive, rather than face the truth of what he's been through."

Garcia nodded, her thumb brushing over the back of Spencer's hand as she added, "He's always been the one who tries to protect us from the dark stuff. He's seen so much darkness, and I think... I think he didn't want us to see how much of it had touched him."

There was a heavy pause as they all considered Garcia's words, the truth of them settling over the room like a dark cloud. Spencer had always been the one to see the good in people, the one who tried to maintain some semblance of innocence even in the face of the horrors they encountered daily. But now they knew—now they had seen the darkness that had nearly consumed him.

After a few moments of somber reflection, the conversation shifted to something lighter, a necessary reprieve from the weight of the last 24 hours. They began to talk about Spencer's dancing, about how incredible he had been on stage.

"I always thought he was clumsy," Emily admitted with a small, bittersweet smile. "I guess he just wanted us to think that so we wouldn't question anything."

JJ nodded, her fingers still carding gently through Spencer's hair. "He was... incredible. The way he moved, the confidence he had on stage... It's no wonder he became so popular."

Hotch, who had been silent for most of the conversation, finally spoke up, his voice thoughtful. "He's spent so much time trying to make himself look less desirable. It's a defense mechanism. The trauma of being so sought after, of what happened when people found him attractive... it's overridden the human urge to want to be desired."

The others nodded in agreement, each of them piecing together the puzzle that was Spencer Reid. In the months leading up to all of this, they had noticed his confidence growing. He had started dressing slightly differently, styling his hair in a way that drew more attention. It had all started about a year ago when Hotch had jokingly commented that Spencer looked like he was about to join a boy band.

They realized now that Spencer had been slowly coming out of his shell, finally comfortable enough with himself and the team to want to feel and look good. But now... now they feared he would retreat back into that shell, hiding behind the persona he had carefully crafted to protect himself.

They made a silent promise to each other—and to Spencer—that they would do everything in their power to help him feel comfortable and happy again. They would boost his confidence, remind him of the incredible person he was, and do whatever it took to make sure he knew he was loved.

Garcia, who had reluctantly let go of Spencer's hand to retrieve her laptop, was startled out of her thoughts by a notification. Her eyes widened as she realized that Harry had finally gotten back to her. She quickly set up a call, alerting Hotch and handing the phone over to him.

Hotch took the phone, pressing it to his ear as the call connected. "This is Aaron Hotchner," he began, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I'm with the FBI, Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Before he could continue, Harry interrupted, his voice tight with concern. "I know who you are. Is Spencer okay? How do you know who I am?"

Hotch's eyes flicked to Spencer, who remained still and pale in the bed. "Spencer... isn't doing well," Hotch admitted, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "We know about Valentino. We know about Spencer's past. He's been through a lot in the last 24 hours, and we thought... we thought you might be able to help."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Hotch feared Harry would refuse. But then, finally, Harry spoke again, his voice resolute.

"Where are you? I'll come right away."

"We're in Las Vegas," Hotch replied, relief flooding through him. "I can arrange for our jet to bring you here."

"I'm in New York," Harry said quickly. "Send the jet as soon as possible. I'll be there as soon as I can."

The call ended with Hotch promising to have someone contact Harry with the necessary details. He handed the phone back to Garcia, who immediately began coordinating the logistics to get Harry to Las Vegas.

The team breathed a collective sigh of relief. With Harry here, there was a glimmer of hope that Spencer might actually be okay—that he might finally find some peace.

But just as that relief began to settle, Spencer let out a low groan, his head turning slightly on the pillow. The team froze, their breath catching as they watched him shift in the bed, his face contorted with discomfort.

His eyelids fluttered, a small movement that sent a wave of anxiety and anticipation through the room. They took deep breaths, reminding themselves of the promise they had made—to act like everything was normal, to treat him like the same old Spencer.

They school their expressions as his eyes slowly crack open.

Chapter Text

The room was dark, and the soft beeping of the machines hooked up to Spencer created a rhythmic lull. The fluorescent lights from the hallway crept under the door, just barely illuminating the hospital bed, where Spencer lay still, his body pale and lifeless against the stark white sheets.

His lips were cracked, his skin devoid of color, and the stitched wounds on his arms and legs contrasted harshly against his complexion. Despite the calm exterior of sleep, his brow remained furrowed, as if the nightmares hadn’t quite let him go. His breath, though shallow, was steady, and the slight rise and fall of his chest provided the only indication that he was still there—still alive.

JJ lay to his left, nestled carefully into his side, her head resting gently on his shoulder. She had slipped into the bed after an hour of quietly watching him, unable to resist the urge to be as close to him as possible. She had been there for him through thick and thin, but seeing him now, so broken, made her feel helpless in a way she had never known.

Emily had joined them, settling on Spencer’s right. It was a tight fit, but neither woman cared about the lack of space. They just wanted to surround him with their presence, to let him know he wasn’t alone. Emily rested her head on his other shoulder, her fingers tracing light patterns across the blanket that covered his legs. She had spent the better part of the last few hours talking softly to him, even though he was unconscious, hoping that her voice could somehow reach him in his sleep.

Penelope was perched on the edge of her chair, leaning as close to the bed as she could without crowding the others. Her hands hovered over her laptop as she typed away, distractedly scanning through files and reports, anything to keep her mind busy. Every now and then, her eyes flicked to Spencer, her heart squeezing painfully at the sight of him. The man she had always known to be strong and brilliant looked so small, so fragile.

Hotch and Rossi had been in and out of the room, juggling responsibilities between speaking to the doctors, coordinating with the officers, and staying by Spencer’s side. Now, they sat on a small couch by the window. Rossi stared out at the rain, which pattered softly against the glass. The night had settled in, casting the world outside in a gloomy, reflective haze. The soft splatter of raindrops provided a stark contrast to the turmoil that brewed inside each of them.

Derek, though, had shifted back, putting distance between himself and Spencer. He had pulled his chair farther from the bed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The closer Spencer came to fully waking up, the more Derek withdrew, knowing that his presence might trigger him. His heart ached, but he understood the need to protect Spencer, even from himself.

They had been sitting like that for hours, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional beep of the machines. Spencer had drifted in and out of consciousness, his eyes fluttering open for brief moments, only to shut again as he slipped back into sleep. Each time his eyelids lifted, the team held their breath, waiting to see if this would be the moment he truly woke up. But it never was.

Still, something had shifted in the air. His sleep seemed more peaceful, as if the presence of his team provided some measure of comfort, even if he couldn’t fully register it.

The door to the room creaked open, and the police chief peeked his head inside, catching Hotch’s eye. The agent rose from his seat, nodding to Rossi before making his way quietly to the door. Derek, ever watchful, followed behind him, his eyes flicking back to Spencer before slipping out of the room.

In the hallway, the chief spoke in low tones, mindful of the hospital's late-night quiet. “We finished the investigation at the scene,” he began, his voice heavy with the weight of what they had found.

Hotch and Derek listened, their faces grim as the chief relayed the details. They had found the makeup Spencer had used, the mirror, and the bucket of soapy water. Hotch’s stomach churned, the pieces falling into place. Val had made Spencer clean himself up, likely for him, but also possibly for the team—to show his dominance, to humiliate Spencer further by controlling even his appearance. The psychological cruelty of it all was sickening.

“The clothes Spencer was taken in were... ruined,” the chief continued, hesitating for a moment before explaining that they had been used to clean up the aftermath of the assault. “We found the sweatpants Val gave him too. They’ll all be stored as evidence.”

Derek clenched his fists at his sides, barely able to keep his anger in check. His mind raced with images of what Spencer must have endured in that room—alone, terrified, and powerless. They had found handcuffs, sex toys, whips, and knives. Val had clearly planned for much more. The fact that they had found Spencer when they did was a miracle. But knowing how close they had come to losing him forever made Derek’s blood boil.

“The bomb squad located the explosives and safely disabled them,” the chief added. “There were multiple bombs rigged to go off if things went south. He was prepared to take everyone out.”

Derek and Hotch exchanged a glance, both of them silently acknowledging how much worse it could have been. Val had been playing a twisted game, and Spencer had been his pawn. The chief finished with the most disturbing detail of all— the blacklight forensics had used on the cot had lit up like a Christmas tree. The DNA, mostly Val’s, was everywhere.

Hotch thanked the chief, dismissing him, and he and Derek walked back to the room. Their minds were heavy with the fresh horrors they had just heard. The weight of the truth settled over them like a lead blanket, crushing their spirits. But there was no time to fall apart now. They still had to be strong for Spencer.

When they re-entered the room, all eyes turned toward them, waiting for the inevitable update. Hotch struggled through the words, doing his best to deliver the details without further distressing the team, but as he spoke about the ruined clothes, the handcuffs, and the DNA evidence, Penelope’s face turned green. She looked like she might be sick.

Emily kept her hand on Spencer’s leg, her thumb moving in slow, comforting strokes, but her expression was tight with barely contained emotion. JJ was silent, her tears falling freely as she cradled Spencer closer, holding him as though she could somehow protect him from the reality of what had happened.

Rossi stared down at the floor, his hand over his mouth as he processed the information. They had seen terrible things in their line of work, but this—this was different. This was family. This was Spencer.

Derek, unable to listen any longer, stormed out of the room. His exit was abrupt, but no one followed him. They understood. He needed space.

The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by JJ’s quiet sobs as she buried her face into Spencer’s shoulder. There were no more words. Each of them sat with their grief, their anger, and their helplessness, unsure of where to go from here.

Another hour passed, the room quiet save for the occasional sniffle. The air was heavy with unspoken pain, and it felt like they were all drowning in it.

Then, there was a soft knock on the door. A nurse stepped in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone is here to see Spencer. He introduced himself as Harry.”

Hotch stood immediately, motioning for the rest of the team to stay. He asked the nurse to lead him to Harry, and she nodded, swiping her card to unlock the doors to the waiting room.

As the doors opened, Hotch spotted him immediately. Harry was pacing back and forth, his hands fidgeting at his sides, his expression a mixture of worry and fear. He looked much like he had in the surveillance footage from Pride, though a bit older now—maybe 30. He was taller than Hotch had expected, standing around 6'3", his brown hair messy as though he’d been running his fingers through it in agitation.

When Harry spotted Hotch, his eyes immediately fell to the bloodstains on Hotch’s shirt, making Hotch realize he never changed. He froze, his face twisting with concern and dread. Without waiting for an introduction, Harry rushed forward.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice tight with urgency.

Hotch motioned for him to follow, leading him back through the hospital’s hallways. As they walked, Hotch explained the situation—the case in Vegas, the victims that resembled Spencer, and the team’s initial assumption that it was a coincidence. He told Harry about Spencer’s strange behavior, his fear, and how he had eventually run off, disappearing into the night.

Then, he explained how they had found him. How Valentino had escaped from prison and murdered three men to lure Spencer back into his grasp. How they had uncovered Spencer’s past by reading the CIA files on his laptop and watching the videos. Harry’s face grew paler with every word, his eyes flickering with recognition and disgust as Hotch relayed the details of what Val had done.

When Hotch began to describe the tests and results, Harry shook his head, stopping him. “I know what Val did to him. You don’t have to tell me.”

Hotch nodded, falling silent. They walked in heavy silence until they reached Spencer’s door.

“Do you think you can help him?” Hotch asked, his voice quiet but filled with hope.

Harry looked at him, his eyes filled with emotion. “I’ll do everything in my power,” he said softly. “I love him.”

There was something in Harry’s expression, something more than just friendship. Hotch saw it—the depth of Harry’s feelings for Spencer. He loved him more than just as a friend, but Hotch said nothing.

They reached the door, and Harry took a deep breath before pushing it open.

The moment Harry stepped inside, his eyes skipped over everyone else in the room and immediately locked on Spencer’s still form in the bed. His breath hitched, his mouth falling open slightly as he took in the sight of Spencer—pale, bruised, and stitched. His eyes welled with tears, his heart breaking at the sight of the man he loved in such a vulnerable state.

JJ and Emily quietly slipped out of the bed, stepping away to give Harry space. Penelope moved from her chair, joining Rossi at the window, both of them watching quietly. Hotch remained at the back of the room, his back against the door, observing the scene unfold.

Harry approached Spencer cautiously, as though afraid to break him. He sat on the right side of the bed, laying his left arm gently over Spencer’s waist, his hand resting softly on his hip. His right hand rose to brush a stray lock of hair out of Spencer’s face, the touch delicate and full of care.

At that moment, Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, and this time, he was fully awake. His gaze focused on Harry, and the heart monitor began to beep faster as he registered who was sitting beside him. His breath caught in his throat, and he blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear his vision.

For a moment, Spencer looked confused, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. But when he realized that Harry was real, that he wasn’t a figment of his imagination, his eyes filled with tears.

“Hey, Spence,”

Chapter Text

The room had fallen into a deep, reverent silence as Spencer dissolved into a puddle of tears in Harry's arms. His sobs came fast and violent, his body shaking uncontrollably against Harry's chest, and the heart monitor beside him beeped wildly, unable to keep up with the sudden change in his condition.

The sound alerted the nurse, who quickly rushed into the room, but the moment she saw what was happening—Spencer sobbing, clinging to Harry as though the world itself was crumbling around him—she exchanged a look with Hotch and quietly backed out of the room. No words were needed. This was something beyond medicine or machines.

The quiet disruption broke Hotch from the trance of watching the heartbreaking scene unfold. He nodded once to the nurse before turning to the rest of the team, his face drawn with a mixture of emotions—grief, guilt, but mostly an understanding that they had to give Spencer the space he so desperately needed.

"Let’s give them some privacy," Hotch whispered, gently placing his hand on JJ’s shoulder and guiding her toward the door.

One by one, they all filed out, their eyes lingering on Spencer, who was a mess of tears and sobs, his hands tightly gripping Harry as though letting go would cause him to shatter into a million pieces. As the door closed softly behind them, Spencer’s sobs grew louder, no longer muffled by the presence of his team. His chest heaved with the force of his emotions, each sob ripping through him with the intensity of years of repressed pain and shame.

Harry held him tightly, letting Spencer cry it out, but soon it became clear that Spencer was struggling to breathe. His sobs were coming faster, more erratic, and his breath caught in his throat as if he were choking on the very tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

"Spence," Harry whispered, his voice laced with concern. He shifted in the bed, trying to get a better look at Spencer's face. "Spence, breathe, okay? You need to breathe."

But Spencer couldn’t. His body was fighting against itself, the sheer weight of everything crashing down on him at once. He had been holding it all together for so long, had built so many walls to keep the past from consuming him, but now it had all crumbled. And there was no hiding from the pain anymore.

Harry knew this. He had seen Spencer like this once before—completely broken, beyond words, beyond reason. It broke his heart to see him like this again.

"Spence, look at me," Harry said softly, grabbing Spencer by the shoulders and gently pulling away, though it wasn’t easy with the death grip Spencer had on him. He cupped Spencer’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze.

Spencer’s wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto Harry’s, his pupils blown with panic and grief. His whole body trembled as sobs wracked through him, his breath coming in short, painful gasps.

"Shhh, shhh, it’s okay," Harry murmured, his voice soft and soothing, though his own tears threatened to fall. "You’re safe. You’re okay. No one can hurt you. I’m here. I’ve got you. I love you."

Harry repeated the mantra over and over again, his voice barely audible over the sound of Spencer’s sobs, but he kept going, leaning in closer until their foreheads touched. Spencer’s breath hitched, and for a moment, his sobs quieted as he felt the warmth of Harry’s skin against his. It was grounding, something to hold onto in the storm raging inside his mind.

"You’re safe. You’re okay. No one can hurt you," Harry whispered, his breath ghosting over Spencer’s face. He pressed a soft kiss to Spencer’s forehead, his heart breaking at the sight of his best friend—no, the man he loved—reduced to this.

Spencer’s sobs quieted, but they didn’t stop completely. His breath was still shaky, and tears continued to pour from his eyes, but the panic was starting to ebb. Harry leaned back, looking into Spencer’s eyes with a tenderness that seemed to pierce through the haze of fear and pain.

"I’m so sorry," Harry whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his own guilt. He should have been there for Spencer. He should have protected him, should have—

But Spencer shook his head, cutting off the apology before Harry could finish.

"I... I was clean," Spencer choked out between sobs, his voice thick with emotion. "Angel came back. I was finally clean, and now... now I’m dirty again."

His words were raw, filled with anguish. His tears blurred his vision as he babbled on, his thoughts a tangled mess of shame and guilt. "The team knows now. They saw everything. I was... I was so close, Harry. I was so close to being okay, and now I’m broken again. I’m ruined."

Harry’s heart clenched painfully in his chest as he listened to Spencer’s tearful rambling. He shook his head, his hands still cradling Spencer’s face as he wiped away the tears with his thumbs.

"Spence, no," Harry said firmly but gently. "You’re not broken. You’re not ruined. You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect."

Spencer shook his head, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. "No, I’m not—"

"Yes, you are," Harry interrupted, his voice full of conviction. "You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. Everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve survived, and you’re still here. You’re not broken, Spence. You’re a fighter. And your team—they don’t pity you. They don’t think you’re weak. They respect you. They love you. And so do I."

Harry continued, his words flowing with a desperate kind of honesty. He didn’t care if Spencer couldn’t fully hear him or if his words were getting lost in the whirlwind of emotions. He just needed Spencer to know, to understand.

For the next thirty minutes, Harry showered Spencer with praise, comforting him with gentle words and soft touches. "I love you," he whispered over and over, his voice full of emotion. "I never stopped loving you. And I’m here. I’m not letting you go, Spence. Not again."

Spencer’s sobs slowly subsided, his tears falling more quietly now as he took in Harry’s words. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and as Harry’s hand rubbed slow, comforting circles on his back, Spencer began to feel the weight of everything start to pull him under.

Harry shifted in the bed, pulling Spencer closer, and Spencer rested his head on Harry’s chest, his arms wrapping around him as though he were an anchor keeping him grounded. Harry’s arm draped protectively around Spencer’s shoulders, and he continued to murmur soft reassurances in his ear.

"You’re safe. I’ve got you. I love you."

Spencer’s tears continued to fall silently onto Harry’s shirt, but the storm had passed. The sobs had quieted, and his breathing had evened out. His eyes fluttered shut as he slipped into a light sleep, the exhaustion finally claiming him.

Harry, too, must have drifted off at some point, the emotional toll of the night weighing heavily on him. When he woke, it was to the sound of soft footsteps entering the room. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Harry looked up to see the team slowly making their way back inside, their faces etched with worry and exhaustion.

This time, Derek was with them. His face was tight with emotion, but his eyes softened when they landed on Spencer, who was still tangled up with Harry in a pile of limbs. Harry smiled down at Spencer, his heart swelling with a familiar warmth—a warmth he hadn’t felt in so long. Waking up with Spencer in his arms had been something he missed more than he had ever admitted to himself. And now, even under these circumstances, it felt right. It felt like home.

The team watched silently as Harry looked down at Spencer, their eyes flicking between the two of them. Each of them could see it clearly—the very thing that was going to help Spencer through this ordeal. It wasn’t just strength or resilience. It was love. And it shone in Harry’s eyes, undeniable and unwavering.

Hotch stood near the door, his gaze lingering on the two of them. He could see the way Harry held Spencer, the way he watched over him like a guardian. And for the first time since this nightmare began, Hotch allowed himself a small measure of hope. Maybe—just maybe—Spencer would be okay. He wasn’t alone in this fight. He had them. He had Harry.

Emily, JJ, and Penelope exchanged soft smiles, their hearts aching but hopeful. They knew there was a long road ahead, but seeing Spencer wrapped in Harry’s arms, his face peaceful in sleep, gave them all the strength they needed to keep going.

Derek, though still angry at the world for what had happened to his brother, felt a flicker of peace seeing Spencer in the one place where he could finally find some comfort. He had stormed out earlier because he didn’t know how to handle the sheer rage boiling inside him. But now, seeing Spencer safe—alive—brought a sense of relief he hadn’t thought possible.

The team settled back into the room, quieter now, their presence less about being guardians and more about being witnesses to the first real moment of healing. And as they watched Harry gently stroke Spencer’s hair, whispering reassurances even in his half-awake state, they knew they were seeing the beginning of something important.

Spencer had been through hell, and there was still a long way to go. But with Harry by his side, with his team standing behind him, Spencer Reid would make it through.

Because he wasn’t broken. He wasn’t ruined.

He was loved.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was dimly lit, the steady hum of machinery and the soft patter of rain against the window forming a quiet backdrop. Spencer was fast asleep, his head resting against Harry’s shoulder, his body curled into the comfort of Harry’s embrace. The man hadn’t moved for hours, sitting there with the kind of patience that comes from deep love. As Harry glanced down at Spencer’s exhausted face, his expression softened, his fingers running absentmindedly through Spencer’s hair.

He was the first to notice the team watching them. Slowly, as the realization dawned on him, Harry lifted his gaze to meet theirs. The team, a mix of relief and concern etched on their faces, all looked on in silence, waiting for Harry to speak.

JJ was the first to step forward, her voice soft but warm as she said, "You must be Harry."

Harry nodded, a small, tired smile forming on his lips. “That’s me.”

JJ exchanged a quick glance with the others, her eyes full of gratitude. "Thank you... for being here for him," she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "He needs you."

Harry nodded again, his expression softening as he glanced down at Spencer. "He’s always had me," he said quietly. "Even if he didn’t know it."

JJ’s eyes welled up, but she held herself together, offering a warm, if shaky, smile. The rest of the team, watching closely, felt a deep sense of relief at the sight of Spencer wrapped up safely in Harry’s arms. The tension that had gripped them since this nightmare began started to ease ever so slightly, though the weight of everything still lingered heavily on their shoulders.

As the room grew quieter, Penelope, ever the emotional heart of the group, couldn’t hold back any longer. She stepped forward, tears glistening in her eyes as she cautiously approached Harry. "Can I...?" she gestured, uncertain if it was the right time to hug him.

Harry chuckled softly, his exhaustion giving way to a small, fond smile. "Of course," he whispered, nodding to her.

Penelope wasted no time, wrapping her arms around him in a careful hug, being mindful not to disturb Spencer as he slept. "Thank you for taking care of him," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "He’s so lucky to have you."

Harry patted her back gently, his smile growing just a little. “Spencer told me about you,” he said softly, his voice full of affection. “He said you were the heart of the team. Always so full of energy and love. I expected this from you.”

Penelope pulled back, her eyes wide and shimmering. "He told you about us?"

"Of course," Harry replied, his gaze shifting to Spencer once again. "He cares about all of you more than you probably realize. You’re his family."

The team smiled softly, touched by the thought that Spencer had shared so much about them with Harry. It was clear that Spencer held them close, even when he kept parts of his past hidden.

But there was still an unspoken question hanging in the air—why had Spencer never mentioned Harry to them?

"He didn’t tell you about me, though," Harry added with a soft, understanding laugh, shaking his head slightly. "That’s okay. I know why."

Hotch watched the interaction quietly. He could see the mix of sadness and acceptance in Harry’s eyes, the knowledge that Spencer had kept him out of his life after joining the FBI, not out of malice, but out of a desire to move on.

Rossi stepped forward, his voice low and respectful. "Spencer wanted a clean start. It’s not about you. He just didn’t want anything to get in the way of that."

Harry nodded, his gaze softening. "I know," he replied quietly. "I don’t blame him. He needed to move forward, and I was part of the past he wanted to leave behind."

The team exchanged glances, feeling the weight of Harry’s words. Spencer’s desire to move on, to build a new life for himself, made perfect sense. He had been through so much, and the FBI had given him a fresh start—a chance to redefine himself.

"We're just glad you're here now," Emily said softly, stepping closer with a gentle smile. "He needs you."

Harry met her eyes, his own filled with quiet gratitude. "I’m glad I’m here too," he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Rossi, always the voice of reason, took a small step closer. "We’ve watched some of the footage from Pride," he began, his tone gentle. "We saw you looking out for him back then, making sure no one crossed any lines. We wanted to thank you... for protecting him."

Harry’s expression changed, a flicker of something like concern passing over his features. "What... what exactly did you see?" he asked, his voice growing slightly more tense.

Hotch, who had been watching Harry closely, immediately noticed the shift in his demeanor. "We watched the security footage from the club—Spencer dancing, some footage from the dance academy, and a couple of videos from backstage," Hotch explained carefully. "And we found a few personal videos of Spencer playing guitar, piano... and some of you two dancing together."

For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. His jaw clenched slightly, and then he exhaled a long, slow breath. His body visibly relaxed, as though he had been bracing himself for something far worse. "That’s it? Just the security footage and those videos?" he asked again, his tone quieter now.

Hotch nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he picked up on the tension. "That’s all we’ve found," he confirmed, his voice still calm but probing. "Is there something else we should be worried about?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting to the floor. After what felt like an eternity, he shook his head, offering a small, almost forced smile. "No," he said softly. "If it wasn’t on the file, then... it’s been erased from existence."

The room fell into a brief, uncomfortable silence. The team exchanged glances, picking up on the strange weight in Harry’s words. There was clearly something else—something Harry wasn’t telling them—but now wasn’t the time to push for answers.

Hotch’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment longer, his mind already trying to piece together what was left unsaid. But for Spencer’s sake, he let it go. For now.

"Alright," Hotch said, nodding slowly. "We’ll drop it."

Before anyone could say more, Spencer stirred again, his body shifting against Harry’s as a small noise escaped his lips. His eyelids fluttered open, blinking against the harsh light of the hospital room.

Harry leaned down, his hand still resting on Spencer’s arm, whispering softly to him. "It’s okay, Spence. I’m here. You’re safe."

Spencer blinked up at him, his vision still blurry from sleep and exhaustion. His heart rate spiked slightly, the monitor beeping more rapidly as he struggled to shake off the fog in his mind. Slowly, his eyes focused on the figures standing around him.

His team. His family.

His breathing hitched for a moment, a flicker of panic crossing his face. He hadn’t expected to wake up to this. His eyes darted from one person to the next, searching their faces for any sign of pity, judgment, or disgust. But all he saw were soft smiles and warm gazes. His heart raced as the fear threatened to creep in, but Harry’s hand on his arm anchored him, reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

"It’s okay," Harry whispered again, his voice gentle. "They’re just happy to see you."

Derek, sensing Spencer’s unease, stepped forward, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He smiled softly down at Spencer, his hand reaching out to ruffle his hair in that familiar, teasing way.

"Hey, Pretty Boy," Derek said, his voice warm and comforting, his eyes full of the same brotherly affection Spencer had come to rely on over the years.

Spencer blinked up at him, his heart pounding as he searched Derek’s face. Was there pity? Disgust? Anger?

But there was none. Derek’s expression was exactly the same as it had always been—filled with warmth, teasing, and love. Spencer’s gaze flicked to the rest of the team, scanning their faces for any hint of judgment or pity.

But there was nothing.

JJ, Emily, Penelope, Hotch, Rossi—each of them looked at him with the same love and respect they had always shown him. Their smiles were soft, genuine, and comforting. The concern was there, of course. But there was no disgust. No judgment. Just... love.

Spencer’s breath hitched again, but this time it was more out of relief than fear. His body relaxed, if only slightly, and he gave Derek a weak but genuine smile.

"Hey," Spencer whispered, his voice hoarse but steady.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. And to Derek, it was everything.

"Good to have you back, man," Derek said, his hand still resting on Spencer’s head, his voice full of affection.

Spencer’s eyes darted around the room again, taking in the sight of his team. He was overwhelmed by how much love they were showing him, by how safe he felt in their presence.

Harry leaned down and whispered something softly in Spencer’s ear, too quiet for the others to hear. After a moment of thought, Spencer nodded.

Taking the cue, Harry gently lifted himself out of the bed, giving Spencer’s hand a final squeeze before turning to the team. "I’ll give you guys some time alone," Harry said with a small, reassuring smile. He gave one last glance at Spencer before nodding to the rest of the team and slipping quietly out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the team alone with Spencer. For a moment, the room was filled with silence, the soft beeping of the heart monitor the only sound.

And as they all looked at Spencer—fragile, but safe—they knew that they had their friend back.

And that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was quiet, save for the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the rhythmic hum of rain against the window. Spencer lay in the bed, his body curled slightly under the sterile hospital blanket, his breath still shaky from sleep. His mind, though, was far from peaceful. Even as he blinked his eyes open, the familiar faces of his team standing around him, the gnawing sense of dread crawled up his spine.

He should’ve felt relief—they had found him, they had saved him. But instead, all he could feel was the weight of everything that had happened, the crushing realization that his darkest, most private nightmare had been exposed.

Spencer shifted uncomfortably in bed, his fingers gripping the blanket tightly as he avoided the gazes of his teammates. They were trying to be reassuring, trying to give him space, but he could feel the concern emanating from them. They knew. They had seen everything—every humiliating detail of his past with Valentino—and now they were looking at him. How could they possibly look at him the same way after that?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. The words were small, broken, but they cut through the air like glass.

The team exchanged worried glances, unsure of how to respond. Spencer’s shoulders hunched further as if he could shrink into himself, trying to escape the feeling of their eyes on him.

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer repeated, his voice cracking as tears filled his eyes. His breath hitched, and he gripped the blanket even tighter, as if holding on to something tangible would stop him from spiraling. “I should’ve told you... I should’ve warned you. I—I’ve put you all in danger, and now you know... you know what he did to me.”

The sobs began to wrack his body, his chest heaving as the emotions finally broke free. He shook his head violently, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m disgusting,” he choked out, his voice thick with shame. “He ruined me. He used me, and now... now you’ve all seen it. You’ve seen what he made me do. I’m dirty... I’m not the same person you thought I was.”

Penelope, tears already glistening in her eyes, reached out for him, but Spencer flinched away, turning his face into the pillow as if he could hide from the shame. The weight of his words hung in the air, suffocating them all. The team, usually so quick to reassure him, was momentarily stunned by the depth of Spencer’s pain.

Derek, who had been standing back, watching Spencer with a deep furrow in his brow, finally stepped forward. He knelt beside the bed, his voice low but firm as he said, “Spencer, don’t you dare say that.”

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Derek, his eyes wide and filled with confusion. Derek’s expression was serious, but his eyes were soft with understanding.

“You think you’re dirty? You think you’re disgusting because of what that bastard did to you?” Derek’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—a deep anger simmering beneath the surface, not at Spencer, but at the situation, at Valentino. “Spencer, you are not disgusting. You’re not broken. You’re not dirty.”

Spencer’s lip trembled, his breath shaky as he shook his head, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. “How can you say that? You saw the videos, Derek. You saw what he made me do. He... he made me perform for him, and I did it. I let him control me. I let him...”

Derek’s heart ached as he watched Spencer fall apart in front of him, consumed by the weight of his guilt and shame. Without hesitation, Derek reached out, placing a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Spencer, listen to me. What he did to you... what he made you do... none of that is your fault.”

Spencer shook his head, his eyes wild with pain. “But I did it. I let him control me. I was weak. I let him...”

Derek cut him off, his voice rising just slightly. “No. You weren’t weak, Spencer. He manipulated you. He groomed you, and he used your trust against you. That doesn’t make you weak. It makes him a monster.”

Spencer’s breath hitched, his chest heaving as he tried to hold back the sobs. His hands gripped the blankets even tighter, his knuckles turning white. “But I let him do it...”

Derek took a deep breath, his voice softening. “Spencer, do you think I’m dirty?”

Spencer blinked, startled by the sudden question. His brows furrowed in confusion, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. “W—what?”

Derek’s eyes locked onto Spencer’s, unwavering. “Do you think I’m dirty? Do you think I’m disgusting?”

Spencer’s heart skipped a beat, and he shook his head vehemently, his voice shaking. “No, of course not.”

Derek’s voice grew quieter, more intense. “You know what Carl Buford did to me, Spencer. You know what he made me feel... how he controlled me. Do you think that makes me dirty?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “No... no, Derek, I don’t think that.”

“Then why do you think we’d feel any different about you?” Derek’s voice was gentle, but it cut through Spencer’s defenses like a knife. “Why would we think you’re disgusting, when you’ve been through the same thing?”

Spencer’s lips trembled, and his tears began to fall faster. The weight of Derek’s words hit him like a wave, crashing against the walls he had built to protect himself. He stared at Derek, searching his face for any sign of pity, of judgment. But there was none. There was only understanding.

Derek continued, his voice soft but firm. “Spencer, what happened to you doesn’t make you any less of the man we know and love. It doesn’t make you dirty, and it sure as hell doesn’t make you weak.”

Spencer’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as he absorbed Derek’s words. His hands shook as he let the blanket slip from his grasp, his fingers curling into his lap. He wanted to believe Derek, wanted to trust that his team still saw him the same way. But the shame—the disgust—it was overwhelming.

“I don’t know how to get past it,” Spencer whispered, his voice breaking. “I feel like... like no matter how hard I try, I can’t wash him off me. He’ll always be there. I’ll always be... tainted.”

Derek’s heart clenched at Spencer’s words, and he leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t always feel this way. I know it feels impossible now, but with time... with help... you’ll heal, Spencer. It won’t happen overnight, but you will get through this. And we’re gonna be here with you every step of the way.”

Hotch, who had been standing silently by the window, stepped forward, his expression solemn. “Derek’s right, Spencer. None of this changes who you are to us. You’ve always been one of the strongest people I know. What Valentino did to you—what he made you do—that doesn’t define you.”

Emily nodded, her voice soft but firm. “Spencer, you’re not alone in this. We’re not going anywhere. We’re your family, and we’re going to help you through this.”

Spencer’s chest heaved as he looked around the room, his eyes moving from face to face. JJ, Penelope, Rossi—each of them wore the same expression of unwavering support. There was no pity, no disgust, no judgment. Just love.

Penelope, tears streaming down her face, whispered, “You’re not dirty, Spencer. You’re our genius. Our friend. We love you.”

Spencer’s breath hitched, and he pressed his trembling hands to his face, the sobs overtaking him once again. But this time, the weight didn’t feel so suffocating. This time, the tears weren’t just from shame. They were from relief. From the realization that despite everything, his family still saw him the same way. They still loved him.

Derek’s hand tightened gently on his shoulder, and JJ leaned in closer, rubbing soothing circles on his arm. “We’re here, Spence,” JJ whispered softly. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Spencer’s sobs slowly began to quiet, his body trembling with the weight of it all. He wasn’t sure how to move forward from this, how to begin healing. But as he looked around at the faces of his team, he realized that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to have all the answers right now.

Because he wasn’t alone.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Spencer let himself believe that there might be a way through the darkness.

Chapter Text

It had been over 24 hours since Spencer had first woken up in the hospital, and in that time, everything felt like a blur. His team had come in and out, ensuring Valentino would be locked away for good. Rossi had brought in the best legal team money could buy, working alongside the police to build an airtight case. Spencer knew they were doing it all for him, but the weight of everything made it hard to feel much beyond the persistent ache that lingered in his chest.

Penelope and Harry, however, had stayed by his side the entire time. The only times they left the hospital were brief trips to bring back something edible for Spencer—and themselves. They took turns keeping watch, never letting Spencer be alone for long. Despite their best efforts, though, he hadn’t slept peacefully once. Nightmares plagued him, ripping him from sleep with sobs or screams that echoed through the small hospital room. Every time, Harry or Penelope—or both—were there to soothe him back to sleep, whispering reassurances and staying close until he drifted off again.

Right now, Spencer was asleep, his body finally resting after another restless bout. Harry sat next to the bed, leaning forward in the stiff hospital chair, his hand resting protectively on Spencer’s arm. Penelope was busying herself with making the hospital room more comfortable. She’d been to Target earlier, picking up soft pillows, blankets, and even a small lamp to bring some warmth to the sterile, impersonal space. She plugged in a few nightlights around the room, knowing how much Spencer disliked the dark.

The room was almost peaceful when the door creaked open, letting in a sliver of light from the hallway. Hotch stepped inside, nodding quietly to Harry as he moved toward an empty chair by the bed. He sat down, his eyes immediately going to Spencer’s face—pale, exhausted, but calm for now.

"How’s he been?" Hotch asked in a low voice, turning his attention to Harry.

Harry sighed softly, careful not to wake Spencer. "He woke up from another nightmare about an hour ago," he replied, rubbing his tired eyes. "But... it was easier to calm him down this time. We talked for a bit, he ate some dinner, and he’s been asleep for about twenty minutes now."

Hotch nodded, a knowing expression crossing his face. "I figured nightmares would be a problem." He glanced over at Penelope, who was still arranging the pillows and making the room as welcoming as possible. The touches she had added—the small lamp, the soft blankets—made the room feel less like a hospital and more like a safe space. It was exactly what Spencer needed right now.

Hotch turned his attention back to Harry, his face growing more serious. There was something he needed to ask, something that had been weighing on him since Spencer had woken up. "Harry," Hotch began carefully, "do you think we should reach out to Spencer’s mom?"

Harry’s expression shifted as he considered the question, taking his time before answering. "Diana never knew what Val did to Spencer," he explained, his voice quiet but steady. "Part of the reason Spencer felt trapped with Val was because Val was paying for Diana’s care and treatment. Spencer kept it hidden from her—she has no idea. And with her condition now, with the dementia..." Harry trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "It wouldn’t be a good idea to put this on her. Not without Spencer’s approval."

Before Hotch could respond, a groggy voice interrupted them. "Don’t tell her."

They both looked toward the bed, seeing that Spencer had woken up, his eyes barely open as he watched them. His voice was hoarse from all the crying, his throat raw, but there was a firmness in his tone that caught Hotch’s attention.

Hotch leaned forward slightly. "Are you sure?" he asked gently. "It might help... having your mom here."

Spencer shook his head, the movement slow and deliberate. "No," he said, his voice cracking. "She doesn’t need to know. It would kill her to know what happened. And... if she’s having one of her bad days, she wouldn’t even remember who I am." His breath hitched slightly at the thought, his chest tightening.

Hotch respected his decision, nodding slowly. "Alright," he said quietly. "We won’t tell her."

The room fell into silence again, the soft glow from the lamp casting a warm light over Spencer’s face. His breathing was steady, but Hotch could see the exhaustion etched into his features. Still, now that Spencer was awake, Hotch knew there was something else that needed to be addressed—something neither of them could avoid any longer.

"Spencer," Hotch began carefully, "there’s something I need to ask you for. I know it’s difficult, but... we need you to give a statement. For the police and the lawyers. It’s important for the case against Val."

Spencer blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused as Hotch’s words sank in. The idea of reliving everything—of going through it all again, this time in front of people he didn’t know—made his stomach turn. His hands clenched the blanket tighter as the weight of it threatened to crush him.

Harry, sensing Spencer’s distress, leaned forward, his hand wrapping gently around Spencer’s. "Hey," Harry said softly, "I’m going to be here every step of the way. You’re not doing this alone."

Penelope, who had been quietly arranging pillows, chimed in, her voice filled with warmth and encouragement. "Me too, Spence. We’ve got you."

Spencer’s eyes flicked between Harry and Penelope, their comforting presence grounding him in the moment. His breath was shaky as he gave a small, hesitant nod. He knew what needed to be done—Valentino could never be allowed to walk free again—but the thought of reliving it, of giving a detailed account of his torment, terrified him to his core.

Still, he nodded. "Okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Hotch offered a small smile, one filled with understanding and pride. "Thank you, Spencer," he said softly. "You’re doing the right thing."

With that, Hotch stood, giving Spencer a reassuring look before leaving the room to make the necessary calls. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Harry, Penelope, and Spencer alone again.

Harry squeezed Spencer’s hand, leaning closer. "You’re so strong, Spence," he whispered. "I know this is hard, but you’re doing this to make sure Val never hurts you—or anyone else—again."

Spencer nodded weakly, his eyes glazed with exhaustion. "I just... I just want this to be over," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

"It will be," Penelope promised, sitting down beside him and giving him a gentle smile. "And when it is, you’ll have us right here with you, like always."

Spencer gave her a small, tired smile in return, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe that he wasn’t in this fight alone.

Chapter Text

It was morning, and daylight streamed into the hospital room, illuminating Spencer’s pale face. He was sitting up in bed, wearing fresh clothes—a simple shirt and sweatpants—but he still looked drained, both physically and emotionally. His body was exhausted, his mind frayed, but there was something in his eyes, something that hadn’t been there in days: a flicker of excitement. He was getting out of the hospital soon.

Harry sat at the foot of the bed, his hand resting on Spencer’s knee, offering silent support. Penelope was nearby, straightening up the room and making sure everything was in order. She had spent most of the last few days decorating the room with small comforts—extra pillows, a soft blanket, even a lamp to make the sterile room feel less oppressive.

But there was still one more thing to do before Spencer could leave. One last hurdle.

The door creaked open, and an officer stepped inside. He wasn’t intimidating, keeping his posture relaxed and giving Spencer plenty of space as he approached the bed. Harry tensed, his hand tightening slightly on Spencer’s knee, and Spencer gave him a quick glance, appreciating the presence of his old friend.

“Dr. Reid,” the officer began, his voice calm and professional, “thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I know this is difficult, but your statement is crucial to ensuring Valentino Marino is held accountable.”

Spencer swallowed hard, nodding. He could feel his pulse quicken, but he was ready. Valentino wasn’t going to escape justice again.

The officer began, “Can you walk me through what happened, starting from when you left the police station?”

Spencer took a deep breath. “It’s… it’s a bit blurry,” he admitted, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I remember running… just running and not stopping. I was panicking, and I… I found myself in an alley.”

His voice wavered slightly, and Harry’s hand on his knee squeezed in encouragement. Spencer drew strength from the gesture, then continued. “I was leaning against the wall, trying to catch my breath, when… when I saw him. Val. He… he grabbed me, and then…” Spencer hesitated, his voice catching. “He choked me. I blacked out.”

Harry’s grip on the blanket tightened, his knuckles white with anger as his eyes flicked toward the bruises still darkening Spencer’s neck. Spencer noticed, reaching over to place his hand over Harry’s, grounding both of them.

The officer cleared his throat gently, “Do you remember anything about being taken to the academy?”

Spencer shook his head. “No. He must have taken me while I was unconscious. I don’t remember anything until I woke up in that room.”

The officer nodded, jotting down notes. “And when you woke up, what happened?”

Spencer bit his lip, his eyes focusing on the window as he recalled the events. “He… he came in and out of the room a few times. He didn’t do much at first, just… talked. Said the same manipulative things he used to say. I—I tried to shut it out, tried to push it down, but…”

Spencer trailed off, the words lingering unspoken. The officer prompted gently, “But?”

“He got to me,” Spencer whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “He always knew how to get into my head, how to find the parts of me I thought I’d buried. I… I fought it at first, but… eventually, I just… I just couldn’t hold on.”

Harry’s jaw clenched as he listened, his heart breaking for Spencer, for the hell he had endured—again.

Spencer continued, his voice small but steady. “He started touching me… in ways I couldn’t stop. And then I… I wasn’t me anymore. I was… I was Angel again. It was like I was trapped in my own mind, fully aware of everything that was happening but completely powerless to stop it.”

Tears slipped down Spencer’s cheeks, but he remained steady, his resolve unshaken. He had to get this out. Val couldn’t walk free.

“He gave me new clothes. My… my old ones were… stained with his…” Spencer’s voice broke slightly, but he pushed through. “And then he left me alone for a while. When he came back, he had the leather outfit, the one he used to make me wear. He made me put it on, and then he… he put the collar around my neck. It—it was like he owned me all over again.”

The officer was silent for a moment, letting the weight of Spencer’s words settle before asking, “What happened when you were found?”

Spencer took a deep breath, his voice cracking slightly as he spoke. “He… he told Angel to perform for him again. For old times’ sake. And I… I was ready. I wanted to please him. I was waiting for him to come into the studio, but then… my team showed up instead. They got through to me. They made me realize… I wasn’t Angel anymore. I was Spencer.”

A tear slipped down Spencer’s cheek, and he wiped it away, his hands trembling. “The rest is blurry. I remember scratching myself, trying to get the feeling of him off me. I remember Hotch holding me, but after that… I woke up here.”

The officer clicked off the recording device, his expression sympathetic. “Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Reid. I’m sorry you had to go through that.” He offered a small nod of respect and quietly exited the room.

The silence that followed was heavy, and Spencer’s face crumpled. He lowered his head into his hands, too exhausted to sob, but the tears kept coming, rolling down his cheeks in silent rivers. His hands trembled as he tried to wipe them away, but the frustration of it all—the exhaustion, the pain, the shame—was overwhelming.

Harry shifted closer, gently batting Spencer’s hands away from his face. He ran his fingers through Spencer’s hair, fixing the parts he had tugged at in frustration. His touch was gentle, soothing, as he tilted Spencer’s chin up to meet his gaze.

“You didn’t deserve any of this,” Harry said softly, his voice firm but kind. “No one does. You have every right to be angry, Spencer. You have every right to feel what you’re feeling right now. But you’ve survived this once. You’ll survive it again.”

Spencer’s eyes searched Harry’s face, his chest tight with emotion. “But why did it happen again?” he whispered. “Why did it have to be me?”

Harry didn’t have an answer for that, not one that would make any of this better. “It’s not fair,” he agreed, his voice rough with emotion. “But you’re here now, Spencer. You made it out, and we’re going to make sure Val never touches you again.”

Spencer’s lips quivered, but he nodded. “I’m just… so tired. I can’t keep crying, but it just… it won’t stop. And part of me… part of me wonders… if it would’ve been worse if it hadn’t been Val.”

Harry blinked, confused. “What do you mean?”

Spencer’s voice was barely above a whisper. “If it had been someone else, someone new… I don’t know if I could’ve survived it. At least with Val, I… I knew what to expect. I knew how to handle it. Is that weird?”

Harry was quiet for a long moment before shaking his head. “No, Spencer. It’s not weird. It makes sense. You’ve been through this with him before, and you knew what to expect. That doesn’t mean it’s okay, but… I get it.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his eyes clouded with exhaustion and emotion. Before either of them could say more, the door opened again, and Hotch stepped in, holding a stack of papers.

“You ready to get out of here?” Hotch asked, giving Spencer a small, encouraging smile.

Spencer glanced at Harry, who gave his hand a gentle squeeze. A determined look crossed Spencer’s face, and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I’m ready.”

Chapter Text

Spencer Reid stepped out of the hospital doors into a world that felt foreign, like he had been gone for far longer than the few days he'd spent inside. The moment his feet hit the pavement outside, his senses were overwhelmed by the sudden rush of stimuli. The city was alive in a way that the sterile walls of the hospital could never be. The scent of fresh air, tinged with car exhaust and blooming flowers, filled his lungs. It was both unsettling and grounding, a sharp reminder that he was free from the nightmare of the last few days, but not free from the memories of it.

The breeze blew through his hair, gently lifting the strands and cooling his scalp. It was the first time he’d felt the wind in days, the feeling unfamiliar yet oddly comforting. He stood still for a moment, his eyes fluttering closed as the warmth of the sun kissed his skin, melting away the chill that had settled deep into his bones during his time in the hospital. Every sensation hit him at once—the sunlight, the breeze, the distant sounds of the city around him. It was almost too much, but at the same time, it was everything he needed to remind himself that he was still here, still alive.

Harry stood beside him, watching Spencer closely, his expression a mix of concern and quiet support. Spencer was grateful for his presence, though he hadn’t said much since they left his hospital room. There wasn’t much to say.

Spencer inhaled deeply, his chest expanding as the air filled his lungs. The scents of the outside world felt sharper, fresher. He could smell the faint tang of gasoline from the cars nearby, the sweet fragrance of distant flowers, and the lingering scent of rain from the downpour earlier that morning. Every breath was grounding, but also tinged with a sense of nervousness, like the world was both embracing him and closing in on him all at once.

But it was the sunlight—the warmth of it against his skin—that anchored him most. It was such a simple sensation, one he’d taken for granted before all of this, but now it felt like a lifeline, pulling him out of the fog he’d been trapped in for days.

He could hear the distant sounds of the city—cars honking, people talking, a soft breeze rustling the leaves of the trees lining the street. Every sound was a reminder that life continued, even when it felt like his own world had shattered.

Harry stepped a little closer, his presence steady and reassuring. “Ready to get out of here?” he asked quietly.

Spencer opened his eyes and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, though his voice was still soft, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on him.

The team was waiting by the SUVs, parked just outside the hospital entrance. They had given Spencer space, allowing him these few moments of quiet before the next step in their journey. Hotch stood by the driver’s side, his posture calm and collected, while Garcia leaned against the door, fiddling with her phone. Derek and Emily stood nearby, talking quietly, though their eyes frequently darted to Spencer, checking on him without being overbearing. JJ and David were already in one of the cars, JJ in the drivers seat, Rossi in the seat next to her.

As Spencer approached the vehicle, Harry stayed close, his hand hovering near Spencer’s back, not quite touching him but there if he needed it. Spencer gave him a small nod, a silent thank you, as they reached the SUV.

“Let’s get you home,” Hotch said, opening the door for him.

Spencer climbed into the backseat, Harry following closely behind. The leather seats were cool against his skin, and as the door closed, the sounds of the city were muffled, leaving just the quiet hum of the car engine.

Garcia slid into the passenger seat and, after a moment of silence, began fiddling with the radio. Light music filled the space, her way of easing the tension that had settled over them. The soft notes of "Chemtrails Over The Country Club" by Lana Del Rey floated through the air, the delicate melody like a soundtrack to the quiet drive ahead.

Spencer leaned his head against the window, the cool glass a soothing contrast to the warmth of the sun outside. The music lulled him into a quiet state, the lyrics washing over him as they drove toward the tarmac. It was a bittersweet song, filled with longing and nostalgia, and somehow it felt fitting for the moment. The world outside passed by in a blur, the buildings and people merging into a haze as Spencer allowed himself to get lost in the music, the rhythmic hum of the engine, and the steady presence of his team around him.

The SUV pulled up to the private tarmac where the jet waited, the plane’s sleek body glinting in the afternoon sun. Hotch parked the vehicle, and they all stepped out, the wind picking up slightly as they moved toward the jet’s stairs.

Spencer’s body still felt fragile, like it might shatter at any moment. He hated the way every little movement pulled at his stitches, the way his bruises ached with every step. He was too aware of his own body, too conscious of the pain that lingered just beneath the surface.

Harry walked beside him, always a steady presence, and Spencer was grateful for the unspoken support. As they reached the stairs, Hotch gave Spencer a concerned glance.

“Take it slow,” he advised.

Spencer nodded and carefully ascended the stairs, his muscles protesting with every step. The warmth of the sun faded as he entered the cool, dimly lit cabin of the jet. He immediately gravitated toward the couch, knowing that sitting there would give him the most comfort during the flight.

Harry joined him, sitting beside Spencer on the couch and positioning himself close enough to offer comfort but not crowd him. Spencer tucked himself into the corner, curling slightly as he rested his head against the back of the couch. His body was sore, his mind even more so, but there was something about being on the jet with his team that felt... safe.

The engines roared to life as the plane prepared for takeoff, and Spencer closed his eyes, letting the noise wash over him. He could feel the vibrations beneath his feet, the slight jostling as the plane began to taxi down the runway. The seatbelt tightened across his chest, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—just another grounding sensation to keep him in the present.

As the jet lifted off the ground, Spencer felt a familiar sense of unease. The turbulence wasn’t particularly bad, but every little shake of the plane pulled at his stitches, the sharp sting of pain enough to make him wince.

Harry noticed immediately. “You okay?”

Spencer nodded, though his voice was barely above a whisper when he replied, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

But Harry wasn’t convinced. He shifted closer, his arm resting behind Spencer on the back of the couch, not quite touching him but offering a quiet sense of protection. The weight of Harry’s presence was comforting, and Spencer allowed himself to lean into it slightly, the warmth of Harry’s body anchoring him.

For a while, they sat in silence, the hum of the engines filling the cabin. The team was scattered throughout the jet—Garcia tapping away at her laptop, Derek sitting closer to the front, his eyes flicking toward Spencer every few minutes. Hotch was reviewing paperwork, but Spencer could tell he was only half-focused, his mind clearly on their youngest team member.

The turbulence worsened briefly, and Spencer’s hand instinctively flew to his arm, rubbing at the stitches. Harry noticed the motion and frowned, his voice a soft murmur as he leaned closer.

“Spence, it’s okay to let people know if you’re hurting.”

Spencer sighed, closing his eyes. He was too tired to argue, too tired to pretend that he wasn’t feeling every ache and every pull of his battered body.

“I just... I want this to be over,” Spencer whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know how to keep...”

“You don’t have to keep it together,” Harry said, his voice firm but kind. “You don’t have to do any of this alone. We’re here. I’m here.”

Spencer nodded, his eyes closing again. He allowed himself to relax, just for a moment, leaning into the warmth beside him. He was still on edge, still exhausted, but for the first time in days, he felt the smallest flicker of hope. Maybe—just maybe—he could get through this.

After what felt like an eternity, the jet finally touched down on the tarmac back in D.C. The ride to Spencer’s apartment was quiet, the hum of the SUV’s engine mixing with the soft music playing on the radio.

Spencer sat in the backseat again, his body slumped against the door, his head resting on the cool glass. He watched the city pass by in a blur, his mind drifting in and out of focus as the streets he knew so well rolled past the window.

The SUV pulled up in front of his apartment building, and for a moment, Spencer just sat there, staring at the familiar door. It felt strange—like returning to a life that no longer belonged to him.

“You ready?” Hotch asked from the driver’s seat.

Spencer took a deep breath and nodded, though his chest felt tight. Harry was already out of the car, opening the door for him and helping him step out.

The familiar creak of the apartment building door greeted them as they entered, the scent of the lobby—clean but slightly musty—filling Spencer’s lungs. It was all too familiar, but at the same time, everything felt off. It was as though the world he knew had shifted slightly, leaving him in a space that wasn’t quite his anymore.

As they made their way up to his apartment, Harry kept close, his hand on Spencer’s back, guiding him but not pushing him. When they reached the door, Harry handed Spencer the key, letting him take the lead. Spencer hesitated for a moment, then unlocked the door and stepped inside.

His apartment looked exactly as he had left it. Clean, orderly, but now, it felt too quiet. Too empty. Spencer stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do next, until Harry gently guided him toward the couch.

“You sit,” Harry said softly. “I’ll get everything else.”

Spencer sank into the couch, his body sinking into the familiar cushions. It felt both comforting and strange to be back here, surrounded by the familiar sights and smells of his own home.

The sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he looked up to see Garcia and Derek walking in, each carrying bags of groceries.

“Hey, Spence,” Garcia said softly, her voice warm and comforting. “I brought some food. No more bland hospital stuff for you.”

Spencer gave her a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He appreciated the effort, but the truth was, he wasn’t sure if he could handle much more than the quiet solitude of his apartment right now.

Derek set the bags down on the counter, his eyes flicking to Spencer every so often, watching for any sign of discomfort. He could tell that Spencer was on edge, his body tense, his movements stiff.

Garcia busied herself in the kitchen, unpacking the groceries and setting things up in the fridge. She chatted lightly, her voice a soothing presence in the otherwise quiet apartment, but even she could sense that Spencer wasn’t quite ready for company.

After a few minutes, Spencer shifted uncomfortably on the couch, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an escape. Harry noticed immediately, moving closer and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?”

Spencer nodded, though the tension in his body was evident.

Garcia glanced over from the kitchen, her face softening as she realized what was happening. She exchanged a glance with Derek, and they both understood.

“We’ll head out,” Garcia said gently, her voice light. “But if you need anything, Spence, just call. Okay?”

Derek stepped forward, giving Spencer’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We’re here for you, Pretty Boy. Whenever you’re ready.”

Spencer nodded, his eyes downcast. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

As they gathered their things and moved toward the door, Derek paused and grabbed Harry’s arm gently. “Take care of him,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “And keep us updated, alright?”

Harry nodded. “I will.”

With that, Derek and Garcia left, leaving the apartment quiet once more. Spencer let out a long, shaky breath, his body slumping further into the couch.

Harry sat down next to him, his presence grounding. “Feel better with just us here?”

Spencer nodded, though his eyes were still distant, his mind far away.

Harry didn’t push. Instead, he sat back, letting the silence fill the room. Spencer needed time—time to process, time to heal. And Harry would be there, as long as Spencer needed him.

Chapter Text

The ticking of the wall clock seemed louder than usual as Spencer Reid and Harry sat on the couch in his apartment, the weight of the last few days pressing down on them like a suffocating blanket. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was necessary. Harry had been with Spencer long enough to know that sometimes, silence was the only thing Spencer needed.

He watched Spencer closely from the corner of his eye, making sure the quiet wasn’t turning into something more dangerous. Harry had learned to recognize the subtle shifts in Spencer’s breathing, the way his shoulders would stiffen when panic crept in, or how his fingers would twitch as if he were trying to ground himself. Right now, Spencer was still. His breathing was calm, but Harry knew it wouldn’t take much for that to change.

Eventually, Harry turned on the TV, the low hum of the machine filling the quiet space. He scrolled through the channels before settling on one of Spencer’s favorite comfort shows, Doctor Who. A rerun from the David Tennant era flickered onto the screen, the familiar sights and sounds of the TARDIS, the Doctor, and his companions filling the room.

At first, Spencer didn’t react, his eyes blank and unfocused as he stared ahead, lost in his thoughts. But as the episode played on, Harry noticed the slightest shift in Spencer’s posture. His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, the tension in his jaw easing as the familiar show worked its magic. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Harry shifted slightly, adjusting his position so that his arm rested along the back of the couch, his hand rubbing gentle circles into Spencer’s shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but Spencer leaned into it, melting just a little more into Harry’s side. His legs were tucked underneath him, his frame curled up in a way that made him seem smaller, like he was trying to disappear.

Harry noticed the wet glisten of tears forming in Spencer’s eyes. He didn’t say anything, knowing that words would only break the fragile peace that had settled over them. Instead, he lifted a hand and gently wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb, his touch light and unintrusive. Spencer didn’t flinch or pull away, but he didn’t look at Harry either—his gaze remained fixed on the television, his expression a mixture of sadness and exhaustion.

They sat like that for hours, the daylight outside slowly giving way to the orange glow of dusk as the sun set behind the buildings of D.C. The comforting sound of the TV filled the apartment, and Spencer remained nestled against Harry, seeking comfort in the proximity of someone who understood him without the need for words.

Eventually, the quiet rumbling of Harry’s stomach broke the stillness, pulling him from his thoughts. He stood up, his movements careful and slow so as not to disturb Spencer, who seemed unaware of his own hunger. Spencer hadn’t shown much of an appetite in the hospital, and Harry suspected it had been the same since they returned home. The stress of everything was making Spencer sick to his stomach, and food was the last thing on his mind.

“I’m going to make us something to eat,” Harry said quietly, not expecting a response.

Spencer didn’t move from his spot on the couch, his fingers clutching a blanket to his chest like it was his only lifeline. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, but Harry could sense that something had shifted in the air between them. Spencer was sinking deeper into his own thoughts, and Harry knew that if he didn’t do something soon, those thoughts would take over completely.

The comforting aroma of chicken noodle soup began to fill the apartment as Harry moved around the kitchen. He stirred the pot, the warm scent reminding him of the meals they used to share together, back when things were simpler—before everything had spiraled out of control. The smell seemed to work its magic on Spencer as well. Harry heard the soft creak of the couch as Spencer stood up, moving slowly toward the kitchen, still wrapped in the blanket that had been draped over him for hours.

Harry looked up as Spencer approached, noticing how the blanket hung off his shoulders, making him look even more fragile. His hospital clothes were rumpled, and there was a deep weariness in his eyes, but the smell of food had brought him out of his daze.

“You should sit,” Harry said softly, his voice rough from the silence. “You’ve been through enough. Let me take care of this.”

Spencer shook his head in refusal, his voice raspy and low. “I don’t want to sit.”

Harry sighed but didn’t push. He knew better than to argue with Spencer when he was like this. Instead, he turned back to the stove and began ladling soup into two bowls.

When it was ready, Harry set the steaming bowl in front of Spencer on the kitchen island and sat beside him. Spencer stared at the bowl like it was something foreign, his eyes wide and uncertain. Harry noticed the flicker of hesitation in Spencer’s expression, a look he recognized all too well—old habits were creeping back in, habits Spencer hadn’t dealt with in years.

Spencer’s mind was racing. I shouldn’t eat. I can’t eat. I need to lose the weight. The thoughts were old and familiar, echoing the beliefs he’d once held tightly to as a form of control. If he lost enough weight, people wouldn’t find him attractive anymore. If he grew out his hair and made himself disappear, maybe people would stop looking at him, touching him. The idea consumed him, the memories of what had been done to him still fresh and raw.

But before he could get lost in those thoughts, Harry grabbed his shoulders and turned Spencer to face him, standing close now, concern etched on his face.

“Spence,” Harry said, his voice gentle but firm. “You need to eat.”

Spencer’s mind was a blur of conflicting thoughts. He wanted to argue, to tell Harry that he didn’t need the food, that he couldn’t afford to let himself look the way he had before, but when he looked into Harry’s eyes, something in him faltered.

Harry wasn’t angry, just concerned. He knew what Spencer was thinking. He’d seen this before.

Spencer looked back at the bowl, the steam rising in gentle curls. He hesitated for a moment, his mind battling between the old habits and the present reality. Finally, he reached for the spoon, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he wasn’t entirely sure of himself.

Harry stayed close, leaning in slightly to blow on the soup for Spencer, a small gesture of care that made Spencer’s chest tighten. It was so simple, yet it was enough to make the tears well up in his eyes again, threatening to spill over.

Spencer put the spoon in his mouth, chewing the noodles slowly before swallowing. Harry gave him a soft smile, the kind that Spencer had always been the recipient of when Harry wanted to comfort him. It was a smile that made Spencer’s stomach flip, one that made him want to do anything just to see it again.

With each bite, Spencer felt the weight in his chest lift slightly, and he finished the bowl in silence. Harry stayed beside him the entire time, occasionally glancing over to check on him. It was a quiet, steady presence—exactly what Spencer needed.

By the time the bowls were empty, Spencer realized just how hungry he had been. He hadn’t eaten much in days, just picking at the hospital food, and even then, only out of necessity. But now, the warmth of the soup had settled in his stomach, easing some of the tension that had been coiled inside him for so long.

Harry stood and took their bowls to the sink, setting them down with a soft clink. He didn’t bother with the dishes—they could wait until morning. Right now, there was only one thing that mattered.

“You need to sleep,” Harry said, placing a gentle hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Your bed’s been empty for too long.”

Spencer nodded, sliding off the barstool and following Harry down the hall to his bedroom. When they reached the door, Spencer hesitated. The room was softly lit by a small nightlight, casting a warm glow over the familiar space. But something held him back.

He hadn’t been in his own bed in days. He hadn’t slept in his own sheets since before the case, and the thought of crawling into them now, after everything that had happened, felt... wrong.

Harry noticed Spencer’s hesitation and placed a hand on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

Spencer shook his head, his voice small and unsteady. “I need to shower.”

It wasn’t a request—it was a plea. He needed to wash the memories from his skin, to scrub away the touches, the doctors, the nurses, and Val. He needed to feel clean again, if only for a moment.

Harry nodded, understanding without needing further explanation. He led Spencer into the ensuite bathroom and turned on the light, both of them squinting against the sudden brightness. Harry moved to the shower, testing the water with his hand until it was the perfect temperature. He turned back to find Spencer standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection.

Spencer’s eyes were tracing over his own body, cataloging every bruise, every mark. His skin looked pale and fragile under the harsh bathroom light, the bruises on his neck now turning an ugly greenish hue as they began to heal. He was a mess—half the man he had been when he’d left for work a week ago. The weight of it all hit him at once, and he felt like he was crumbling from the inside out.

Harry stepped in front of him, blocking Spencer’s view of the mirror. He gently cupped Spencer’s face, forcing him to look into his eyes instead of at his broken reflection.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” Harry said softly.

Spencer tried to protest, mumbling something about not needing help, but Harry saw right through it. He knew that Spencer was struggling, and there was no way he was leaving him alone right now. Not after everything that had happened.

With a resigned sigh, Spencer allowed Harry to help him undress, careful of the stitches on his arms and chest. Harry didn’t rush—he moved slowly, methodically, as if he knew that every touch needed to be gentle.

Once Spencer was undressed, Harry helped him step into the shower, the warm water immediately relaxing his tense muscles. Harry excused himself for a moment to find towels and fresh clothes, leaving Spencer alone with the water cascading over him.

Spencer stood under the spray, his eyes closed, his head tilted back as the water ran over his skin. He scrubbed at his body, harder and harder, trying to wash away the remnants of everything that had touched him in the last few days. His skin was raw, his muscles aching, but no matter how much he scrubbed, it never felt like enough. He needed to be clean—completely clean.

Without realizing it, he had turned the water as hot as it could go, the scalding heat burning his skin. He scrubbed harder, desperate to wash it all away.

Suddenly, he felt a pair of hands on his wrists, pulling him back from the edge. His eyes flew open, his heart pounding in his chest as he whipped around to see Harry standing behind him, naked, his eyes wide with panic.

Spencer looked down and saw the blood on his hands, the water running red as it pooled at the drain. He had ripped his stitches. The realization hit him like a freight train, and his eyes filled with tears.

“I... I didn’t mean to,” Spencer stammered, his voice breaking. “I just wanted to be clean... I need to be clean.”

Harry’s expression softened, his panic giving way to concern. He pulled Spencer into his arms, holding him close as the water continued to cascade over them. He reached behind Spencer to turn the water temperature down, making it more bearable.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Spencer’s forehead. “You’re okay. I’m here, I'm not mad.”

Spencer sobbed against Harry’s chest, his hands trembling as he clung to the man who had always been there for him. Harry held him until the tears subsided, rubbing soothing circles on his back and murmuring soft reassurances.

When Spencer had calmed down enough, Harry pulled back slightly, reaching for a washcloth. He gently cleaned the blood from Spencer’s body, being careful not to touch the torn stitches too much. When the blood was gone, Harry reached for the soap and began to wash Spencer’s body, his touch light and soothing.

Once Spencer’s body was clean, Harry moved on to his hair, carefully massaging the shampoo into his scalp and rinsing it out. He worked in silence, his focus entirely on Spencer, who stood there, too exhausted to do anything but let Harry take care of him.

By the time Harry was finished, Spencer was practically asleep on his feet, his body swaying slightly as the last of the water rinsed the soap from his skin. Harry shut off the water and stepped out of the shower first, quickly wrapping a towel around his waist before helping Spencer out of the shower.

He dried Spencer off with a soft towel, careful not to hurt the stitches, before slipping a robe onto Spencer’s lean frame and tying it securely. He guided Spencer to sit on the closed toilet seat and grabbed a blow dryer from the counter, drying Spencer’s hair with gentle hands. The sound of the dryer was soothing, and Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into Harry’s touch.

Once Spencer’s hair was dry, Harry helped him into a pair of soft pajamas and guided him to his bed. Spencer collapsed onto the mattress, the exhaustion catching up with him all at once.

Harry found a pair of pajama pants for himself and slipped them on. He was about to sit in the armchair in the corner when Spencer reached out, his hand grabbing Harry’s wrist.

Spencer didn’t say anything, but the message was clear—he didn’t want to be alone.

Harry smiled softly and nodded, walking around to the other side of the bed and slipping under the sheets. He wrapped his arms around Spencer, pulling him close so that Spencer’s head rested on his chest, his body curled up against Harry’s warmth.

“Sleep,” Harry whispered, his hand stroking Spencer’s hair. “I’ve got you.”

Spencer’s breathing evened out, his body relaxing as he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, the first peaceful rest he’d had in days.

Harry held him close, his own eyes growing heavy as the room filled with the soft sounds of their breathing. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Spencer’s head, feeling a sense of peace settle over him as well.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Spencer was safe. He was home. And Harry would make sure he stayed that way.

Chapter Text

Spencer's eyes fluttered open, though not quite awake. His body still lingered in the space between sleep and consciousness, the weight of exhaustion pulling at him. There was warmth behind him—something solid and familiar pressing against his back. The memory of the night before came flooding back, bringing a soft smile to his lips. Harry, he thought, as he shuffled back, pressing his body closer to the one behind him.

The sensation of hair against his skin surprised him. It felt different—thicker and rougher than he remembered. The chest against his back was broader, more muscled. Harry had always been bigger than him, stronger, but not like this. Something was off, something that immediately began to stir the quiet alarms in Spencer's head.

The hands that had been resting low on his stomach began to move, slow and deliberate. At first, they rubbed soothing circles into his skin, but then they drifted lower, their path more intentional, more invasive. Spencer's stomach knotted in discomfort. Harry had always asked before touching him like this, always made sure Spencer was okay, especially after what they had been through. Why was he doing this now?

"Harry...?" Spencer whispered, his voice groggy and unsure.

No answer.

The pit in Spencer's stomach deepened as the hand slid further into his pajama pants. His heart began to race, the fog of sleep lifting as panic clawed its way to the surface. He shifted, trying to pull away, his voice louder now.

"Harry, stop," he said, fear lacing his words.

But the touch continued, relentless. Spencer looked down at the sheets that had pooled around his waist, and that's when he saw them—the arms wrapped around him. They were wrong. These weren’t Harry’s arms. The skin was too rough, the muscle too pronounced. He knew these arms—had memorized their feel against his skin over the years.

His head whipped around, his breath catching in his throat as he stared into the dark, predatory eyes of Valentino Marino.

“No…” Spencer’s voice was a whisper of disbelief, his body frozen in terror.

Val's smile was cruel, his grip tightening as Spencer struggled, his panic flooding every inch of his being. He thrashed against the bed, but Val was stronger, pinning him down effortlessly. His body was trapped beneath Val’s weight, the smell of him—cologne, sweat, and something else far more sinister—invading his senses.

Spencer’s mind screamed for him to fight, to push Val off, to get away, but his body refused to listen. He was paralyzed, trapped in the nightmare that had haunted him for years. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling rapidly as panic swallowed him whole.

"Where's Harry?" he choked out, his voice small, desperate. "He was supposed to protect me. He promised—"

But Val’s hands didn’t stop. His touch was invasive, cruel, a sick reminder of every moment of control he’d once had over Spencer.

This isn't real, a voice deep in Spencer’s mind whispered, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming sensation of being trapped, helpless, as Val continued his assault.

Suddenly, another voice broke through the haze. “Spencer!” It was soft, but insistent, cutting through the nightmare like a lifeline.

Harry?

The voice grew louder, more urgent. “Spencer, wake up! It’s not real!”

Hands—gentle hands—gripped his arms, pulling him out of the darkness, away from Val’s suffocating hold. Spencer’s eyes shot open, his vision blurred by tears, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest. The weight on top of him vanished as his mind struggled to catch up with reality.

Harry’s face came into view, his features etched with concern as he shook Spencer gently. “It’s okay, you’re safe. Spencer, you’re safe.”

Spencer’s eyes darted around the room, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. His bedroom was dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of the nightlight in the corner. There was no Valentino, no hands trapping him. But the phantom touches still lingered on his skin, the suffocating weight of the nightmare refusing to let him go.

Tears streamed down Spencer’s face, his body trembling uncontrollably as the realization set in. It had all been a dream—a horrifying, vivid dream—but the terror felt as real as the cold air in the room.

Harry pulled him into his arms, wrapping him in a tight embrace as Spencer’s tears soaked into the crook of his neck. His voice was soft, soothing, as he whispered into Spencer’s hair.

“It’s okay, Spence. I’m here. Val’s not here. He can’t hurt you.”

Spencer’s sobs turned into soft, broken gasps as he clung to Harry, his hands shaking as they gripped the back of Harry’s shirt. “He was... he was in the bed,” Spencer stammered, his voice cracking. “It wasn’t you. It was Val... I... I couldn’t stop him.”

Harry’s grip tightened, his own heart breaking at the sound of Spencer’s voice. He lifted Spencer’s chin gently, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“Val’s in jail,” Harry reassured him, his voice firm but kind. “You’re safe, Spencer. He’s not here. He’ll never hurt you again.”

Spencer’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of the nightmare. Harry knew they wouldn’t be going back to sleep after this. He could feel the raw fear radiating from Spencer, the kind that wouldn’t be easily soothed.

“We’re not staying in here,” Harry said softly, guiding Spencer out of bed. He led him back into the living room, his arm securely around Spencer’s waist as they walked.

Spencer collapsed onto the couch, clutching the blanket from the bed to his chest, his body still shaking slightly. Harry jogged to the kitchen, pulling a cold bottle of water from the fridge before returning to Spencer’s side. He unscrewed the cap and lifted the bottle to Spencer’s lips, gently urging him to drink.

Spencer took a few hesitant sips, the cool water soothing his dry throat and forcing him to focus on something other than the nightmare. His breathing slowly began to steady, though his hands still shook as he pushed the bottle away.

“I’m so tired,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible. His eyes were red, the dark circles beneath them almost black from exhaustion. “I can’t... I can’t keep going like this.”

Harry’s heart ached at the sight of him, broken and exhausted. He stood up, walking over to the bookshelf on the far wall, his fingers trailing over the spines of the books as he searched for something that might bring Spencer a sense of comfort.

His eyes landed on a familiar title—the first book he had ever given Spencer back when they were at Pride. Val had never let Spencer keep anything personal in his room, not even books, but Harry had found a way to slip one to him, something to keep Spencer grounded. It was a small act of defiance, a quiet rebellion against Val’s control.

Harry smiled softly as he pulled the book from the shelf. He kept it, he thought, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and sadness. All the books he’d given Spencer over the years were still there, lined up neatly on the shelf, a testament to the connection they had shared.

He walked back to the couch, the book in hand, and sat down next to Spencer. Spencer’s eyes flickered to the cover, and for the first time that night, his expression softened. He recognized the book immediately, the memories of when Harry had first given it to him bringing a faint smile to his lips.

Harry cracked the book open, the familiar smell of the pages filling the air as he began to read. Spencer shifted closer to him, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder, his tears still falling but more slowly now. Harry didn’t comment on them—he simply read, his voice calm and steady, the way he always had.

The minutes passed in silence, save for the sound of Harry’s voice and the occasional rustle of the pages. Spencer’s body slowly relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing as he became absorbed in the words, in the story that had once provided him an escape from his darkest moments.

They sat like that for hours, the early morning light slowly spilling through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. The warmth of the sun brought a sense of peace, a reminder that the night was finally over.

Chapter Text

Late morning sunlight filtered through the windows of Spencer Reid's apartment, casting a warm, calming glow across the room. The morning had been a quiet one, the silence interrupted only by the gentle strumming of a Hozier record Harry had picked from Spencer's collection. Now, the two sat at the kitchen table, their breakfast spread out before them—a modest meal of bacon, eggs, and toast that Harry had ordered from a local diner.

Spencer sat at the head of the table, his legs tucked beneath him, one hand absently picking at a piece of bacon. His mind wandered, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts that swirled around his recent trauma. The comforting voice of Hozier couldn’t drown out the fear, shame, and uncertainty that gnawed at him from the inside.

Harry sat to his left, his eyes darting between his meal and Spencer, watching carefully. He could see the way Spencer’s brow furrowed, the way his body seemed to tense, though outwardly he appeared still.

“What’s on your mind, Spence?” Harry asked softly, trying to keep his tone casual, as if they were talking about something as simple as what to do later in the day.

Spencer hesitated, biting his lip, his mind racing with all the things he wasn’t ready to admit but couldn’t keep locked away either. They had seen the files. His team—the people who knew him best, who he admired and cared for—they knew now. They knew what Valentino had done to him. How could they ever look at him the same way again?

Harry waited patiently, letting Spencer gather his thoughts. After a long pause, Spencer finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain. “They accessed the files, didn’t they?” he asked, his eyes trained on the half-eaten bacon in his hand. “They saw everything... how can they even look at me now?”

Harry sighed, setting down his fork and turning his full attention to Spencer. “They didn’t see everything,” he assured him. “They saw the security footage from the club—some backstage, some from the dance studio—and they saw the interview you gave when you came forward. That’s all.”

Spencer let that sink in, but it did little to ease the storm inside him. "But they know, Harry... they know what Val did to me. They know what he made me do."

Harry shook his head gently, his expression calm but firm. “They don’t know everything, Spence. And they don’t need to. What happened is done. The important part is that you're here now.”

Spencer said nothing, merely nodded, though his mind was far from settled. He pushed his plate away, no longer interested in the food in front of him. He stood quietly, following Harry into the kitchen. Harry began cleaning up, trying to take over the task of washing dishes, but Spencer insisted on helping. He needed to feel like he was doing something—anything—to ground himself.

For the next hour, they worked in silence. Harry washed the dishes from breakfast and last night’s meal, and Spencer dried them, methodically putting each one away. It was a simple task, but it gave Spencer a brief sense of normalcy, a fleeting reminder of life before everything had gone wrong.

By early afternoon, the sun cast long shadows across the apartment. Harry checked his phone, noticing the weather was perfect for a walk—early fall had arrived, and the cool breeze could do Spencer some good.

“How about we go for a short walk?” Harry suggested, his tone light, knowing it would take some convincing. “Just ten minutes, we’ll go around the block, maybe get some fresh air. If it’s too much, we’ll come right back.”

Spencer hesitated, unsure. He had grown comfortable hiding in his apartment, away from the noise, the crowds, the world. The thought of being out in public again, exposed, made his stomach twist. "I don't know..." he murmured.

“I promise, if it’s too much, we’ll head right back,” Harry reassured him, holding up his pinky. “Pinky promise.”

A small giggle escaped Spencer’s lips despite himself. Harry always knew how to make him smile, even in the darkest moments. With a reluctant nod, Spencer agreed. They made their way to his bedroom to change out of their pajamas into something that didn’t scream they’d spent days inside.

After dressing, they walked out of the apartment, Harry locking the door behind them. They descended the stairs and crossed through the lobby, stepping out into the fresh air of the courtyard. Spencer inhaled deeply, the scent of flowers mingling with the pungent smell of car exhaust. The sounds of the city surrounded him—car horns blaring, distant voices, children playing in the park across the street.

He felt overwhelmed. His senses were on high alert, everything too much all at once. The comforting hand of Harry holding his kept him grounded as they crossed the street into the park. Harry led the way, guiding Spencer through the quietest path, the early fall leaves just beginning to turn shades of yellow.

Spencer’s mind was a jumble of conflicting thoughts. He noticed everything around him—the perfume of a passerby, the acorns scattered by squirrels, the conversations of joggers nearby. Life went on around him as if nothing had happened, and it unsettled him deeply. How could the world continue as normal when his entire life had been shattered? It wasn’t logical, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Their walk was short, just as Harry had promised. As they made their way back toward the courtyard, a man bumped into Spencer. He was tall, muscular, his deep voice murmuring a quick apology before continuing on his way.

Spencer froze, his breath catching in his throat. The sudden touch, the size of the man, the voice—all of it sent his mind spiraling back to Val. His senses went haywire, everything around him amplifying a thousandfold. The sounds, the smells, the sights—it was too much.

By the time they reached the apartment, Spencer was barely holding it together. He bolted through the door the moment Harry unlocked it, collapsing on the floor against the kitchen island. Tears streamed down his face, his breathing shallow and ragged. He was furious—with himself, with Val, with the world. How could he be so weak? So broken?

“I can’t even go for a walk!” Spencer cried out in frustration, his hands tugging at his hair. “What kind of person can’t even go for a walk?”

Harry knelt beside him, grabbing his wrists firmly, but gently enough not to hurt him. “Spence, stop,” he said, his voice steady. “What you’ve been through... no one expects you to be okay. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known, but it’s okay to not be ready. I pushed you into this, and that was my fault.”

Spencer’s sobs quieted, but the shame still weighed heavily on him. “I just want to be normal again. I want to go for walks, go out with the team, sleep without nightmares... I’m so tired, Harry. I’m so tired.”

Spencer’s mind was a swirling storm of emotions—anger, fear, shame, exhaustion. His entire body felt like it was vibrating with tension, coiled so tightly that he thought he might snap. It was too much to process, too much to handle. He had been holding everything together by a thread, barely making it through the last few days with the help of Harry and the team. But despite their best efforts, the pressure of it all was still crushing him.

He couldn’t think straight. Every breath he took felt shallow, his lungs not filling up the way they should, and every time he closed his eyes, he could see Val’s face. The world around him felt distorted—too loud, too bright, too much. He wanted to be normal again. He wanted to be the Spencer he was before Val came back into his life and ripped him apart all over again. He just wanted to feel in control.

And with Harry there, so close, so safe, Spencer’s mind latched onto a familiar coping mechanism. He had used sex as a distraction before, as a way to reclaim some control over his body and his mind when nothing else seemed to work. Back when Val had first manipulated him, Spencer had learned to survive by using intimacy as a shield, as a way to escape from the horrors that were inflicted on him.

Even after he escaped, that coping mechanism lingered, buried deep inside him. Whenever life felt overwhelming and logic couldn’t solve his problems, his mind turned to the one thing that had, in the past, made him feel like he had some sort of power over his own body: sex. It wasn’t about love or passion, not in these moments. It was about control, about drowning out the thoughts that he couldn’t handle by replacing them with something else, something that felt physical and immediate.

As he sat there on the floor, shaking and raw from his panic, his exhausted brain sought out that familiar method of coping. Harry was right there, the person who had always protected him, always understood him in ways others didn’t. Spencer trusted Harry more than anyone, and part of him believed that if he could just lose himself in Harry’s touch, he might be able to block out the darkness. It was a way to feel something—anything—other than pain.

So when his mind raced through every possible solution to the overwhelming feelings, it settled on that instinctual response. His gaze flickered to Harry’s lips, and in that moment, it felt like the only answer. He thought, maybe if he could just kiss Harry, everything would be okay. Maybe if they could just go back to the closeness they had shared before, he could forget the weight of everything else.

Without thinking, Spencer surged forward and kissed him, pouring all of his fear, desperation, and exhaustion into that one act. It wasn’t romantic or sweet; it was a plea, a desperate attempt to silence the chaos in his mind. He kissed Harry like his life depended on it, as if that kiss could make the nightmares disappear, could erase everything Val had done to him.

But it wasn’t right. Even as his lips pressed against Harry’s, Spencer could feel something wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Harry wasn’t reacting the way he had expected—not because Harry didn’t care, but because Harry understood. He knew this kiss wasn’t about love, it wasn’t about affection—it was Spencer’s way of trying to cope, to escape, and that wasn’t healthy.

Harry let the kiss happen for a brief moment, but then he pulled back, his hand pressing against Spencer’s chest to keep him from leaning in again. “No, Spence,” Harry said softly, his voice steady and gentle. “This isn’t the answer. It’s not going to make things better.”

Spencer froze, his heart sinking as the rejection hit him. But deep down, he knew Harry was right. This wasn’t the solution. He wasn’t ready for this, not in the state he was in. His body, his mind—they were still healing, still raw and bruised from everything Val had done to him. Using intimacy as a distraction wasn’t going to help him this time.

The realization of what he had done hit him hard, and guilt flooded his system. He pulled back from Harry, his breath shaky and uneven, tears welling up in his eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “I’m so sorry.”

Harry pulled him into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around Spencer as if to shield him from the world. "Don't be sorry," Harry murmured, holding him close. "I'm not upset. I just want you to be okay, Spence. That's all I’ve ever wanted."

Spencer broke down in Harry’s arms, the weight of everything finally crashing down on him. He hadn’t wanted to kiss Harry because of any romantic feelings—not in that moment. He had kissed him because he was desperate for something to take away the pain, something to make him feel human again.

They stayed like that for a long time, Spencer wrapped in Harry’s arms, the world outside of their little bubble disappearing. Harry’s arms cramped from holding him, but he didn’t care. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it. He would never let Spencer go.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since Harry and Spencer first ventured outside to the park, and despite the sleepless nights still haunted by nightmares of Valentino, the days had started to feel a little less heavy. Their mornings were spent quietly watching the sunrise, and with Harry’s encouragement, they returned to the park twice more. One time they took a simple walk, and another time Harry packed a picnic, allowing them to linger on a blanket, finding solace in the changing autumn leaves.

The fresh air had become easier for Spencer to tolerate. Walking outside his apartment wasn’t as terrifying anymore, but he still struggled in confined spaces with strangers. That morning, they pushed their boundaries further by going to one of Spencer’s favorite cafes. The walk to the cafe was peaceful, with morning doves cooing and crisp fall air swirling around them. Inside, however, Spencer felt his nerves stretch thin. The overwhelming smells of coffee, the clatter of dishes, and the crowded morning rush nearly sent him spiraling. But with Harry’s hand firmly on his back, he held it together. Harry even convinced him to order his own coffee, which was Spencer’s first real social interaction in two weeks. It wasn’t perfect—he stuttered and struggled with his words—but he did it.

Leaving the cafe, Spencer felt a flicker of pride in himself, something he hadn’t experienced in a while. A small accomplishment, but Harry’s words from earlier stuck with him: any progress is important, no matter how small.

Now back in the apartment, the tension of the morning had settled into something more comfortable. Spencer sat perched on the windowsill, watching the world outside. The hum of traffic and pedestrians below seemed a world away. The apartment was filled with the quiet, melancholic sound of Mitski’s Be the Cowboy, a vinyl Spencer had chosen for the day’s soundtrack.

Harry sat on the couch with a book he’d pulled from Spencer’s extensive collection, occasionally glancing over the pages to check on Spencer. He’d noticed a subtle shift in Spencer’s demeanor over the past week. While the nightmares persisted, Spencer had stopped waking up with the panic-stricken belief that Harry was Val. The line between memory and reality was becoming clearer. But despite this progress, Harry could tell Spencer was still burdened by something heavy—something he hadn’t quite spoken aloud yet.

After a while, Harry closed the book and set it down, catching Spencer’s attention. “How do you feel about seeing your team soon?” Harry asked casually, his voice soft as if asking about dinner plans. “They just got back from a case last night, and they really want to see you.”

Spencer’s body tensed. The idea of facing them after everything… it terrified him. The thought of looking them in the eye, knowing that they knew—that they had read the files, that they had seen—made him feel sick. He knew that the safety and quiet of the apartment with Harry couldn’t last forever, but that didn’t make the thought of leaving it any easier.

Harry, sensing the hesitation, didn’t push but reminded Spencer gently that he couldn’t rely on one person alone. “You need your team, Spencer. You need more than just me.”

Spencer nodded after a long pause. It was hard to argue with Harry’s logic, even if his fear kept whispering that his team would look at him differently now, that they would see him as broken.

“I’ll message Hotch and Morgan,” Harry said, pulling out his phone. He sent a quick text to the separate group chat he’d created with Hotch and Derek, figuring that a smaller group would be less overwhelming for Spencer.

Both responded almost immediately, asking when they should come by. Harry turned to Spencer, who looked a little more on edge now that it was becoming real.

“When would you like them to come?” Harry asked, giving him control over the situation. He wouldn’t allow Spencer to shut them out, but he would let him set the pace.

After a few moments of quiet deliberation, Spencer spoke. “Tonight… for dinner.”

Harry smiled, encouraging Spencer with a gentle hand on his shoulder. He relayed the message to Hotch and Derek, who agreed to be there by six, both asking if they should bring anything. Harry reassured them they had everything covered.

With a plan set, Harry suggested they tidy the apartment and prepare for dinner together. Spencer agreed, though his anxiety was starting to bubble beneath the surface. He moved around the apartment aimlessly, picking things up and setting them down again without much thought. His hand drifted to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as his nervous energy found an outlet.

“Spencer, that’s enough,” Harry said softly, stepping forward and gently pulling Spencer’s hand away from his hair. “It’s just your team. It’s Derek and Hotch. They care about you no less than they did before.”

Spencer’s shoulders sagged. He knew Harry was right. He had to believe it. But still, he struggled to quiet the voice in his mind telling him that his team had seen too much—that they knew too much.

“I want you to want to do this for yourself, Spencer. Not for me,” Harry added, his voice gentle but firm.

Spencer’s eyes widened for a moment before he blinked and looked down at his feet. He realized, with a sinking feeling, that the need for validation—the remnants of Valentino’s manipulation—still had a firm grip on him. He had always craved approval from those he respected, and now, after all this time, he found himself doing the same with Harry.

“I’m doing this for me,” Spencer said, more to himself than to Harry, but the words held a newfound determination.

Harry smiled softly, releasing Spencer’s hand and pointing to the blankets strewn across the couch. “Good. Start by folding those, then we’ll keep going.”

For the next hour, the two of them worked together, cleaning up the apartment, setting the table, and getting dinner ingredients ready. Spencer eventually excused himself to take a shower. Alone this time. His stitches were out, though he was still careful around the healing scabs.

By the time Spencer stepped out, dressed in jeans and a simple polo, Harry was already preparing dinner. Spencer felt a small flicker of contentment as he moved into the kitchen to help, losing himself in the comforting repetition of cooking. It felt normal. Simple.

When Harry returned from his own shower, dressed in a dark button-up and jeans, Spencer barely noticed. He was so focused on finishing the dinner preparations that it wasn’t until Harry came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Spencer’s waist and planting a soft kiss on his neck, that he realized Harry was there.

Spencer jumped lightly but smiled, feeling a sense of security in Harry’s familiar presence. The scent apple-scented body wash mixed with the warm smells of dinner made Spencer feel… grounded. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the feeling wash over him.

But then came the knock at the door. Spencer’s body froze, his breath catching in his throat. The small bubble of peace they had created burst, and the nerves returned full force.

Harry gave him a reassuring squeeze and kissed his neck once more. “You’ve got this,” he whispered before pulling away to answer the door.

Spencer heard the voices of Hotch and Derek as Harry greeted them, their deep tones filling the small hallway. He could feel them approaching, their footsteps vibrating lightly through the floor. Taking a deep breath, Spencer steadied himself. I can do this.

When they entered the room, Derek was all smiles, striding up to Spencer and pulling him into a tight, familiar hug. There was no awkward hesitation, no tiptoeing around what had happened. Just a simple, brotherly embrace.

“Missed you, man. It’s good to see you,” Derek said, pulling back with a grin.

Spencer returned the smile, feeling a small sense of relief wash over him. He had missed Derek more than he realized. He relaxed even more when Derek ruffled his hair like he always did, though Spencer quickly reached up to fix it, a familiar gesture that made them both chuckle softly.

Hotch stood a few steps back, a small, rare smile on his face as he held up a bottle of white wine. “Brought your favorite,” he said warmly.

Spencer nodded, quietly thanking him before turning to help Harry finish setting the table. But as soon as Spencer stepped into the kitchen, away from his team’s presence, he felt the emotions he had been holding back swell inside him. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and before he knew it, they were spilling down his cheeks.

Harry turned around, concern instantly replacing the smile on his face as he saw Spencer’s tears. He set the wine glasses down and rushed over, cupping Spencer’s face in his hands.

“Hey, what’s going on? Why are you crying?” Harry asked softly, his thumbs brushing away the tears.

Spencer shook his head, unable to explain. “I don’t know why. I thought I was okay, but then—” He broke off, frustrated with himself. “I’m so tired of crying.”

Harry’s eyes softened as he held Spencer’s gaze. He understood—seeing Hotch and Derek, feeling their normalcy and care—it was overwhelming. Spencer had spent so much time convincing himself that they would see him differently, that they would find him broken or unworthy. His brain had spent so long spiraling into fear that now, faced with their kindness, it couldn’t compute.

“You know they love you, right?” Harry whispered. “They don’t care about what happened. They care about you.”

Spencer nodded, taking in a shaky breath as Harry wiped the last of his tears away. Harry gave him a reassuring smile and nudged him gently toward the stove. “Now, let’s get this food on the table. We’ve got company.”

Dinner passed in a blur of conversation and laughter. Spencer mostly watched from the sidelines, observing the easy dynamic between Harry and his teammates. He expected awkwardness, or maybe even pity, but all he saw was genuine warmth and care. They asked Harry about his life, about what he had been up to, and laughed at stories from the café earlier that morning.

For the first time in weeks, Spencer felt like things might actually be okay. His mind went into profiler mode, carefully analyzing every interaction. Derek’s leg bounced under the table until he finally got a smile out of Spencer, and Hotch’s subtle glances toward him were filled with concern, not judgment. They cared. They were still his family.

When dinner was done, Harry excused himself to wash the dishes, giving Spencer a knowing look when he tried to follow him. He couldn’t hold Spencer’s hand forever.

Spencer stood, watching Harry for a moment before joining Hotch and Derek in the living room. The tension that had been building all night seemed to loosen as he sank into the couch, the familiar sounds of Ben Platt’s Sing to Me Instead playing softly in the background.

“So, how are you doing, really?” Hotch asked gently, the question finally broached now that they were alone.

Spencer took a deep breath, the wine he had earlier giving him the courage to speak honestly. He told them about the nightmares, about the walk in the park, and how he had almost fallen apart when a man bumped into him. He left out the kiss with Harry but admitted how hard it had been, how tired he was—how he felt like no matter how many times he showered, he could never wash Val’s touch off his skin. How he wants nothing more than to go back to normal.

Hotch stood up and walked over to Spencer, pulling him into a hug. It wasn’t like the others—it was the hug of a father. Spencer tensed for a second before melting into the embrace, letting himself be held up by Hotch’s strength.

“Spencer, none of us are normal,” Hotch said quietly. “We’ve all been through things that have broken us in one way or another. You’ve been through more than most, but that doesn’t mean you’re broken. The team… we’re a family. We’ve seen each other at our worst, and nothing will change the fact that we’re here for you.”

Spencer’s breath hitched, tears soaking into Hotch’s shoulder. He stayed like that for a long moment, letting the words sink in before finally pulling back and nodding. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Hotch said with a small smile, his hand resting gently on Spencer’s shoulder before stepping back.

Derek stepped forward then, his hand resting lightly on Spencer’s arm. He looked thoughtful, as if deciding how much to say. “When Carl Buford did what he did to me,” Derek began slowly, “I didn’t have anyone to lean on. I didn’t have the support I needed. But you do, Spencer. You’ve got people who care about you, who want to help you. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Spencer’s throat tightened as Derek pulled him into a hug, one that felt just as protective as it was brotherly. It was a promise that Spencer wasn’t alone—that he never would be.

Harry entered the room quietly, watching as Derek held Spencer. For a moment, Harry felt a strange pang in his chest—he should’ve felt jealous, seeing Spencer in another mans arms, but instead, all he felt was love for the team that had taken care of Spencer for so long. He knew they were the key to Spencer’s healing, and he was grateful for them.

Spencer pulled back from Derek’s embrace, wiping his eyes and finally, for the first time that night, smiling—a real, genuine smile.

Maybe he wasn’t broken after all.

Chapter Text

Spencer sat in the unfamiliar waiting room, staring at the blank wall across from him. His knee bounced anxiously, the rhythm quickening with every passing second. Harry sat beside him, his hand resting comfortingly on Spencer’s back, offering silent support. The waiting room was peaceful in its stillness, but Spencer felt anything but calm. Today was his first therapy session, the first step in what he knew would be a long road. Despite knowing this was what he needed, every fiber of his being wanted to bolt out the door.

The door to the office opened, and both Spencer and Harry looked up. The therapist stepped out, giving Spencer a warm, welcoming smile as she approached.

“Dr. Reid?” she asked, her voice gentle. Spencer noticed immediately that she wasn’t trying too hard to put him at ease, which he appreciated. She extended a hand to shake.

Spencer waved instead, quickly explaining, "I, uh, don't shake hands. Germs." He managed a small smile as he introduced himself and Harry. The therapist didn’t even blink at his quirk and simply waved back with a kind nod.

"Nice to meet you both," she said before turning and gesturing for Spencer to follow her. Harry stayed back in the waiting room, watching Spencer as he hesitated for a split second before taking a deep breath and standing. The separation was hard; it would be the first time Spencer and Harry were truly apart since Harry had shown up at the hospital. But he had prepared for this, mentally coached himself for days, and now there was no turning back.

The therapist led him into her private office, which was softly lit and warm, with plush furniture and muted colors. It wasn’t the sterile, intimidating space he’d imagined. Spencer took a seat on a soft couch, immediately shifting into the corner and pulling a throw pillow into his lap as a makeshift barrier. The therapist sat across from him in an armchair, her legs tucked under her in a casual, non-threatening posture. Spencer knew what she was doing—making herself seem approachable, unintimidating.

It worked.

“So, Spencer,” she began, “why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”

Spencer rattled off the basics: his age, his job, his IQ, his PhDs. He mentioned his mom’s schizophrenia, his dad leaving when he was young, and the bullying he’d endured in school because of his age. He was concise, detached, like he was reciting a well-rehearsed script. When he reached the parts that involved Val, though, he hesitated, glancing away and shrugging off the details. The therapist noticed but didn’t push, at least not yet.

“Anything else you’d like to share?” she asked gently.

Spencer shrugged again, avoiding eye contact. "Not really," he muttered.

The therapist didn’t press further, shifting the conversation to something else. "Who’s the man you came in with?" she asked, her tone casual but curious.

"Harry, he's a friend," Spencer replied, keeping it simple. She nodded, and her eyes seemed to soften.

“You seem close,” she observed. “How long have you known each other?”

Spencer hesitated again before answering, “Since I was seventeen.” He didn’t elaborate, and the therapist could tell he wasn’t ready to explain. Instead of forcing the issue, she allowed the conversation to drift into more neutral territory. They spoke about his day-to-day life, how he was feeling now, but the session remained mostly surface level.

By the end of the hour, Spencer was practically itching to leave. The therapist was good—too good, perhaps—but the hour felt like an eternity. When she finally announced that their time was up, Spencer shot up from the couch and said a quick, breathless goodbye before rushing out of the office.

Harry barely had time to stand before Spencer grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the building. They were outside in the cool fall air before Harry could even process what was happening.

“Spencer,” Harry said, his voice calm, “slow down.”

Spencer stopped, taking a deep breath as the crisp breeze hit his face. It grounded him, pulling him out of his frantic state. After a moment, Harry asked, “What happened in there? Was she not good?”

“No,” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head. “She was good. Great, even. I just… I just needed to get out. The hour felt like a lifetime.”

Harry nodded, understanding. “Maybe next time we can make it forty-five minutes?”

Spencer gave a small nod, his anxiety slowly fading. They walked to Spencer’s car in silence, and once inside, Harry slid into the driver’s seat, sensing that Spencer wasn’t ready to talk about the session. Instead, he changed the subject to something lighter, filling the air with idle chatter as they drove.

They stopped at a small cafe called Coffee Club, and Spencer began to relax as they ate in the quiet, cozy atmosphere. The strong smell of coffee, the soft clinks of cups and plates, and the quiet hum of conversation all worked together to soothe his mind. It felt almost normal.

But then Spencer looked around and realized something. He turned to Harry, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Wait… why are we here?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

Harry looked up from his sandwich, trying to hide his sheepish expression. “We’re only about twenty minutes from Quantico,” he said slowly, watching Spencer for his reaction. “I thought… maybe we could visit your team.”

Spencer blinked, his heart rate picking up. His first instinct was to panic, to say no, to force Harry to take him home. But then he took a deep breath and considered it. The idea of seeing his team, of being back in that familiar place, wasn’t as terrifying as it had once been. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah… it might be nice.”

Harry’s shoulders dropped in relief, and they finished their food quickly, eager to get on the road.

The drive to the FBI headquarters was quiet, the soft hum of the car’s engine filling the space between them. Spencer felt a sense of calm wash over him as they drove closer. The sight of the familiar building sent a wave of nostalgia through him, and surprisingly, it wasn’t accompanied by the anxiety he had expected.

Once they parked in the garage, Spencer handed Harry his badge to scan. As they walked through the hallways, past the bustling agents, Spencer’s nerves began to flare up again. Harry must have sensed it because he reached out and gave Spencer’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

Three deep breaths.

By the time they reached the glass doors of the bullpen, Spencer’s heart was racing again, but he focused on his breathing, pushing the panic down. Inside, he could see his team, gathered around the desks, laughing and chatting. It was a scene that was so familiar, so comforting, that Spencer felt a pang of longing in his chest.

“Do you want me to go in first?” Harry asked gently.

Spencer shook his head. “No,” he whispered. He could do this. He pushed the doors open, his breath catching as the familiar sounds of the bullpen washed over him.

Hotch and Rossi were the first to notice them. They didn’t say anything, but Hotch sent him a small, reassuring smile, and Rossi gave a knowing smirk. Emily’s eyes widened as she noticed Spencer, and she broke into a wide smile. The rest of the team followed, their heads snapping toward him.

“Hey,” Spencer said softly, his voice almost drowned out by the chaos that ensued. Garcia squealed, running toward him as fast as her heels would allow. She threw her arms around him, talking a mile a minute about how much she had missed him.

JJ was next, pulling him into a tight hug and laughing lightly as Garcia’s rambling continued. “It’s so good to see you, Spence,” she said softly, her voice filled with warmth and affection.

Emily joined the group hug, making Spencer laugh softly. The warmth of their presence, the familiarity of their love, it was overwhelming in the best way. For the first time in weeks, Spencer felt a sense of peace.

When they finally let go, Derek approached, throwing a brotherly arm around Spencer’s shoulders. “Missed you, kid,” he said with a grin, giving Spencer a gentle squeeze.

Hotch and Rossi descended from the catwalk, greeting him with smiles. "How’re you doing, kid?" Rossi asked, his tone light but laced with concern.

Spencer thought about lying, about saying he was great. But he knew they’d see right through it. So instead, he said, “I’m… better.”

And for the first time in a long time, he realized that it was the truth.

They spent the next half-hour catching up, talking about everything and nothing. Spencer mostly sat back and listened, letting their voices wash over him like a balm. It felt like coming home. When JJ quietly slipped up beside him, asking how he was doing, Spencer told her about the nightmares, about how last night was his first night without one in weeks.

"That's progress," she said, smiling warmly. "It’s a good step."

Spencer nodded. Progress. That was the key word.

Soon, Hotch announced that they had a case. There were murmurs of disappointment from the team, but Spencer waved them off. He knew how this worked. He’d see them again soon. He smiled, watching as they gathered their things and prepared to leave.

As Spencer and Harry walked back to the elevator, Spencer felt a weight lift from his shoulders. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he was on the path to something better, something brighter. Baby steps, yes, but each one was a step toward rebuilding.

When the elevator doors closed, Spencer exhaled a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Today had been hard, but it had also been a victory.

And for the first time in a long time, Spencer felt hope.

Chapter Text

It had been a month since Spencer had started therapy. He only recently opened up about Val in his last session, and even then, all he had managed to say was Val's name and the fact that he had been his dance teacher when he was a kid. Afterward, Spencer couldn’t talk for hours, retreating into his thoughts, unable to form words. Harry had sat by his side in silence, knowing Spencer needed time to process what had just come out.

The last month had been grueling—emotionally, mentally, and physically. Therapy felt like wading through quicksand. Every session dragged Spencer into depths he wasn’t sure he wanted to revisit. His team had been a constant support, but their well-meaning visits had become a revolving door of concern, and though he was grateful, he was tired—so tired.

Now, as Spencer stood in front of the full-length mirror in his room, pulling at the hem of his shirt, his anxiety was palpable. He tugged the fabric away from his body, his fingers kneading at the material as if trying to stretch it. It’s too tight. It’s choking me.

His reflection taunted him, his mind playing cruel tricks. He could see the shirt clinging to his stomach, highlighting every imperfection, every perceived flaw. His breathing quickened, and the collar of his shirt felt like it was tightening around his neck. Suddenly, he could see it in the mirror—the black leather collar Val used to make him wear. He rubbed at his throat as if trying to remove it, but no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t go away.

He startled at the sound of his bedroom door opening. Harry entered, flashing him a warm smile. “You ready to go?” he asked, oblivious to the storm brewing in Spencer’s mind.

Spencer hesitated, looking back at the mirror. It’s not right. I don’t look good enough. This shirt makes me look fat. His mind raced, and without thinking, he turned and rushed into his closet, muttering to himself.

“Spence?” Harry called, following him, confusion clear in his voice. "Where’s this coming from?"

“It’s not right!” Spencer's voice was frantic as he tore clothes from their hangers, his fingers shaking. He yanked shirts and pants from the racks, tossing them onto the floor in a frenzy. “It’s not right, it’s not right…”

Harry quickly stepped forward, grabbing Spencer’s arms. “Spencer, you look fine. You look great, there’s nothing to change.”

But Spencer didn’t hear him. His breathing grew heavier, and he spun around, yanking at the collar of his shirt again. “It’s your fault!” he suddenly shouted, his voice laced with anger. “I’m getting fat because you’re making me eat more, and now I look—” His eyes dropped to his own reflection, disgust twisting his features. His fingers dug into his neck, clawing at the phantom collar.

Harry was taken aback. Spencer had never lashed out at him before. He’d been angry before, sure, but never like this—never directed at Harry. And though Harry knew it wasn’t personal, the words still stung.

“Spencer, I—" Harry started, but Spencer cut him off, spinning to face him again, his emotions flipping from anger to confusion to despair in the span of a few seconds. His hands lifted to cover his face as he sank to the ground, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Spencer’s voice was muffled behind his hands, the words spilling from his lips like a prayer.

Harry let out a soft sigh and dropped to the floor beside him, pulling Spencer into his chest. “It’s okay,” Harry murmured, running a soothing hand over Spencer’s back.

But Spencer shook his head, pulling away, wiping at his tears. “No, it’s not okay. None of it is okay.” His voice cracked. “You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t do anything to deserve any of this, and I didn’t deserve what happened either. It’s all so unfair.”

Spencer curled in on himself, resting his head in his hands. Harry sat next to him in silence, his heart aching for Spencer. He was right—it wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. But Harry didn’t know what to say that would make it better, so he sat with him, his presence the only thing he could offer.

After a few minutes, Harry asked gently, “Do you want me to pick something out for you to wear?”

Spencer looked up, his face streaked with tears. He nodded.

Harry stood, picking up the discarded clothes and hanging them back up. He took his time selecting a soft blue sweater and a pair of black jeans, something he knew Spencer would feel comfortable in. When Spencer stood up, watching him with guilt written across his face, Harry handed him the clothes with a smile.

"Go change," Harry said, as if everything that had just happened was perfectly normal, brushing past the obvious discomfort still hanging in the air. He left the closet, giving Spencer some privacy.

When Spencer emerged a few minutes later, dressed in the blue sweater and jeans, he looked more put together, though his eyes were still red and puffy from crying. He gave Harry a shy smile. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Harry brushed it off with a wave, slinging an arm around Spencer’s waist. “You look great. Come on, let’s get going.”

They sat down to put on their shoes, and just as Harry grabbed the car keys, he turned to Spencer. “You want to talk about what just happened?”

Spencer shook his head quickly. “No.”

Harry respected it, nodding as he grabbed the keys off the counter.

The drive to Rossi’s mansion took about half an hour. The entire time, Spencer’s knee bounced anxiously, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. He hadn’t seen the entire team in weeks—not since the impromptu visit to Quantico—and the thought of being around them all at once again had his nerves spiraling.

When they finally pulled up to Rossi’s expansive house, Spencer’s heart raced. Every team member's car was already parked out front. As they climbed the steps to the front door, Spencer’s grip on Harry’s hand tightened. Harry gave it a reassuring squeeze in return.

Just as Harry raised his fist to knock, the door swung open, revealing Rossi with a glass of red wine in hand. “Ah, Spencer! Harry!” Rossi greeted them with a broad smile, stepping aside to wave them in. “Come in, come in. Everyone’s in the kitchen.”

Spencer hesitated at the threshold, his feet glued to the floor. It took a gentle nudge from Harry’s hand on his back to get him moving forward.

“Spencer is here, kids!” Rossi called with his usual Italian flair, his voice echoing through the house.

There was a loud squeal, and suddenly Penelope came flying out of the kitchen, throwing herself at Spencer in a tight hug. Spencer let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the familiar vanilla candy rock sugar scent of her perfume grounding him. It brought back a fond memory of when she dragged him to Sephora to sample every perfume in the store. The thought calmed his racing mind, and he hugged her back, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders.

After a long embrace, Spencer greeted the rest of the team, who welcomed him with warm smiles and familiar banter. The house was filled with the sound of laughter, and for a moment, Spencer felt like maybe—just maybe—things could go back to normal.

But as dinner was served, Spencer’s anxiety crept back. Rossi had prepared an elaborate meal—pasta, salad, homemade breadsticks. The smell alone was enough to make anyone’s stomach growl, but Spencer couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He sat, staring at the pasta on the table like it was the enemy.

The team piled their plates high with food, laughing and chatting as they ate. Normally, Spencer would have gone back for seconds, his fast metabolism allowing him to eat as much as he wanted without gaining weight. Derek used to tease him about it, joking that he didn’t understand how Spencer could eat so much and still be so skinny. Derek never meant any harm, but the comments had always stuck with Spencer—like every comment about his body ever had.

Spencer's fingers twitched toward the salad instead, skipping the pasta entirely, leaving the dressing off. No one seemed to notice at first, too engrossed in their conversations. But Harry noticed. Harry always noticed.

Without thinking, Harry reached for the pasta bowl and piled a healthy portion onto Spencer’s plate. When Spencer glanced down at the food, his stomach churned. He shot Harry a look, trying to mask his frustration with a smile, but his irritation bubbled just below the surface. He snapped his gaze away, the anger from earlier simmering once again.

Dinner passed in a blur. Spencer avoided Harry’s gaze, focusing instead on his conversations with JJ and Derek. He ignored the food on his plate, pushing it around with his fork to make it look like he was eating, occasionally lifting it to his mouth but never actually taking a bite. No one noticed—except Harry.

By the time dessert was finished, Spencer’s frustration had boiled over. He hadn’t eaten a single bite of the pasta, and the glasses of wine he'd had started to cloud his judgment. He felt the alcohol settle into his system, and he could sense Harry watching him from across the table, concern etched into every line of his face.

“Spencer,” Harry said softly, leaning closer to him. "I think we should go."

Spencer’s head snapped toward him, his voice louder than he intended. "What? Why?"

"You’ve had a lot to drink, and I think it’s time we head home," Harry said, trying to keep his tone gentle, not wanting to cause a scene.

But that only made Spencer angrier. “Oh, because you know exactly what I need, huh?” Spencer snapped, pushing his chair back from the table. "Everyone thinks they know what's best for me!"

"Spencer, come on—"

“No! I’m sick of everyone babying me. I’m not some wounded fucking animal that needs to be fixed!” Spencer stood, his body swaying slightly from the alcohol.

The team sat in stunned silence, unsure of what to do. They had never seen Spencer act like this—never heard him raise his voice, much less swear.

"Let’s go," Harry repeated, standing up to gently grab Spencer's arm. But Spencer ripped his arm away.

"Get off me! I’m not a fucking child!" Spencer’s voice was venomous, each word sharper than the last.

Harry froze. "Then stop acting like one!" The words slipped out before Harry could stop himself.

Spencer’s face twisted in anger. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone. “You want me to stop acting like a child? Fine. I can act like an adult.”

Harry stared, confused and alarmed by the shift in Spencer's demeanor. “What—what are you talking about?”

Spencer stepped closer, his voice sultry and his eyes dark. “Maybe you’re upset because I haven’t let you fuck me. Is that it, Harry?” Spencer’s words were slurred, but the venom behind them was clear.

“What the hell, Spencer?” Harry looked around, mortified, trying to figure out how this had escalated so quickly.

Spencer laughed, the sound manic. "What, you don’t want me anymore, right? I’m not good enough for you, just like I wasn’t good enough for Val. That’s all I’m good for, isn’t it?"

“Spencer, no,” Harry stammered, trying to find the right words to stop the spiral, but it was too late.

Spencer’s anger flared again. “No, I get it. I’m all yours, Harry. Whatever you want, I owe you that much, right?” His voice was frantic, his eyes wide as he grabbed Harry by the shirt.

The team was in shock, Penelope standing frozen, tears streaming down her face. Hotch stood up, trying to intervene, but Harry shook his head, signaling him to stay back.

“Spencer, you’re drunk. Let’s go home. We can talk about this when you’re sober,” Harry tried again, his voice firm but kind.

But Spencer wasn’t listening. His head was spinning, the alcohol fueling every irrational thought. He shoved Harry away and stormed toward the door.

Harry scrambled after him, throwing a quick apology to the team before following Spencer outside.

The cold November air hit them as soon as they stepped outside. Spencer’s arms wrapped around himself, his body trembling from both the cold and the emotional turmoil raging inside him. He felt so out of control, so confused.

Harry caught up with him, draping his jacket over Spencer’s shoulders. “Spence…”

“Just take me home, Harry,” Spencer’s voice was small, barely above a whisper.

Harry tried to reach out, his hand resting gently on Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m sorry—”

“Take me home,” Spencer cut him off, his tone firmer this time.

Harry sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing. Spencer was too drunk, too emotional to have this conversation now. He unlocked the car, helping Spencer into the passenger seat before climbing in himself. Spencer fumbled with his seatbelt, his hands too shaky to fasten it. Harry leaned over, gently buckling it for him, but Spencer turned his body away, shutting Harry out completely.

The drive back to Spencer’s apartment was tense and quiet. Harry’s hands gripped the steering wheel, his mind racing, trying to figure out what to do next. Spencer stared out the window, his tears long gone but the emptiness still gnawing at him.

It was going to be a long night, and Harry had no idea how to fix what had just happened.

Chapter Text

Spencer blinked his eyes open, the afternoon sun spilling through the curtains and hitting his face with a blinding intensity. His head throbbed, each pulse of light making it worse. He groaned softly, pushing himself upright on the couch. His throat was dry, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty, feeling the ache travel down his neck.

The faint rustling sound caught his attention. He glanced down and saw Harry lying asleep on the floor, his arm bent awkwardly under his head as a makeshift pillow. Spencer blinked, confusion settling in. Why is he on the floor? How did we get here?

His eyes trailed down to his own clothes—still the same ones from the night before. And then it hit him. The memories flooded his mind, drowning him in a wave of shame and guilt. The dinner at Rossi’s, the wine, the whiskey, the things he’d said to Harry in front of his team—the awful things. The desperation in Harry’s eyes as he tried to help, and how Spencer had pushed him away, humiliated him, lashed out at him.

A soft gasp escaped his lips, the weight of his actions suffocating him. His body began to shake as his mind raced through the events. How could I say that to him? After everything he’s done for me?

Spencer backed himself into the corner of the couch, hugging his knees to his chest. Tears began to spill down his cheeks, burning hot as they fell. His hand instinctively flew to his mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that were building in his chest. He couldn’t let Harry hear him, not after last night. He’s done so much for me, and I… I don’t deserve him.

His gaze remained fixed on Harry’s sleeping form. Even after everything Spencer had done—everything he’d said—Harry was still there. Still protecting him, even as he slept on the hard floor. Spencer’s heart ached as he looked at him. I don’t deserve this… I don’t deserve him.

He sobbed harder, the sounds breaking free despite his best efforts to silence them. His mind spiraled downward, dredging up every insecurity, every bit of self-loathing he’d buried for years. I don’t deserve my team… I don’t deserve to live.

The sobs grew louder, echoing in the empty room. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he curled further into himself, wishing he could disappear. He was so wrapped up in his emotions that he didn’t notice Harry stirring on the floor.

Harry woke up with a start, his body aching from the makeshift sleeping arrangement. The first thing he did was glance up at the couch, expecting to see Spencer still asleep. But the couch was empty. His heart leaped into his throat, panic flooding his senses as he quickly got to his feet.

“Spence?” he called, his voice hoarse from sleep.

A soft noise drew his attention to the hallway, and then he heard the door slam. His heart pounded in his chest as he rushed through the apartment, scanning each room until he saw the closed bathroom door. He ran up to it, knocking frantically.

“Spencer, are you in there?” His voice was tight with worry, but there was a subtle undercurrent of frustration too. He wasn’t proud of it, but it was there. I’m trying… I’m trying so hard.

When he didn’t hear a response, his concern grew. He pressed his ear against the door, and then he heard it—a soft sniffle, followed by the unmistakable sound of muffled sobbing.

"Spencer, come on, open the door," Harry called, trying to keep his voice steady. The frustration was still there, but now fear was creeping in, clawing at him. When Spencer didn’t respond, Harry knocked again, louder this time. "I know you’re in there, Spencer. Please, come out."

He waited for a reply, and just as he was about to knock again, he heard a faint hiss of pain. Harry’s heart dropped into his stomach, and horror flooded his veins. His mind raced as he banged on the door.

"Spencer, open the door! Open it, now!" His voice cracked with desperation, panic edging out the frustration entirely. He pounded on the door harder, yelling for Spencer to let him in.

No answer.

"Spencer!" Harry's voice rose in terror. "Please! Open the damn door!"

When he still got no response, Harry stepped back and rammed his shoulder against the door, his heart racing. The first hit didn’t budge it, but on the third try, the door gave way, swinging open violently and bouncing back to hit Harry as he stumbled into the bathroom.

The sight that met him was a punch to the gut.

Spencer was huddled on the floor, his back pressed against the bathtub. His face was pale, his eyes swollen and red, tears streaming down his cheeks. His hand was clutched tightly around his wrist, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto the cold bathroom tiles. Harry’s eyes flicked to the glint of a small, bloody razor blade lying on the floor near Spencer’s feet.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and all the anger, all the frustration he had felt melted away in an instant, replaced by sheer terror.

"Spencer," Harry whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he dropped to his knees in front of him. He gently reached for Spencer’s wrist, pulling his bloodied hand away. “What did you do...?”

Tears welled in Harry's eyes as he grabbed a washcloth from the sink and pressed it to the cuts, applying pressure. The cuts weren’t deep, not deep enough to need stitches, but they were enough to send a surge of panic through Harry’s entire being. The white cloth quickly turned red, and Spencer’s sobs echoed off the walls.

"I’m sorry," Spencer whispered brokenly, over and over again. His voice cracked with each word, his body trembling as the weight of his actions crashed down on him. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry..."

Harry shook his head, pulling Spencer into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest. "Please, stop apologizing," he murmured, his voice shaking as he ran a hand through Spencer’s messy hair.

But Spencer didn’t stop. The apologies kept spilling from his lips, mingled with self-deprecating comments that cut deeper than any blade ever could.

"I ruin everything... I’m just a burden... I don’t deserve to be here," Spencer sobbed, his voice raw. "You shouldn’t be wasting your time on me. I’m not worth it."

"Stop," Harry whispered, squeezing Spencer tighter, refusing to let go even as the blood from Spencer’s wrist stained his shirt. "Stop saying that. You are worth it. I’m not leaving you."

Spencer continued to cry into Harry’s chest, his whole body shaking with the force of his sobs. His words came out in gasps, broken and jagged. "I don’t… I don’t deserve you, Harry. You should just leave me. Everyone should."

Harry pulled back slightly, cupping Spencer’s tear-streaked face in his hands. "Look at me," he said, his voice gentle but firm. Spencer hesitated, but eventually, he lifted his tear-filled eyes to meet Harry’s. "I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever. You’re not a burden, and you’re not a waste of space. You’re here for a reason, Spencer. You’re still here."

Spencer shook his head, more tears spilling from his eyes. "But I—"

"No," Harry interrupted softly, pressing his forehead against Spencer’s. "You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be strong all the time. You’re allowed to be a mess, Spencer. You’re allowed to feel everything you’re feeling, but please… please don’t think you’re not worth it. You are. More than you know."

For a long moment, they sat there on the bathroom floor, wrapped in each other’s arms. Harry held Spencer close, as if letting go would mean losing him for good. He could feel Spencer’s body start to relax, his sobs quieting to soft hiccups.

After what felt like an eternity, Harry pulled away just enough to look down at Spencer’s wrist. The bleeding had slowed, and Harry gently pressed another clean cloth to the cuts, wrapping it around Spencer’s wrist with as much care as he could.

Spencer’s eyes were puffy, his face streaked with tears, but he was calmer now. Exhausted, but calm. Harry ran a thumb over Spencer’s cheek, wiping away the last of his tears.

“We’re going to get through this,” Harry whispered. "Together."

Spencer nodded weakly, leaning his head against Harry’s chest once more. He was too tired to fight, too tired to argue. He didn’t have any strength left to push Harry away—not that he really wanted to. Deep down, he knew Harry was right.

They sat there for a long time, the weight of the moment settling around them like a heavy blanket. Spencer didn’t feel completely alone. He didn’t feel worthy of Harry’s love, not yet. But maybe, just maybe, he could start to believe it was possible.

Just maybe.

Chapter Text

Spencer sat stiffly on his therapist’s couch, fingers gripping his wrist through the fabric of his sweater, the fresh cuts still tender beneath. His mind raced, his body tense, the weight of yesterday’s episode pushing down on him. It had been a blur of anger, shame, and confusion, but now, in the quiet of this room, everything felt stark and raw.

"Spencer," his therapist said softly, her voice a lifeline in the overwhelming storm of his thoughts. The dam within him cracked open at her gentle tone. His breathing hitched, and before he could stop himself, he was curled into a ball on the couch, as though shielding himself from the flood of vulnerability he was about to release.

His mouth opened, and all the words he had buried for years spilled out.

From the beginning—when he was just a child. Valentino, his dance teacher, grooming him, isolating him from the world, pulling him into a life of abuse. The forced dancing at Pride, the prostitution when he was too young to understand the depth of the horror that surrounded him. How night after night, Val assaulted him, and how Angel, his created persona, had been his only escape.

He told her about Harry. How Harry had been hired to protect him, how Harry had hated him at the beginning only to discover the truth and help him escape. How, for years, Spencer had believed he was healing. How he left that part of his life behind to build a new one with the FBI’s help. But Val wasn’t done with him.

Tears streamed down Spencer’s face as he recounted the events that had torn his life apart again—Val’s escape from prison, the murders that brought his team to Vegas, the moment Val found him again, forcing him back into those suffocating outfits, raping him. He told her about how Angel re-emerged, how he became trapped in his own mind, and how terrifying it was to realize that, despite his best efforts, he wasn’t in control anymore.

And then, the team finding him. The hospital. Harry.

He didn’t hold back—he told her about the nightmares, the panic attacks, the drinking, and the self-harm. The way it felt like he was drowning under the weight of it all, even with Harry by his side.

His therapist listened in silence, her expression carefully neutral, though Spencer could see the horror in her eyes. She was good at her job, but even she couldn’t hide the impact his story had.

When Spencer finished, he sat shaking, tears still spilling from his eyes, and a rant slipped from his lips: how sick he was of being babied by everyone around him. How he was tired of hearing people tell him how strong he was when he felt nothing but weak. He should’ve been smarter. He should’ve done something to prevent this from happening again.

His therapist nodded, understanding his frustration. "I understand not wanting to be babied," she said softly, "but why do you believe being cared for makes you weak?"

Spencer opened his mouth to respond but realized he didn’t have an answer.

"Spencer," she continued, "maybe you were weak at times. Maybe you were vulnerable. But why is that a bad thing? Even muscles must be torn down and weakened before they grow stronger."

Her words hung in the air, and Spencer frowned, not quite knowing how to respond.

"What you’ve gone through," she said quietly, "would make anyone weak—even the strongest of people. The feeling of being unworthy, of not deserving love or care, doesn’t come from you. It comes from the trauma you’ve endured, from the manipulation you’ve been subjected to. But that isn’t reality. You’re not weak for needing help, and you’re certainly not weak for surviving what you have."

Spencer swallowed hard. His eyes focused on the floor as her words began to take root in his mind.

"Who has ever told you that you were weak?" she asked gently. "Who made you feel unworthy?"

The answer came to him immediately: Valentino.

"Do you think Valentino’s words hold truth?"

Spencer shook his head, knowing Val’s words were poison, lies designed to control him. But it didn’t change the fact that every day, he still heard Val’s voice in his mind, whispering that he was nothing.

"Forget Val for a moment," his therapist urged, leaning forward slightly. "What about you? How do you feel, Spencer? What do you believe about yourself?"

Spencer sat in silence, his tears finally drying. He didn’t know how to answer. His mind had been so full of Val’s voice for so long that he didn’t know how to separate his own thoughts from the lies.

"I don’t think I believe I’m unworthy," Spencer whispered finally. "But it’s so hard to hear my own thoughts over his."

His therapist gave him a small, reassuring smile. "That’s okay. It’s a start."

When Spencer left the therapist’s office, his shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but at the same time, he felt lighter than he had in months. The burden he carried had been acknowledged, even if it wasn’t yet fully lifted.

Harry waited in the car, his brow furrowed with concern as he noticed Spencer’s tear-streaked face. But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Spencer glanced at him and gave a small nod. Harry nodded back, content to drive them home in silence.

As they pulled into the parking space outside the apartment, Harry cut the engine, and a heavy silence filled the car. The only sounds were their breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine. Spencer stared out the window, lost in thought, while Harry gave him space, waiting for him to speak first.

After a long pause, Spencer broke the silence.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "About last night. About everything."

Harry started to speak, ready to brush it off, but Spencer held up a hand, asking him to listen.

"Let me finish," Spencer said, his voice stronger now. "I’m sorry for what I said, for what I did. I embarrassed you in front of the team, and after everything you’ve done for me... It wasn’t fair to you."

Harry shifted in his seat, turning to face Spencer more fully.

"You’ve put your life on hold for me," Spencer continued, his voice trembling. "And I repaid you by... by acting like that. I know you’re not helping me for any selfish reason. I know that now. And I’m sorry for suggesting that you wanted something from me. I was acting like a child."

Harry let him speak, and when Spencer finally fell silent, he nodded slowly.

"Thank you for apologizing," Harry said softly. "But now it’s my turn to speak." He reached out, cupping the back of Spencer’s neck with one hand, gently guiding him to look him in the eyes.

"You don’t need to apologize. Not for last night, not for anything. In fact," Harry said with a teasing smile, "if I ever hear the words ‘I’m sorry’ come out of your mouth again, we’re going to have a serious talk."

Spencer huffed out a small laugh, the tension in his body easing slightly.

Harry’s expression softened as he continued. "Spencer, this is what love is. It’s messy, it’s hard, but I will never let you go through this on your own. You can yell at me, take everything out on me, and I’ll never blame you. Because I love you. And no amount of mess is going to change that."

Spencer felt his heart swell at Harry’s words. He tucked his face into Harry’s neck and cried again, the floodgates opening once more. But this time, the tears weren’t out of pain or guilt. They were out of relief.

Harry held him tightly, stroking his hair and whispering reassurances into his ear. The two sat there for what felt like hours, the bond between them growing stronger with every breath they took together.

Eventually, Spencer pulled back, wiping his tear-streaked face with his sleeve. He opened his mouth to speak, but Harry cut him off with a playful grin. "I swear to God, if you apologize again..."

Spencer laughed, his forehead pressing against Harry’s, their shared breath grounding them both. For a moment, all Spencer could see was Harry—his eyes, his warmth, the love that radiated from him.

"Can I... Can I kiss you?" Spencer asked, his voice soft, almost tentative.

Harry didn’t need to hear more. He closed the space between them, pressing his lips to Spencer’s in a kiss that was both deep and sweet. Spencer melted into it, his body relaxing against Harry’s. The kiss was full of passion, but it was also careful, mindful of everything they’d been through.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, and Harry whispered, "I love you." Spencer smiled, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

"Let’s get inside," Harry murmured after a few moments, his hand still resting on the back of Spencer’s neck. "It’s cold out here."

Spencer nodded, and the two of them stepped out of the car, making their way up to the apartment. Inside, they would face whatever came next—together.

Chapter Text

The night air was crisp, and snowflakes danced lazily through the streets as Spencer and Harry strolled down the sidewalk. The twinkling Christmas lights, strung between lampposts and draped across shop windows, illuminated their path. They both wore thick coats, scarves wrapped snugly around their necks, with gloves keeping their fingers warm—and intertwined. Their gloved hands swung between them, the small gesture comforting, grounding.

The memory of their kiss in the car still lingered between them, a promise of something more, but held carefully at bay. Spencer’s therapist had made it clear: jumping into a relationship now, even with Harry, wouldn’t be healthy. They both knew it was the right call, but knowing didn’t make it easier. Harry had reassured him over and over: “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you again. I just want you to be ready.”

That comfort—the certainty that Harry would wait—settled something deep in Spencer’s soul. It let him breathe easier. And slowly, they’d found a rhythm again, like old times. Their banter had returned in little moments: light teasing in the mornings, playful nudges during their walks. The first time Spencer smiled—a real, toothy grin—Harry had stared so long that Spencer, half embarrassed, had swatted his shoulder. Now, those smiles were becoming more frequent, less forced. Spencer could feel himself coming back to life, bit by bit.

Harry chuckled as he watched some kids across the street flinging snowballs at each other. Spencer, noticing Harry’s distraction, tugged his arm and pulled him toward a familiar door.

The little bell above the entrance jingled as they stepped inside the cozy bookstore Spencer loved. The air was filled with the comforting scent of old paper, fresh coffee, and wood polish. Harry exhaled, already feeling at home here. He followed Spencer down the aisles like always, smiling as Spencer browsed the shelves, running his fingers along the spines, occasionally pulling a book down to flip through.

Harry commented on a few titles he recognized, drawing a soft laugh from Spencer, who tossed one of the books into Harry’s arms. They wandered the aisles, Spencer’s quiet presence as soothing as the faint classical music playing overhead. After they’d gathered a small stack of books, they made their way to the counter, paying and sliding them into Spencer’s satchel.

They were about to leave when a sound made both of them pause.

Tiny, frantic meows.

They turned to see an old man sitting near the corner of the store, a battered cardboard box at his feet. His expression was one of annoyance, and he glared down at the box. As they watched, the man gave the box a light, impatient kick, causing the meows to grow louder.

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to approach calmly. Spencer knelt beside the box, peeking inside.

It was filled with kittens—tiny, squirming bodies piled on top of each other, some curled up asleep while others batted at each other playfully. Most were white with little patches of black, but one in particular caught Spencer’s eye: a small, jet-black kitten huddled in the far corner. Its fur bristled, and its bright green eyes flicked warily around the box. The tiny thing shook with fear, its mouth pulling back in a pitiful hiss when Spencer’s gaze landed on it.

“Well, that one’s Raphael,” the old man muttered gruffly, noticing Spencer’s interest. “Nasty little thing. Always scratching me. But he’s learning.”

Harry and Spencer exchanged a look. They didn’t need to ask what the man meant—both could read between the lines.

Harry crouched beside Spencer, keeping his voice light but tight with frustration. “Where’d you get them? Are you selling them?”

The old man grunted. “Cat got out, came back pregnant. Don’t have time or patience for the lot of ’em. Trying to sell ’em off, but no one wants the black one.”

Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. “How much for him?”

The man squinted at Harry, clearly expecting some sort of negotiation. They went back and forth for a few moments before Harry sighed and pulled a fifty from his wallet, shoving it into the man’s hand.

The old man reached for the kitten, but Spencer moved faster, snatching the box away. “I’ll do it.”

Spencer spent the next half hour coaxing the terrified kitten into a small cardboard carrier without frightening him further. The kitten hissed and swiped, but Spencer spoke to him softly the entire time.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’d lash out too if I were you. It’s hard being stuck in a world you didn’t ask to be part of.” He glanced at the kitten, who trembled in the corner of the box, pretending to be brave with his tiny, arched back. “It’s okay. I understand. I’m jinxed too.”

Harry, standing nearby, felt his heart twist at Spencer’s words, seeing how deeply the man related to this tiny creature. Without another word, they left the shop, the little black kitten safely in the box.

Back at the apartment, Spencer carried the kitten to the bedroom and placed the box gently on the floor. He sat cross-legged on the ground, watching as the kitten poked its head out cautiously before darting under the bed, disappearing into the shadows.

Harry ran to the store to pick up supplies—cat food, water bowls, a collar, and some toys—and returned to find Spencer still sitting on the floor, waiting patiently for the kitten to reappear. Harry set everything up while Spencer watched, their quiet companionship filling the space with warmth.

“Here.” Harry handed Spencer the small collar, a plain black one without a nametag.

Spencer raised a brow. “You do know the whole point of a collar is the tag, right?”

Harry grinned. “I figured you’d want to name him yourself.”

Spencer’s heart warmed at the thoughtfulness. He glanced under the bed, where two green eyes peered out from the darkness.

“When did he say they were born again?” Spencer asked, still watching the kitten.

“Most of them were born on October 30th,” Harry replied, sitting beside him on the floor. “But this little guy slipped out just after midnight. Halloween.”

Spencer’s lips twitched into a rare smile. “So, the only black kitten in the litter... born on Halloween?”

Harry chuckled. “It’s like fate.”

Spencer’s gaze softened as he watched the kitten. He thought back to what he’d said earlier, the words slipping out again without realizing it. “I’m jinxed too.”

Harry tilted his head. “What was that?”

Spencer blinked, a little embarrassed. “It’s just... something I said to him earlier.”

Harry watched him, the gears turning in Spencer’s mind.

“Jinx,” Spencer whispered, testing the name aloud.

Harry smiled. “I like it. Hi, Jinx.”

Spencer’s heart swelled as the kitten blinked slowly at them from under the bed, still wary but beginning to trust.

They sat there together on the floor, side by side, until midnight came. As fireworks burst in the sky, lighting up the dark winter night, Harry leaned over and kissed Spencer. It wasn’t rushed or heavy, but sweet and full of hope—like the promise of better days ahead.

In that moment, Spencer knew. The year ahead wouldn’t be easy, but it would be better. Because this time, he wasn’t alone. He had Harry. And now, he had Jinx too.

Chapter Text

It’s just past midnight on New Year’s Eve. Fireworks crackle across the night sky, and couples kiss under neon lights, but the BAU team is neither at home nor celebrating with loved ones. They sit at FBI headquarters, deep in the trenches of their mission to ensure Valentino Marino never sees the light of day again.

They already have enough evidence to convict him, but for this case, enough isn’t enough—they want it airtight. They want everything.

In the dim glow of her office, Penelope Garcia twirls a fluffy pink pen between her fingers. The other hand navigates her mouse across a sea of CIA files she’s been combing through for hours. She’s exhausted, but she keeps going, unwilling to miss even the smallest piece of evidence that could solidify their case.

Multiple searches run across her screens: One scanning the web for Spencer’s name—only bringing up academic articles and media pieces about his work. Another scanning for images and videos with his face—so far, just crime scene coverage and photos the team had posted over the years. She even has a search running for outfits that resemble the ones Spencer wore at Pride, desperate to ensure no remnants of those years resurface in unexpected places.

Then a chime breaks the silence.

It’s the facial recognition search—her heart skips. She clicks on it, expecting to see something routine. Another news segment, maybe an old surveillance image from a case. But what loads on her screen isn’t that.

As the video begins to play, her brow furrows with confusion. Then, within seconds, the meaning of it becomes horrifyingly clear.

Her breath catches in her throat.

She claps a hand over her mouth, her pink pen clattering to the floor. “Oh my god… Spencer.”

The words escape in a breathless gasp, and without another thought, she pushes back from her desk, grabs her laptop, and bolts out of her office, running down the hall toward the bullpen. Her heels echo against the hard floor, but she doesn’t care. Panic propels her forward.

Derek Morgan looks up from where he’s seated at his desk, instantly alerted by the distress written all over her tear-streaked face. His expression hardens with concern.

“Babygirl,” he calls softly, standing and stepping toward her. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Garcia presses her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle a sob. Her head shakes back and forth, tears falling freely.

“You found something,” Hotch says from the corner, his tone calm, yet certain. He rises slowly, as if already bracing himself. It’s not a question.

“It’s Spencer, isn’t it?” JJ asks, standing now too, her voice tight with fear.

Garcia can only nod, and that small motion sends an eerie wave of dread through the entire team.

“What did you find, Kiddo?” Rossi asks, stepping closer, trying to soften his voice to steady her.

Garcia lowers her trembling hand from her mouth, forcing herself to meet Hotch’s eyes. She stutters through her explanation, voice thick with emotion.

“Hotch… d-do you remember when you said Harry was acting weird? When you told him we found everything?” Her words falter, and she drags a breath into her lungs. “Like he was hiding something? Or afraid?”

Hotch’s jaw tightens, the muscles flexing. His expression grows grim. “Yes,” he says. “You think you found what he was afraid of.”

Garcia nods again, this time with more urgency. “I think—” Her voice wavers, tears threatening to choke her. “I think this is what he didn’t want us to see.”

A heavy silence falls over the room.

“What is it, Garcia?” Hotch asks, but she shakes her head violently.

“I… I can’t…” Her voice is barely audible, and her hands tremble at her sides. “It’s really bad, Hotch.”

Hotch steps closer. “Either you need to tell us what it is, or you need to show me. If it’s important, we need to know. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, like she can block out what’s happening. “I don’t think you can handle it—not this time.”

“We’ve seen Spencer at his lowest,” Prentiss says, her voice gentle but firm. “Whatever it is, Garcia, we need to see it.”

Garcia’s whole body shudders, like she’s fighting against herself. But then, in one desperate motion, she spins around to Derek's desk and opens her laptop, Her fingers clicking at the mouse with trembling precision. She opens the page she never wanted to revisit and hits play.

The video begins.

Garcia turns away, hugging herself as she chews her thumbnail anxiously, her back to the screen.

The team leans closer, the grainy video pulling them in. Confusion flickers across their faces—until the scene sharpens, and recognition settles in like a punch to the gut.

A bed fills the screen, and a figure is thrown onto it—dressed in simple sweatpants and a t-shirt. The sultry expression on his face is hauntingly familiar.

It’s Spencer. No. Not Spencer—Angel.

The team watches, frozen in place, as Angel glances toward the camera, and just beyond it. For a split second, the sultry mask slips, and fear flashes across his face. It’s quick—too quick for anyone unfamiliar to catch. But the team catches it.

They see it all.

Angel shifts back into character, looking up at whoever stands just offscreen with an expression crafted for seduction. The scripted conversation between Angel and the man—who can't be any younger than 40—plays out like a nightmare none of them can escape.

Hotch’s hand tightens on the edge of the desk as the man parts Spencer’s legs and climbs onto the bed, dwarfing Spencer with his large frame. The dialogue continues, forced and unnatural, with Angel responding in the same rehearsed tone.

The heavy breathing starts, accompanied by low moans as they begin to kiss. Garcia squeezes her eyes shut tighter, plugging her ears with her fingers.

Hotch slams the laptop shut.

The sudden silence is deafening. The image lingers in their minds, sharper than reality.

JJ stumbles toward a trash can, clutching her stomach as she doubles over, retching. Prentiss buries her face in her hands, fingers pressing hard against her temples as if she can squeeze out the memory.

Rossi crosses his arms over his chest, one hand covering his mouth. His hand trembles, and he presses it harder against his face to steady himself.

Derek stands rigid, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white. His jaw works as if he’s biting back the urge to scream—or to punch something.

Hotch, as steady as ever, leans against Garcia’s desk, but even he has gone paper-white.

No one speaks. There’s nothing to say.

They knew that Val had made Spencer do terrible things—things no one should ever endure. But this?

Not just dancing. Not just forced prostitution.

Val had made Spencer do porn.

And not just any porn—something scripted, calculated, and cruel, designed to strip him of every shred of dignity.

This is what Harry had been trying to protect them from.

Garcia chokes on a sob, pressing her hand to her mouth.

“This was wiped from the internet,” Hotch says quietly, his voice as close to shaken as any of them had ever heard. “But it’s still out there. On the dark web.”

“We have what we need,” Rossi mutters, his voice low and heavy. “This is enough to bury Val for good.”

“But at what cost?” Prentiss whispers bitterly, finally lowering her hands from her face. “How do we use this without destroying Spencer?”

They all knew the truth.

The evidence they needed to lock Val away forever was now in their possession—but exposing it would mean dragging Spencer’s deepest trauma into the light. It would mean tearing open wounds that hadn’t even begun to heal.

It would mean hurting Spencer—again.

And none of them knew how to reconcile that.

The room falls into a grim silence. Fireworks continue to crackle in the distance, but inside the BAU, there is only the weight of what they’ve seen and the impossible choice they now face.

How do you save someone by breaking them all over again?

Chapter Text

The round table room was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the TV screen displaying the still frame of Spencer’s young face. The image of him, frozen in a moment that none of them could unsee, loomed over the room like a ghost. Derek stared at it, his jaw clenched tightly, his knuckles white where his hands gripped the table’s edge. The pit in his stomach hadn’t stopped growing since this case first brought them to Vegas.

Hotch stood by the screen, speaking in low tones to Garcia, who sat with her laptop perched on the table. Her fingers tapped cautiously at the keys as she worked, but every few moments, she would pause, her hands trembling, and shake her head.

“I’m trying to trace where the video originated,” she said, her voice tight with barely concealed disgust. “But the dark web is… well, it’s dark. If I dig too deep while connected to the FBI’s mainframe, we’re risking exposure. And with people like this? We don’t know how dangerous they are.”

“Understood,” Hotch replied. “Tread carefully, Garcia. We’re not risking our entire network.”

Emily leaned forward, her eyes trained on the frozen image. “Val was a narcissist,” she said, her tone analytical but tinged with disgust. “And a perfectionist. This doesn’t look like his work. It’s messy—there’s no editing, Spencer looks at the camera, and it’s all too raw. Val wouldn’t have released something like this.”

Hotch turned his gaze toward her, silently asking her to continue.

“These are unedited tapes,” she explained, gesturing toward the screen. “The only people who would have access to these are the people who made them—or at least were part of the process.”

JJ, still pale and visibly shaken, spoke from her seat at the table. “But didn’t they arrest everyone involved?” Her voice wavered, and she looked to Emily for reassurance.

Emily shook her head. “Not necessarily. Some people weren’t directly involved enough to be charged. Others might have been paid off—or threatened—by the CIA to keep quiet. If someone felt like their cut wasn’t enough or thought they had nothing to lose, they could have decided to go rogue.”

Rossi stepped forward from his place in the corner, crossing his arms. “The CIA erased everything involving Spencer. They wouldn’t leave these tapes in anyone’s hands.”

“Not unless they didn’t know someone had them,” Emily countered. “There could’ve been a loose end, something they overlooked. Maybe someone kept copies.”

The room settled into a tense silence as the team absorbed her words. It made sense, but the implications were devastating.

Hotch nodded, his expression grim as he turned to Garcia. “If they have access to this video, they likely have more. I need you to search for them, Garcia. Don’t try to dig into the source just yet—find the videos first. There might be something in them that gives us more to work with.”

Garcia froze, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. “Sir…” she started, shaking her head. “I… I hate this. I feel dirty even looking at it. I don’t want to see Spencer like that.” Her voice cracked, and she turned her eyes back to her laptop, blinking rapidly to keep from breaking down.

Hotch’s expression softened, but only slightly. This was different from any other case they had handled—this was their colleague, their friend. He hesitated for a moment before addressing the team. “What should we do?”

It wasn’t a direct order, and it wasn’t aimed at any one person. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Derek’s scoff.

“Hotch,” he said, his voice hard, “you’re asking us what to do? You’re supposed to know what to do.”

“I’m asking because there’s no easy answer,” Hotch replied, his tone steady but sharp. “This isn’t just evidence—it’s Spencer’s life. His dignity. We need to handle this carefully.”

JJ spoke up, her voice quiet. “We could… talk to Spencer about it first? Let him decide?”

Derek shook his head immediately. “And traumatize him all over again? No. That’s a bad idea. You really want to show him this?” He gestured toward the still frame on the screen.

Emily shifted uncomfortably. “Or we could just… not tell him at all. Handle it ourselves, get it removed, and make sure he never has to know.”

Derek rounded on her, anger flashing in his eyes. “Right, because lying to Spencer worked so well for you last time, huh?” His words landed like a slap, and Emily looked away, her face taut with guilt.

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “That’s not a good idea.”

Rossi broke the silence next. “We need to watch them. Or at least one of us does. Maybe not the whole thing, but enough to understand what we’re dealing with. It’s the only way to find everyone involved.”

Derek’s fists slammed against the table. “Hotch, you’re not seriously considering this. You want all of us to sit here and watch Spencer get violated over and over? For what? To make Garcia feel better about it?” His voice broke, raw with anger and pain. He turned to Garcia, his tone softer but still firm. “I’m sorry, Babygirl, but he wouldn’t want that. No one would.”

Hotch remained quiet, his face unreadable as he weighed the options.

JJ spoke up again, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “There are already people all over the world watching this. Strangers. If it were me…” She hesitated, swallowing hard. “I’d rather have the people I trust see me like this if it meant those strangers couldn’t anymore.”

Derek’s gaze hardened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I know Spencer’s biggest fear is us seeing him differently,” JJ continued. “But we’ve already seen it. It’s not like we can unsee it. He’s still Spencer.”

The tension in the room was palpable, each team member struggling with the weight of JJ’s words.

Finally, Hotch broke the silence. “Garcia,” he said, his voice resolute, “start the search. Don’t watch anything. Have facial recognition scan the videos once you find them. They’re unedited which means there may be some people from behind the scenes on camera that could lead us to who’s posting these. If we need to review parts of them, we’ll do it together. No one has to stay in the room if they don’t want to.”

The team nodded, some reluctantly, others with grim determination. None of them wanted to see more, but they understood the necessity. The goal wasn’t just to secure evidence—it was to protect Spencer from further harm.

As Garcia turned back to her keyboard, the room fell silent again. The team exchanged weary glances, knowing the hours ahead would test them in ways they hadn’t been tested before.

Each of them felt the weight of their decision, but one thought kept them grounded: They would do whatever it took to protect Spencer—no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Angel felt nothing, and he felt everything. It was an impossible contradiction, a war between numbness and overstimulation that left him trapped in a haze of overwhelming nothingness. His body ached, his mind drifted, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His only purpose was to perform, to do what he was told, to make Val happy.

The room was stifling, heavy with the heat of studio lights and the murmur of unseen crew members moving around just beyond the camera’s view. Angel lay on the bed, his body splayed across the soft sheets, his head tilted back, neck exposed. The hands gripping him were firm and rough, holding his waist, his wrists, his throat—leaving marks that would undoubtedly show on the final cut. Marks that Val insisted the camera linger on.

A practiced moan fell from Angel’s lips, exaggerated and hollow. He threw his head back, baring his neck further, the sound escaping his throat as his lips curled into a sultry smile. It was all for the camera, for the eyes that would later devour the footage. Pain and pleasure blurred together until they were indistinguishable, just like everything else in his life. Angel was detached from it all, his drug-fogged mind incapable of fully processing the sharp jabs of pain or the cold, stifling reality of what was happening.

The bright studio lights above him cast sharp shadows, their relentless glare painting every movement, every bruise, every contorted expression in stark detail. Angel turned his head to the side, his vision blurring from the intensity of the lights as tears formed in the corners of his eyes. The men around him laughed and whispered crude remarks, their voices low and dismissive as though he weren’t even there. He basked in the attention, pretended he loved every second of it. That was his role, his purpose.

From behind the camera, Val’s voice rang out. “Cut!”

The sharp command jolted Angel from his haze. The men’s hands released him all at once, and he was left cold, exposed, and vulnerable on the bed. The sheets clung to his bare skin, damp with sweat, as he sat up slowly, blinking against the sudden brightness of additional lights being switched on.

He looked toward Val, who was berating someone near the camera. The audio technician, most likely—Val’s tone was laced with impatience as he gestured wildly, pointing at the boom mic that had apparently ruined the shot. Angel stayed where he was, frozen in place on the bed. The sheets pooled around his waist, but he didn’t bother covering himself. Shame had been stripped from him long ago, replaced with something hollow and mechanical.

From his perch on the bed, Angel’s eyes scanned the room. He saw crew members moving equipment, adjusting lights, and murmuring among themselves. A few glanced at him briefly, but none of them lingered. He didn’t exist as a person to them; he was just part of the scene, another prop to be adjusted and positioned as needed.

And then the door at the back of the studio opened.

Angel squinted through the haze, trying to make out the figure that stepped into the room. The man was tall, his frame strong and broad beneath a suit that Angel recognized instantly. His heart stuttered in his chest, and a red-hot surge of panic cut through the fog in his mind as the figure moved closer, stepping into the light.

Harry.

Angel’s breath caught in his throat. Harry wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to see this.

Angel grabbed the black robe from his chair, his hands fumbling as he pulled it on and tied it tightly around his waist. He didn’t bother fixing his hair or wiping the tear stains from his face as he rushed toward Harry, his bare feet silent against the floor.

“Harry,” Angel hissed, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around. “What are you doing here? You can’t be in here!”

Harry’s eyes widened as they took in Angel’s disheveled appearance. His gaze lingered on the bruises forming on Angel’s neck, the tear tracks that carved lines down his cheeks, and the barely concealed panic in his eyes. Harry’s jaw clenched as his attention shifted, scanning the room and taking in the cameras, the crew, and finally, the two men in robes who stood near the far wall, laughing as they sipped from water bottles.

“Harry, stop—” Angel whispered, his voice rising in desperation as Harry’s expression hardened. The anger that flashed in Harry’s eyes was like a thunderstorm, fierce and unrelenting, and Angel could feel the storm building as Harry turned his attention toward Val. But before Harry could take a step, Angel moved in front of him, pressing his hands against Harry’s chest to stop him.

“No, no, no,” Angel whispered, his voice trembling. “Harry, you can’t be here. This can’t happen. You need to leave. Val can’t know you were in here!”

“Harry!” Val’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. He stepped forward, his charming smile masking the seething anger that simmered beneath the surface. “What a… pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you would be joining us today.”

Angel froze, his blood turning to ice as Val’s sharp gaze flicked to him, then back to Harry. Harry’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, and for a moment, Angel thought he was going to confront Val right then and there.

“Angel—” Harry started, but Val’s presence loomed closer, his voice dripping with false sweetness.

“Angel, my darling,” Val said, stepping between them and effectively cutting Harry out of the conversation. “A word in your dressing room?”

Angel hesitated, glancing back at Harry with pleading eyes, but he didn’t dare refuse. He nodded once and followed Val toward the door, his heart pounding as he cast one last glance at Harry over his shoulder. The door slammed shut behind him, and the air seemed to leave the room all at once.

“Val—” Angel began, but the words were cut off as Val grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Val hissed, his grip tightening. “Did you think that little bodyguard of yours could protect you? From me?”

Angel shook his head, his hands clawing at Val’s wrist as he tried to speak. “No! Please, Val, that’s not—”

Val didn’t let him finish. He threw Angel to the floor, the rough carpet scraping against his knees as he landed. “I think you’re forgetting who owns you, my Angel.”

From the corner of his eye, Angel saw Val pull a stack of papers from the vanity drawer. He flipped through them as he crouched over Angel, his voice dripping with condescension.

“Or should I say, who owns you and your dear mother?”

Angel’s heart dropped as Val waved the papers in front of his face. The bold letters at the top read Life Care Center of Las Vegas—the nursing home where his mother was cared for. The nursing home Val pays for. Val’s signature was scrawled across the bottom, along with his mother’s scratchy handwriting.

Tears welled in Angel’s eyes as he stared at the papers, the weight of his reality crashing down on him. Val’s voice was a cruel whisper in his ear. “Do you need to be reminded of what happens when you disobey me?”

“No,” Angel whispered, his voice breaking. “No, Val, I don’t.”

Val’s hand gripped his throat again, pulling him up until their faces were inches apart. “Then what do you say when I tell you to do something?”

“…Yes, Valentino,” Angel choked out, his voice hollow.

“Good.” Val released him, standing tall as he adjusted his tie. “Now, get rid of that little bodyguard of yours. Or I will.”

Angel nodded, “Yes, Valentino.” his voice barely above a whisper. Deeper than before, all the traits of “Angel” gone, leaving nothing but the shell that is Spencer.

As Val strode out of the room, Spencer stumbled to his feet, his body shaking as he followed him. He spotted Harry immediately, the rage in his eyes unmistakable as he moved toward Val. Spencer acted on instinct, stepping in front of him and shoving him back.

“Get out,” Spencer said quietly, his voice trembling as he avoided Harry’s gaze.

“Spencer, I can’t—”

“You can, and you will,” Spencer snapped, his voice cracking. “Please, just… just go.”

Harry hesitated, his expression torn between anger and concern, but eventually, he backed away, his eyes lingering on Spencer until he disappeared through the door.

As the fight left Spencers body, Val’s hand curled possessively around the back of his neck and he can’t help but lean into his poisonous touch. “That’s my good little Angel,” Val murmured, his voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “Now, back to work, my love.”

Angel let himself be led back to the bed, the mask slipping into place as Val barked orders at the crew. The makeup artist covered the bruises on his neck while Madame Élodie removed his robe. The weight of Val’s presence a constant reminder of the chains he couldn’t escape. As the cameras rolled again and Val yelled “Action,” Spencer disappeared completely, leaving only the hollow shell of the persona Val had created.

He was no longer Spencer. He was Angel.

And Angel belonged to Val.

Chapter Text

The roundtable room was bathed in the dim glow of computer screens. The team sat scattered around the table, exhaustion evident in their slouched postures and weary eyes. It was New Year’s, but there were no celebrations here. Outside, fireworks cracked in the distance, their colorful explosions muffled by the FBI headquarters’ thick walls. Inside, the atmosphere was heavy, oppressive even, as the team waited for Garcia’s program to finish its scan.

Penelope Garcia sat in her office, her normally vibrant personality dimmed by the grim task she was performing. Her fingers moved methodically over the keyboard, her fluffy pink pen abandoned beside her mouse. Every so often, her screen emitted a soft chime, signaling another find by the facial recognition program she had designed to scour the dark web. Each “ding” sent a ripple of dread through the team.

Garcia leaned back in her chair, her hands shaking as she adjusted her glasses. It wasn’t the usual hacking or data collection. It wasn’t even the grotesque crime scene photos they were all accustomed to. No, this was worse. The computer wasn’t just pulling up evidence against Valentino Marino. It was finding Spencer.

In the roundtable room, Derek Morgan stared at the glass screen separating the bullpen from the conference room. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw tense as he cast an occasional glance toward Hotch. He’d always prided himself on being able to protect his team, but tonight, the sound of that damn chime made him feel helpless.

Hotch, seated at the head of the table, glanced at his watch. It was nearing 3 a.m., and the program had been running for two hours. He glanced at the door to Garcia’s office, where the faint light of her monitors spilled out. She hadn’t emerged yet, which meant the program was still finding results.

Emily Prentiss sat beside JJ, her fingers idly flipping through a folder of CIA reports. Her usual sharp focus was dulled by fatigue, but her mind remained fixated on the task at hand. “Do you think we’ve reached the bottom of this?” she asked softly, her voice barely carrying across the room.

JJ shook her head, not looking up from her own stack of papers. “With Val? I don’t think there’s a bottom,” she replied, her voice hoarse. Her hands trembled as she shuffled through the files, but she refused to stop.

Rossi leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Whatever Garcia’s finding, we need to be ready for it. If Val left a trail, it’s not going to be pretty.”

The soft chime sounded again, and Derek flinched. “How many more of those are we gonna hear?” he muttered, his tone biting. His frustration was palpable, his protective instincts clashing with the helplessness of waiting.

“We’ll stop when it’s done,” Hotch said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. “We need everything.”

Another chime.

Garcia finally appeared in the doorway, her face pale and drawn. She hesitated, her hands clutching the sides of the doorframe. “Hotch…” she started, her voice cracking.

He stood immediately, his sharp gaze narrowing. “What is it?”

She glanced at the team, her expression torn. “The program’s pulled a lot,” she said. “I—I think it’s done, but…” She trailed off, unable to finish.

“But what?” Rossi prompted, his voice gentle but firm.

Her eyes darted to the ground. “You’re not gonna like it,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Hotch crossed the room to stand beside her. “Penelope, we knew this wouldn’t be easy. Just tell us.”

She took a shaky breath and gestured toward her office. “It’s all queued up. The program did its job. It filtered out anything… explicit. But… even the behind-the-scenes stuff…” She swallowed hard. “It’s bad.”

Hotch nodded, his face unreadable. Garcia brought her computers into the office, the team leaned forward from their spots at the table, crowding around her monitors. The room felt even smaller than usual, the air thick with dread.

“Is the program still running?” Emily asked.

Garcia nodded, sitting back in her chair. “Yeah, it’s still scanning in the background, but I think it’s found most of what’s out there.”

Hotch gestured toward the screen. “Let’s see what it’s pulled so far.”

Garcia hesitated, her hand hovering over the mouse. “It’s not just one video, Hotch. There’s… there’s a lot.”

“How many?” JJ asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Garcia clicked on a folder labeled “Angel Files” and highlighted the list of videos. The team stared in silence as the count appeared at the bottom of the screen.

Forty-three.

JJ let out a shaky breath, her hand covering her mouth. Derek cursed under his breath, pacing the small space. Rossi’s face hardened, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Jesus Christ,” Emily muttered, breaking the silence.

Hotch’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. “We’re not watching all of them, not unless we have to. Start with the first one. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Garcia clicked on the first video, her hand trembling as she pressed play. The screen flickered to life, and the team braced themselves.

A younger Spencer appeared on the screen. He was standing in front of a bed as crew members fixed the set in the background, his hair slightly ruffled, a black silk robe draped loosely over his shoulders. Bruises marked his neck and face, barely concealed by the dim lighting.

The sight was enough to make Emily look away, her hand pressing against her mouth. JJ had tears in her eyes but forced herself to keep watching.

Spencer’s eyes shifted, looking just behind the camera. For a moment, the mask fell, and they saw raw fear in his gaze. But then, as if on command, his expression changed. His shoulders straightened, his lips curled into a seductive smirk, and he was no longer Spencer.

He was Angel.

“Action,” Val’s voice barked from offscreen.

The video ended abruptly as the program cropped the footage, leaving the team staring at the frozen image of Spencer mid-stride.

Garcia quickly clipped the segment, sending it to the facial recognition program to analyze the faces of the crew members.

Hotch straightened, his expression grim. “We keep going.”

The team sat stiffly, their eyes glued to the screen, dreading the next video but knowing they had no choice but to press on. Hotch nodded at Garcia, signaling her to play the second video.

Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard, trembling slightly. She glanced at Derek, who was staring at the table, his jaw clenched. Emily sat with her arms crossed, her usually sharp gaze dulled by fatigue and a deep-seated anger she couldn’t shake. JJ fiddled with her wedding ring, her fingers nervously twisting it as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Rossi leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable, but his tight grip on the armrests betrayed his calm façade.

Finally, Garcia took a deep breath and pressed play.

The screen flickered to life. This time, Spencer was already on the set, seated in a chair in the center of a room illuminated by harsh studio lights. His hands were tied behind his back, and his posture was unnervingly relaxed despite his constraints. A tight, black leather harness crisscrossed his bare chest, and dark makeup exaggerated the shadows under his eyes.

The camera panned out, showing more of the set: a dimly lit room draped in crimson fabrics, giving it an eerie, otherworldly feel. Spencer’s face was neutral, almost serene, but the team couldn’t miss the exhaustion etched into his features. His gaze flicked briefly toward the camera, then shifted downward, avoiding eye contact with anyone on set.

“Makeup!” a sharp voice called from offscreen, and a small group of people scurried into the frame. The team watched as three makeup artists surrounded Spencer, one touching up the dark eyeliner that made his eyes look sharper, another smoothing his hair, and the third adding faint red marks to his neck.

“They’re… touching up bruises,” JJ whispered, her voice shaky. “They’re adding more.”

Garcia paused the video, clipping the footage of the makeup artists and sending their faces through facial recognition. “If I have to look at these people’s faces, they better lead me straight to hell,” she muttered bitterly.

When the video resumed, the camera angle had shifted. A woman, tall and elegant, entered the frame, holding a black choker with intricate silver detailing. She knelt in front of Spencer, clasping the choker around his neck with practiced precision. Her movements were mechanical, devoid of emotion, as if she were outfitting a mannequin. Once the choker was secured, she adjusted it, her fingers lingering around his throat in a way that made the team’s stomachs churn.

Spencer didn’t flinch, didn’t react at all. He simply sat there, his face a mask of stoicism that they all recognized but hated seeing. They’d seen him wear that expression before—at crime scenes, in interrogations—but never like this.

The woman stepped back, surveying her work. Satisfied, she called out, “He’s ready.”

The voice they all dreaded cut through the air. “Good. Let’s get this done.” Valentino Marino stepped into the frame, his shadow stretching across the set as he approached Spencer.

The camera lingered on Spencer’s face as Val leaned in close, whispering something inaudible. Whatever he said, it made Spencer’s lips twitch into a smirk. Angel was back.

Val straightened, barking orders at the crew to finalize the lighting. The team watched as Spencer shifted slightly in the chair, his shoulders rolling back and his head tilting ever so slightly to the side. It was subtle, but the transformation was clear. His body language was no longer neutral—it was seductive, calculated.

“Action,” Val called.

Spencer’s head lifted, and his eyes met the camera. His gaze was piercing, intense, and utterly unrecognizable. It wasn’t Spencer staring back at them—it was Angel. His lips parted, a coy smile playing on his face as he arched his back slightly against the restraints. The frame cut abruptly, the program having cropped anything deemed explicit.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Clip the crew’s faces and run them,” Hotch instructed Garcia, his voice steady despite the tension in his posture. She nodded quickly, doing as she was told. Her hands moved deftly over the keyboard, but her usually cheerful demeanor was replaced with grim determination.

“They’ve perfected him,” Rossi said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “They turned him into exactly what they wanted.”

Derek, who had been quiet for most of the video, let out a sharp breath and stood abruptly. He paced the room, his hands on his hips. “This is sick.” He turned to Hotch. “We know who did this. We know what they did. Why aren’t we doing anything?”

“We are doing something,” Hotch replied calmly, though his tone carried an edge. “Every clip we process, every face we run, gets us closer to putting Val and everyone involved away for good. We need more than we have right now. This is evidence.”

Derek opened his mouth to argue but closed it again, shaking his head in frustration. He sat back down heavily, his leg bouncing with nervous energy.

Garcia’s computer dinged, pulling everyone’s attention. The program had identified the faces of two of the makeup artists, matching them to employment records from a film studio in Nevada. Their profiles popped up on the screen, complete with names, addresses, and employment history.

“Gotcha,” Garcia muttered, her voice filled with venom. She flagged their profiles for the team to investigate later.

“What about the costume designer?” Emily asked.

Garcia shook her head. “Still running her. Nothing yet.”

Hotch nodded. “Keep us updated. Let’s move to the next video.”

The team exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. The roundtable room was heavy with an unbearable silence, the kind that dug into your bones. They all knew the next video wouldn’t be any easier to watch, but they had no choice. They were in too deep now.

Garcia took a deep breath, her lips trembling slightly, before pressing play.

The screen lit up, showing Spencer—or Angel—dancing on stage. The lights of the club pulsed around him in shades of pink, purple, and blue, casting shadows on the sequined top and knee-high black boots he wore. The camera followed his every move, capturing the sway of his hips and the slow, deliberate roll of his body. His leather shorts gleamed under the lights, hugging his thin frame.

There was something haunting about how perfect he looked. He moved with precision, confidence radiating from every step, every turn, every glance he cast toward the invisible audience.

But the team wasn’t watching Angel with admiration. They were searching. Searching for the cracks, the moments when Spencer bled through the mask.

The music faded as the scene cut abruptly, transitioning to a dimly lit club. The space was empty now, its vibrant energy replaced by a hollow quiet. Spencer was no longer dancing. He knelt on the floor in front of a man seated in a plush chair.

The man was older, his tailored suit a sharp contrast to Spencer’s exposed body. The knee-high boots, tight leather shorts, and collar remained, a stark reminder of who Angel was meant to be. The man’s hands rested on the arms of the chair, his demeanor exuding control as he looked down at Spencer.

Spencer’s hands rested lightly on the man’s knees, and for a moment, he turned his head slightly, looking directly at the camera. It was brief, but the emotion in his eyes was unmistakable. Sadness. Annoyance. A flicker of something real, something that wasn’t Angel.

“Action!” Val’s voice barked from offscreen.

The transformation was immediate. Spencer straightened his back, his lips curling into a seductive smile. His hands slid up the man’s thighs, slow and purposeful, as he tilted his head to meet the man’s gaze. Whatever vulnerability had slipped through moments ago was gone, replaced by the practiced, sultry confidence of Angel.

The scene froze, Garcia pausing the video just as the man reached out to place a hand on Spencer’s cheek.

“Clip it,” Hotch said, his tone firm.

Garcia nodded quickly, isolating the man’s face and sending it through facial recognition. The tension in the room was palpable as they waited for the system to process, the seconds stretching into what felt like hours. Finally, a match popped up.

“Michael Henson,” Garcia read aloud. Her voice was steadier than expected, but her expression betrayed her unease. “Real estate mogul based in Los Angeles. Married. Three kids.”

Emily let out a sharp breath. “Of course.”

“There’s more,” Garcia continued, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “He’s made several… questionable payments over the years. Large sums sent to shell companies linked to Val. Hundreds of thousands, all under the guise of ‘consulting fees.’”

JJ leaned forward, her brow furrowed. “So he was a client.”

“Willingly or not, he was complicit,” Rossi said from the corner, his tone cold.

Hotch scribbled a note on his legal pad. “We’ll dig into him further. He could lead us to others.”

The video resumed after Garcia clipped the footage. Spencer—or Angel—was still kneeling, the man’s hand now brushing a strand of hair from his face. Angel tilted his head slightly, leaning into the touch as though it was natural, effortless. The camera zoomed in on his expression, his lips parting just enough to show a hint of his teeth as he smiled up at the man.

For a moment, it was impossible not to see how young Spencer was in this scene. How much he had been stripped of his identity, reshaped into whatever Val wanted him to be.

“Stop,” Derek said suddenly, his voice sharp.

Garcia hit pause, the screen freezing on Angel’s upturned face.

Derek stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his head shaking as he paced away from the table. “I can’t… I can’t do this. Not this one.”

Hotch’s gaze followed him. “You can step out if you need to.”

Derek turned, his jaw tight. “This isn’t about me. It’s about him.” He gestured toward the frozen image of Spencer on the screen. “We’re sitting here, watching this like it’s some kind of horror movie. Like we’re detached from it. But this is Spencer. This is our kid. And he has no idea we’re even doing this.”

“We’re doing this for him,” JJ said quietly. “To protect him. To make sure this never happens again.”

“I know that.” Derek’s voice cracked, his frustration evident. “But how do we come back from this? How do we sit across from him, knowing we’ve seen this?”

No one had an answer.

The silence was broken by a chime from Garcia’s computer. Another video had been flagged.

Hotch looked at her, his expression resolute. “Pull it up.”

“Hotch,” Emily said softly, her voice hesitant. “Maybe we should take a break. We’ve seen enough for tonight.”

“No,” he replied firmly. “We need to finish this. The sooner we know what we’re dealing with, the sooner we can stop it.”

Garcia hesitated but ultimately obeyed, queuing up the next video. As the screen lit up again, the team braced themselves.

The screen flickered to life, revealing a brightly lit dance studio. The floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected a younger Spencer standing in the middle of the room. He wore a loose white tank top and black dance pants, his bare feet moving rhythmically to a piece of soft classical music playing in the background.

The team could see how thin he was, his collarbones sharp, his movements deliberate but nervous. He was rehearsing a routine, his arms fluid, his posture perfect. His face was set in concentration, a small frown tugging at his lips. He was focused, but not at peace.

As the camera panned out, a familiar figure entered the frame. Valentino Marino strode toward Spencer with an air of authority, his sharp suit contrasting the casual setting of the studio. He carried a clipboard in one hand, and his presence immediately disrupted the serene atmosphere.

Val clapped his hands once, and Spencer froze mid-turn. His head whipped around to face Val, and his expression shifted. Angel wasn’t there yet, but Spencer’s face quickly fell into a mask of obedient neutrality.

“You’re dragging,” Val said sharply, his voice echoing in the empty studio. “Again.”

Spencer nodded wordlessly and reset his position. The music started over, and he began the routine again. His movements were slightly sharper this time, more controlled, but Val’s dissatisfaction was evident. He shook his head as he circled Spencer, muttering criticisms about his form, his pacing, and even his appearance.

The team watched as Spencer faltered during a spin. Val stopped the music abruptly, throwing his clipboard onto a nearby chair with a loud thud. He stalked toward Spencer, his movements predatory.

“Do you even care about this anymore?” Val demanded, his voice a low growl. “Do you think anyone’s going to pay to see you if you look like that?”

Spencer flinched at the words, his arms crossing protectively over his chest. “I’m trying,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

“Not hard enough,” Val snapped. He stepped closer, forcing Spencer to tilt his head up to meet his gaze. “You’ve gotten lazy. You’re too soft. You’re… heavier.”

The words hit the team like a punch. They had never seen Spencer as anything but painfully thin, yet here he was, being berated for something that wasn’t true. It was a calculated move, designed to break him down.

Val suddenly turned, placing his hands on Spencer’s shoulders. “Do you know what your problem is, Angel?” he said, his tone shifting to a mockery of gentleness. “You think you’re irreplaceable. But you’re not. There’s always someone younger, prettier, hungrier.”

Spencer’s head bowed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I’ll do better,” he whispered.

“You’ll have to,” Val replied coldly. “Now, let’s try again. And this time, don’t embarrass me.”

The video jumped forward, the lighting in the studio now dimmer, the music gone. Spencer and Val were dancing together now, running through a routine. At first, it looked like Val was demonstrating the moves, but it quickly became clear that this was something else entirely.

Val led Spencer in a series of spins and dips, his hands lingering too long on Spencer’s waist, his shoulders, his back. The choreography became increasingly intimate, and Spencer’s movements grew hesitant, unsure. Yet he continued, his face carefully neutral, his body moving with the grace expected of him.

Val spun Spencer one last time, then suddenly pushed him backward. Spencer landed hard on the floor, his hands splaying out to catch himself.

“Pathetic,” Val sneered, standing over him. “You can’t even handle that much.”

Spencer stayed on the floor, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He looked up at Val, his expression somewhere between fear and resignation. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Val crouched down, his hand gripping Spencer’s chin roughly. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” he hissed. “Skip dinner tonight. Maybe that’ll remind you what’s at stake.”

The video ended abruptly, the screen going dark.

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence was oppressive, the weight of what they’d just witnessed pressing down on all of them. Each member of the team processed it in their own way—Hotch’s jaw was set, his hands gripping the edge of the table. Emily stared at the dark screen, her expression unreadable. Derek muttered something under his breath, shaking his head.

JJ wiped at her eyes, trying to compose herself. “He… he was just a kid,” she said softly, her voice breaking.

“That wasn’t choreography,” Rossi said from his corner, his tone grim. “That was control. Manipulation. He wasn’t teaching him to dance—he was teaching him to submit.”

“Every word, every move—it was all designed to tear him down,” Emily added, her voice shaking with anger. “To make him dependent on Val.”

Garcia sniffled, her hands trembling as she typed. “I clipped the whole thing,” she said quietly. “There weren’t any other faces besides Val’s, so I didn’t run it through facial recognition. But we should save it for the trial.”

Hotch nodded, his expression grim. “We will.”

The team sat in silence for several minutes. The image of Spencer on the floor, broken and apologizing, was seared into their minds. It was another piece of evidence, another reminder of the horrors Spencer had endured.

Finally, Hotch spoke. “Let’s take five,” he said. “We need a minute before we continue.”

One by one, the team stood and left the room, each of them seeking a moment of solitude to gather their thoughts. Garcia stayed behind, staring at her monitors, her hands hovering over the keyboard as she fought back tears.

The dark screen reflected their unspoken fears: that no matter how much evidence they gathered, no matter how much they tried to protect Spencer, the damage had already been done.

———
After a short break each member of the team made their way back to the conference room, walking through the doorway as if they were heading to their deaths. They sat in their respective seats, each members face set with grim determination as the next video played.

The footage began with dim red lighting casting a harsh glow across the room. It was a set—clearly staged, but designed to feel intimate. A large bed sat in the middle of the frame, draped in crimson sheets. The air of artificial sensuality was suffocating, and the team could feel their stomachs churn before anyone even appeared on screen.

Then Spencer—or rather, Angel—stepped into view and was guided towards the bed.

He was clad in the same strappy black leather outfit that left little to the imagination. The straps wrapped tightly around his chest and waist, emphasizing how small and vulnerable he looked. A pair of knee-high black boots completed the look, and a matching choker adorned his neck. His movements were hesitant, almost robotic, as if he were on autopilot.

His eyes darted around the set before fixing on something—or someone—behind the camera. There was no emotion on his face, but the tension in his body was palpable. It was clear that Angel was waiting for instructions.

A shadow crossed the screen, and Val’s voice boomed from behind the camera.

“Blindfold him.”

The team froze as they watched a figure, someone from the crew, step forward. The figure was dressed plainly, but the confidence in their movements suggested familiarity with the process. They placed a black blindfold over Spencer’s eyes, and for a brief moment, Spencer flinched. It was almost imperceptible, but the team caught it.

Once the blindfold was secured, Spencer’s entire demeanor shifted. His shoulders relaxed, his posture became languid, and the subtle smirk they had come to associate with Angel appeared on his face. But it wasn’t real—they could see the cracks beneath the surface.

“Perfect,” Val said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Now, don’t move.”

The camera adjusted as Val directed someone to adjust the lighting. In the red glow, Angel looked almost ethereal, but the team could see the truth: he was hiding in plain sight. Val’s voice carried on in the background, giving instructions to people off-camera. The entire scene felt clinical and detached, yet horrifyingly personal.

Two older men entered the frame. They were dressed in formal suits, their faces obscured by the shadows. They approached the bed, their movements slow and deliberate. Spencer remained still, his head tilted slightly as if listening for cues.

The team didn’t want to see where this was heading. They couldn’t watch it happen.

“Pause it,” Hotch said suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. Penelope quickly stopped the video, her fingers moving shakily on the keyboard.

Garcia immediately clipped the section, isolating the faces of the two men and sending them to facial recognition. Her hands were unsteady, but her movements were precise. The computer began processing, the faint hum of its systems the only sound in the room.

“This is sick,” Derek muttered, his voice thick with anger. He leaned back in his chair, his fists clenched tightly on the table.

“It always is,” Rossi replied quietly, his arms crossed as he stared at the frozen screen.

The silence stretched as they waited for the results. Garcia refused to look at the screen again, focusing instead on her computer. JJ and Emily exchanged uneasy glances, both struggling to keep their emotions in check. Hotch sat rigidly, his mind already working through the implications of what they’d just seen.

Finally, the computer chimed, signaling a match. Garcia’s voice was barely above a whisper as she read the results.

“The two men… they’re actors,” she said. “Both have criminal records—assault, battery, one has a history of domestic violence. Neither of them are big names, but they’ve worked for a few shady production companies.”

“What about Val?” Emily asked. “Was he ever on camera?”

Garcia shook her head. “Not in this clip. But…” She hesitated, her eyes flickering to the paused video. “There’s more footage.”

Hotch nodded, his expression grim. “Go ahead.”

Garcia hesitated for a moment before clicking on the next file. The team braced themselves once more as the screen came to life.

This time, the setting was slightly different. The lighting was still red, but the camera was positioned closer to the bed. Spencer—or Angel—was already seated, his hands tied behind his back with silk restraints. His expression was blank.

Val’s voice carried through the room, giving directions to the crew. The team could hear him instructing the actors, adjusting the lighting, and making last-minute changes to the set. Spencer sat motionless, his body tense as he waited for his next cue.

When Val finally yelled “Action,” Angel was back. His smirk returned, his posture shifted, and his entire demeanor changed. But the team could see the truth behind the facade. They could see the exhaustion in his movements.

The video ended abruptly, cutting off just as one of the actors approached Spencer. Garcia quickly clipped the footage, isolating the faces of anyone visible on screen. Her hands trembled as she worked, and the silence in the room felt unbearable.

“That’s enough for now,” Hotch said, his voice quieter but still firm. He glanced around the room, noting the exhaustion and pain etched into each of his team member’s faces. “We need to process this.”

“No,” Derek interrupted, his tone sharp but not directed at anyone in particular. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as his fists clenched. “You were right before, Hotch. We keep going. There’s more out there, and every second we wait, more people are watching this. We can’t stop now.”

The team exchanged glances, hesitant but silently agreeing. Garcia swallowed hard, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Garcia,” Hotch said softly, his gaze steady. “Take a minute if you need to.”

“No,” she whispered, her voice shaky but resolute. “Let’s just… let’s finish this.” Her fingers moved swiftly, pulling up the next file.

The room grew impossibly still as the next video loaded on the screen, their collective dread palpable. No one moved or spoke, each of them bracing themselves for what they might see next. No one wanted to be there, but none of them could leave. Spencer wasn’t alone in this—not anymore.

The video began to play, the screen flickering to life in the dimly lit round table room. The scene was disturbingly quiet, with only the faint hum of the camera and the rustling sounds of the crew packing up equipment in the background. Spencer lay on the bed, motionless. He was partially hidden beneath a thin, crumpled sheet, his long limbs slack and lifeless.

The neon sign above the bed cast a soft pink glow, the word “Angel” hanging mockingly over the scene. Mascara trailed in streaks down Spencer’s cheeks, evidence of tears shed long before the video began. His hair was disheveled, tangled from being pulled, and his jaw moved slightly in his sleep, the telltale grind of someone under the influence. On the bedside table, the camera captured an unsettlingly clear image of fine white powder cut into neat lines and a rolled dollar bill beside it.

The team sat in tense silence, their gazes fixed on the screen. Each of them had their own silent reactions: clenched fists, sharp intakes of breath, the flexing of a jaw. This was more than a video. It was a glimpse into the darkest, most vulnerable moments of someone they cared about deeply.

“Jesus…” Derek muttered under his breath, the first to break the silence.

Rossi stood in the corner, his arms crossed tightly, a dark expression on his face as if trying to physically restrain himself from destroying the monitor.

The crew in the video continued their work, their chatter inaudible but casual, like this was just another day on set. They moved equipment and adjusted the lights without a second glance at Spencer. To them, he was nothing more than a prop.

And then, the shadow crossed the camera.

It was unmistakable—Valentino. His towering frame and distinct posture were evident even though his face remained just out of view. He approached the bed slowly, almost methodically, his shadow stretching over Spencer’s prone form like a predator closing in on its prey.

Spencer didn’t stir. The jaw movement continued, and his breathing seemed steady, but his body was utterly still. Val’s hand extended into the frame, brushing against the sheet as he reached down toward Spencer.

The video cut off abruptly.

The team collectively exhaled, their relief palpable, but it was fleeting. They all knew the implications of what they had just seen. They knew what was likely to happen next, and the tension in the room felt suffocating.

Hotch broke the silence. “We need to watch the rest of that video. Without the program filtering it.”

The room erupted in protest.

“Hotch, come on—don’t do this!” Derek was on his feet, pacing angrily. “You already know what’s on there. We all do! Why the hell would you want to see it?”

Garcia shook her head vigorously, her voice trembling. “I-I can’t. I can’t do it, Hotch. Please don’t ask me to.”

Emily looked down at the table, her fingers tracing invisible lines as she muttered, “He’s right. We know what happens. What’s the point?”

Hotch raised his hand, silencing the room. “We don’t know everything. If there’s even a chance that something in that footage can help us—anything we can use to ensure Valentino Marino never gets out again—we owe it to Spencer to find it. If we don’t, and there’s a hole in the case, we’ll regret it for the rest of our lives.”

The room fell silent again. Hotch’s words carried the weight of their shared purpose, but it didn’t make the task any easier.

“If anyone wants to leave, now is the time,” Hotch added, his voice softer now. “You don’t have to watch this.”

Derek didn’t hesitate. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t, Hotch. Not this time,” he muttered as he left.

Garcia followed close behind, tears streaming down her face as she mumbled apologies. “I’m sorry, I just… I can’t…”

Hotch watched them leave before turning back to the remaining team members. Rossi stayed rooted in the corner, his face unreadable but determined. Emily glanced at JJ, who sat pale and rigid but gave a slight nod. Emily sighed and looked back at Hotch.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, her voice resigned.

Hotch settled into Garcia’s seat and pressed play.

Chapter Text

The golden morning light filters through the curtains, filling the bedroom with a soft, deceiving warmth. If Spencer closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself it was summer—that he was anywhere but here, in the middle of winter, weighed down by the heaviness of everything he refuses to let himself feel.

He’s always woken up early on January 1st.

It started at Pride. Every year, he’d drag himself out of bed, press his forehead to the cold glass of his window, and watch the first sunrise of the new year. A symbol of rebirth, of fresh starts, of the impossible hope that maybe, just maybe, this would be the year things changed. The year he found peace.

Eventually, that year came.

But the tradition never left him.

This year, though, he doesn’t have to wake up. He never fell asleep in the first place.

Spencer glances down at the small, trembling ball of fur curled up in his lap. Jinx’s purring rumbles softly against his fingertips, the delicate vibration soothing in a way he hadn’t expected. He strokes the kitten’s silky fur, letting the motion calm his own unsteady heartbeat.

It had taken hours to coax him out from under the bed.

Harry had passed out long before, curled up on the bedroom floor beside him, his breathing deep and even.
Spencer should be exhausted.

And he is.

But for the first time in months, it’s the kind of exhaustion that settles, rather than suffocates.

He lets his head rest against the footboard, the golden light warming his face as Jinx purrs contently against him.
His legs are numb, his body aches, but as sleep finally pulls him under, he thinks, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Chapter Text

It’s strangling her.

JJ watches as Hotch's fingertip hesitates over the space key, just for a second, before pressing it down. The muted click of the keyboard is deafening in the thick, suffocating silence. The video shifts on the screen, the frozen frame flickering to life. The movement is subtle—just a shift in lighting, the barely-there motion of a body breathing—but it feels like a blow to the chest.

JJ swallows hard. The fingers that touched the keyboard may as well be wrapped around her throat—tight, unrelenting. She can't breathe.

Spencer is her best friend. He has been for years. And yet, she’s sitting here, willingly watching a moment that was never meant to be seen. A moment stolen from him, put on display like some grotesque spectacle. She has made the active choice to witness Spencer at his most vulnerable, and the realization twists deep in her gut. Who is she to call herself his best friend?

She doesn’t think she deserves that title anymore.

The weight of their decision settles heavy over the room, pressing down on all of them. As soon as Hotch pressed play, it was there—the regret. Thick and immediate, clawing at their throats. It sinks into their bones, a silent, mutual understanding that maybe—just maybe—they’ve made a terrible mistake.

But the regret they feel does nothing to stop the video from playing.

They watch as Angel stirs on the bed, his breath shallow, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. The glow of the pink neon sign above him—Angel in soft, cursive letters—casts a sickly halo over his motionless frame, illuminating the smudged makeup streaking down his cheeks. Mascara is caked along his lower lashes, dried tear tracks breaking through the foundation that was once perfectly set against his skin. His hair is a mess, tangled from rough hands pulling at it, the once-golden strands darkened by sweat.

Then, a hand enters the frame.

Long fingers touch Spencer’s cheek and trace a slow, deliberate path down his jaw. It’s almost tender. Almost loving.

It’s Val’s hand.

JJ expected cruelty, violence—expected him to grab Spencer like he owned him, to treat him like the object he had made him into. But this? This softness? It’s so much worse.

Val’s touch is careful, deliberate. A thumb brushes under Spencer’s eye, catching a stray tear, smoothing away the evidence of his pain. He strokes over the bruise on Spencer’s cheek, the one his own hand likely put there, with the delicate reverence of a sculptor admiring his masterpiece.

Then he leans down, lips grazing the shell of Spencer’s ear. His voice is quiet, meant just for him.

"There you are, my angel."

Spencer’s brows knit together, his body flinching at the voice even in sleep. His breath stutters, uneven for a moment. Then his eyelids flutter open.

JJ doesn’t know what she expects to see when Spencer’s eyes finally find Val’s face. Anger? Resentment? Fear?
For a brief second, yes. Fear is there.

His eyes widen slightly, his body goes tense, lips parting in the instinct to flinch away. For a moment, there is recognition—clarity.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes.

Spencer blinks again, and his whole body seems to soften. His expression shifts, the fear dissolving, relief taking its place.

It’s subtle—the slight uncoiling of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch but don’t pull away from Val’s touch. His gaze flickers across Val’s face as if searching for something, waiting for confirmation that everything is okay. And when Val gives it—when his lips curl into a small, pleased smile—Spencer exhales, like a weight has been lifted.

JJ grips the edge of the table in front of her.

Because that look—that quiet, desperate trust—isn’t new. She’s seen it before.

In a dance studio, in grainy surveillance footage, in photographs buried deep in CIA files. A young boy—Angel—standing in front of a man who told him he was special. That he was his.

Spencer still looks like that boy.

He still is that boy.

And then, as if to prove it, Spencer does something that makes JJ’s stomach drop.

He smiles.

Small, uncertain, almost shy. The kind of smile meant to appease, to please. The kind of smile a child gives to an adult when they want to be told they’ve done well.

Val watches it unfold with a sick sort of satisfaction.

"We're done filming for the night," he murmurs, his hand shifting to cup Spencer’s jaw, tilting his face up toward him. "You did so well, my love. I couldn’t be more proud of you."
Spencer barely reacts, just a slow, heavy-lidded blink, a shaky inhale. But his lips twitch, like he’s suppressing another small smile.

Val’s hand strokes down his throat, fingertips tracing over the pulse point there.

"You were perfect, angel," Val continues, his voice rich with warmth, with something that sounds genuine. "The way you move... The way you listen. Just like I taught you."
His fingers tighten just slightly against Spencer’s throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind.

"And you’ll keep listening, won’t you?"

Spencer nods. It’s automatic. Unthinking. He doesn’t even hesitate.

"Good boy."

JJ has to turn away.

She knows it’s not over. She knows the worst is still to come.

She holds her breath as she watches Val’s fingers drift down Spencer’s arm, his touch featherlight, almost careful. He traces the length of his forearm, thumb pressing gently against the pale skin before his fingers curl around it, wrapping snugly but not tightly.

She expects him to pull. To yank Spencer up with the same force she’s seen him use before, the kind of force that leaves bruises, that makes Spencer stumble to catch himself.
She expects something aggressive, something that would fit the image of Valentino Marino they’ve built in their heads—the cruel, sadistic monster who took pleasure in breaking Spencer down.
But this?

This deliberate, practiced softness?

It makes her skin crawl.

Because it’s not real.

It’s never been real.

But Spencer—curled up in the sheets, hazy from whatever Val had given him, eyes still blinking up at him like he holds the moon in his hands—believes it is.

And that is so much worse.

The camera shifts abruptly, the view tilting as someone adjusts it, the sudden movement making JJ’s stomach lurch. It’s disorienting, the way the angle jerks and sways before steadying again.

Through the shifting frame, she watches as Val carefully helps Spencer off the bed, steadying him when his legs nearly give out. He’s still dazed, still blinking sluggishly up at Val as if he’s the only thing tethering him to reality.

Val doesn’t rush him. He lets Spencer lean into him, supporting his weight with effortless ease. Then, with almost tender precision, he drapes a thick black robe around his shoulders, making sure it’s secure before pulling the hood up over Spencer’s damp curls.

The image flickers.

The screen goes dark.

But the video doesn’t end.

A blast of static crackles through the speakers, loud and grating, sending a ripple of unease through the team. The screen glitches, flickering like a dying signal, before cutting back to footage—but it’s different.

This isn’t the clean, high-resolution camera work of the porn studio.

It’s grainy. The angle is skewed, positioned high in the corner of a room.

JJ immediately recognizes it for what it is—surveillance footage.

The room is dimly lit, the camera struggling to adjust to the lack of light. A large king-sized bed sits in the middle of the frame, the covers pristine and expensive-looking. The space is immaculate, like something out of a high-end hotel, but JJ can tell this isn’t some transient luxury suite.

This is someone’s home.

She sees the details now—the subtle, personal touches that wouldn’t exist in a hotel.

A small framed photo hangs on the far wall, though she can’t make out the faces within it. A few books sit on a shelf, their spines cracked and worn, clearly well-loved.

Something about it feels off. Cold. Like a carefully curated display rather than a lived-in space.

But her analysis is cut short when the door swings open.

Light spills in from the hallway, silhouetting a thin figure stumbling into the room.

Familiar brown curls catch the glow of the city lights spilling in through the massive floor-to-ceiling window. The faint neon reflection dances across his hair, illuminating the deep smudges beneath his eyes, the unmistakable weariness in his expression.

A thick black robe is wrapped tightly around his frame, the same one Val had placed over his shoulders just minutes ago in the previous footage. His fingers clutch at the fabric, pulling it tighter, as if trying to shield himself from something unseen.

JJ barely has time to process the sight of him before he moves.

Spencer closes the door behind him with a quiet click and then—he crumples.

His back hits the door, and he slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. His head tilts back against the wood, eyes fluttering shut as his chest rises and falls with slow, labored breaths.

Exhaustion clings to him, dragging at every movement, every inhale, like even the simple act of breathing takes effort.

JJ swallows hard, gripping the edge of the table in front of her.

For a long, suffocating moment, the only sound in the room is Spencer’s breathing through the speakers. No one speaks. No one moves. The weight of what they’re watching sits heavy in their chests, pressing down like hands around their throats.

Then, Emily breaks the silence.

“Oh my god…” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the quiet like a knife. “Val had cameras in his room.”
The realization spreads through the room like a disease.

“He was never alone,” Rossi says, his voice grim. He rubs a hand over his face as if he’s trying to wipe away what he just saw. “Even when he thought he was.”

JJ shakes her head, stomach twisting painfully. “He was exhausted, barely able to stand, and still—he was being watched.” Her voice is tight, filled with anger she doesn’t know what to do with. “Even when he was just… sleeping.”

Rossi exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped over his mouth. He shakes his head once, then again, like he can’t quite wrap his head around it. “That son of a bitch never let him go.”

“No.” Hotch’s voice is quiet. “He never did.”

JJ forces herself to breathe. “We already knew he never had privacy. That Val controlled everything. But this…” She gestures toward the screen, at the surveillance footage that has stripped Spencer of even his most basic right to exist without being watched. “This is something else.”

“This is worse,” Emily agrees. “That sick bastard was getting off on having control over him every second of every damn day.”

“And it wasn’t just Val,” Rossi says grimly, gesturing toward the screen. “There were others. The crew. The ‘investors.’ How many people had access to these feeds?”

The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through JJ’s stomach. She forces herself to look back at the screen, at Spencer’s stil form.

This was supposed to be a moment of peace for him.

But even in his own room, even in his most vulnerable state, he was nothing more than something to be observed.

JJ exhales slowly, gripping the edge of the table to ground herself.

“What else don’t we know?” she asks, voice hollow.

She already knew he had been running on empty. That Val had used him, drained him, stripped him of everything. But watching him like this—alone, barely able to keep himself upright, looking so utterly defeated—makes her stomach twist painfully.

Because this isn’t Angel.

This isn’t even Spencer Reid, the man she knows.

This is someone caught between versions of himself, stuck in the limbo of who he was forced to be and who he’s trying to remember how to be.

The team watches in heavy silence as Spencer forces himself to move, gathering the last fragments of his strength to pull himself off the floor.

His limbs shake as he pushes up onto unsteady feet, his hands bracing against the door behind him for support. He sways for a moment before dragging himself forward, each step slow, labored, his body fighting him with every movement.

He doesn’t walk so much as he stumbles, his bare feet soundless against the floor. His shoulder catches the wall, and instead of correcting himself, he leans into it, using it to keep himself upright as he makes his way across the room.

JJ clenches her fists in her lap, nails digging into her skin.

She has never seen him like this.

Even at his worst, even when he was struggling with addiction, with the cases that cut too deep—he always held himself up. Always managed to keep some part of himself together.

But here?
There is no fight left in him.

Spencer disappears into the massive en suite bathroom, and for a long time, all the team can do is stare at the empty bedroom.

Then, after a few minutes, steam begins to billow out from the open doorway, curling into the dimly lit room.

The team sits frozen as the footage continues.
Waiting.

Spencer emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, his frame thin and fragile beneath the dim glow of the Vegas skyline. His damp curls cling to his forehead, the ends dripping onto his bare shoulders. His skin, scrubbed raw, is tinged pink in places, as if he had been trying to scrub something away—something that water alone could never remove.

He’s traded the robe for a pair of dark sweatpants, the waistband hanging loosely around his hips. His arms wrap around himself as he steps into the room, exhaustion weighing him down like a lead blanket.

His movements are slow, almost mechanical. His eyes, barely open, scan the space around him, but there’s no real awareness behind them. He isn’t looking for anything—just moving through the motions of a routine that has long since lost any meaning.

JJ watches as he shuffles toward the massive bed, the mattress looking more like a display piece than something meant for comfort. The room, lavish and expensive, lacks warmth, lacks life. It is a cage made of gold.

Spencer doesn’t seem to care.

He climbs onto the bed, his limbs heavy, his breathing uneven as he drags himself toward the pillows. He doesn’t pull the covers over himself. He doesn’t curl up or shift around to get comfortable. He just collapses, sinking into the plush surface, his body boneless with exhaustion.

The team barely has time to register it before his breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling steadily.

He’s asleep.

Just like that.

JJ swallows the lump in her throat, forcing herself to keep watching.

Because this isn’t over.

They all know it isn’t over.

Chapter Text

***14 Years Ago***

Angel’s body felt heavy, pressed deep into the mattress by the sheer exhaustion of the day. Every muscle ached, every nerve burned from overuse. Nine hours. Nine hours in front of the camera, shifting from one set to another, but never changing roles. Gagged, slapped, choked, and fucked.

It was always the same. The faces changed, the names—if he even bothered to ask—were different, but the story never deviated. Some nights it was a little slower, a little more practiced. Others, like tonight, were brutal. Val had been angry, and Angel had paid the price. That was the rule. That was how it worked. 

The silk sheets beneath him felt cold against his raw skin, but the contrast didn’t soothe him. His wrists throbbed where the cuffs had rubbed them raw, deep red rings etched into the skin like reminders. His neck was just as raw from where sweat had mixed with the leather of his collar, Val’s favorite. It had been too tight tonight, not loose enough to be comfortable, just enough to keep him aware of it at all times. He hadn’t dared to adjust it.

He didn’t own anything anymore, not even his own body.

The room around him was beautiful, elegant, curated—just like he was. The walls were a muted gold, the furniture expensive and modern, designed with the kind of taste Val liked to show off. The bed he lay in was massive, covered in soft, high-thread-count sheets, and meant to look luxurious rather than lived in. 

Nothing about it was his. 

But there were small pieces of Spencer still left here, buried in the lavish prison Val had built for Angel. Books. The few that Harry had bought him, stacked neatly on the bedside table. A framed photo. His mother, frozen in time, smiling in the home she thought he was still living in. A guitar. In the corner, untouched, a relic from another life. 

Spencer had tried to hold onto those things, to keep them close, as if they could tether him to something real. But lately, even those small comforts felt like a joke. The books went unread. The picture blurred every time he looked at it. The guitar’s strings had gone out of tune, collecting dust like everything else from his past.

None of it mattered. 

He barely had the strength to shower before collapsing into bed, but he forced himself to. He couldn’t let himself sleep in the filth, in the sweat and spit and other things that clung to his skin. He had scrubbed himself raw under the water, not stopping until his skin ached from the heat. 

Now, his damp hair soaked through the pillowcase, and his body, wrecked and used, finally surrendered to sleep.

For a moment, there was nothing.

And then,

The void. Soft, inky, endless. 

He sank into it, let it pull him down, down, down— 

Where Spencer didn’t exist. 

Where nothing did.

And it was finally quiet.

 *** 

It never stayed quiet for long. 

Sleep was always fleeting. Even when exhaustion weighed him down, even when his body begged for rest, he never slept long enough. Sometimes it was the nightmares, jolting him awake only to find himself trapped in a reality far worse. Other times, it was the music from Pride, always finding a way to reach him despite the five stories of distance and the thick glass of the penthouse windows. It was like they cranked the volume louder, just to pierce through, just to remind him that he belonged to the world below.

But this time, it was neither. 

Through the heavy fog of sleep, he felt it. 

Fingertips, dragging slowly between his shoulder blades, down his spine.

The touch was light. Kind, even. A gentle back-and-forth, barely there, the nails brushing lightly against his skin in a way that almost felt… nice. It was rare for him to have pleasant dreams, but maybe—just maybe—this was one of them.

The sensation repeated, fingertips tracing his ribs before sliding back up, making slow, lazy patterns across his skin. 

No.

That felt too real.

His heart lurched. Sleep was ripped from his body in an instant, his mind violently yanked back into reality as his eyes snapped open. 

He was on his stomach. 

At some point in the night, he had rolled over, his bare back exposed to the cool air—and to the calloused fingers that shouldn’t have been there. 

The touch continued, unhurried, claiming the skin along his shoulder blades, dipping into the curves of his hips, memorizing. 

Marking. 

He knew those callouses. 

Knew them better than anything. 

His body stiffened, bile rising in his throat as realization crashed over him like ice water. 

It was Val. 

The warmth of sleep vanished in an instant, replaced by something cold and consuming. The touch that had felt gentle a moment ago now scalded, burning into him like an open flame. 

Everything in him begged to pull away. 

To run. 

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. 

A slow, amused hum rumbled from the man behind him. 

“I know you’re awake, my love.” Val’s deep voice filled the room, suffocating. 

Angel forced himself to stay still, forced his breath to remain steady—but something in his body must have betrayed him. Maybe it was the tension in his shoulders, the subtle change in his breathing.

Because Val laughed. A low, rich chuckle that sent a shiver up Angel’s spine.

The shiver continued, crawling down his spine like ice, his still-damp hair and silk pillowcase doing nothing to warm him. The cold wasn't just from outside—it lived under his skin now, burrowed there by every contradiction Val ever touched him with.

“Fine,” Val murmured, the word laced with amusement, like they were sharing some private joke. “We can play that game.”

His voice was too close. Always too close.

Angel barely had time to brace before Val’s nails—sharp, always too sharp—dug into his side.

He knew those nails well. Val kept them like that on purpose. Said he liked “the look.” For what reason, Spencer had never really asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he did know was that they hurt , they always did, and they always left a mark. Sometimes bruises. Sometimes welts. Always indents that didn't fade until the next round replaced them.

He could feel them now, piercing through skin, claiming him like territory.

But what made his breath catch—what made his mind twist painfully—was the other hand. The one not digging in. That one moved in slow, gentle circles along his opposite hip, soothing, soft, like the kind of touch you might give someone you love.

God, it was always like this.

This was Val.

One hand sharp and punishing. The other patient, sweet. One moment rage, the next affection. And all of it tangled so tightly that Spencer couldn’t always tell which part was worse.

It was a mindfuck.

It was a trap.

And he hated him.

God, he hated him.

But even now, even knowing exactly who and what Val was—he still leaned into the gentle hand.

Just barely. A fraction of an inch.

But it was enough.

It was never just an inch with Val.
Never.

What’s that saying? Give an inch, take a mile?

Yeah. Something like that.

Spencer’s mind raced, tearing away from the situation—skipping like a scratched record over meaningless thoughts—anything to escape the reality of the searing heat of Val’s fingers trailing up and down his spine. The way the nails dug deeper into his side like a brand.

He thought about books he hadn’t read. Songs he couldn't remember the lyrics to. What color the sunrise might be tomorrow.

Anything. Anything but this.

But even as he tried to yank himself out of it, part of him fought the distraction.

Because maybe... he didn’t want to be distracted.

No.
Yes.
No, he did.

Didn’t he?

The pit in his stomach opened up, swallowing the ground under him.

He shouldn’t want this.
He knows he shouldn't.
He knows it’s wrong—wrong the way Val touches him like he owns him, wrong the way his own body curls into the affection like a starving dog.

But it was the only familiar touch now.

The only soft thing in a life carved out of violence and orders and cold, snapping voices.

And God.
God, he craves it.

He needs it to survive.

He needs Val.

You would think he would hate all touch.

You would think —
after night after night of endless abuse,
after months of being used up until he barely felt human,
it would ruin him for good.

And maybe it had.

A person, a kid really, wasn’t supposed to live like this.
No one was.

Yeah, the porn shoots sucked.
Performing at Pride sucked.
Standing under the club lights while old men leered at him, their gazes like filthy hands on his skin— that sucked too.
And the private rooms, the ones where the wealthy paid for his time, for the right to touch him however they pleased?

They were the worst.

His skin crawled with self-loathing every night, as he tried—and failed—to scrub himself clean of the lowest filth Vegas had to offer.

But nights like these?

God, is it fucked up to say he loved them?

Val was an asshole.

A predator in every way,
from the way he talked down to him with that cruel, honeyed voice,
to his filed nails,
to the sharp glint of teeth he never bothered to hide anymore.

Spencer wasn’t stupid.
God, he was the farthest thing from it.

He knew what —not who —Val was.

A monster.

Plain and simple.

But he'd always loved Beauty and the Beast as a kid, hadn’t he?
The thought makes something sharp twist inside him.
Maybe that's why it was so easy to pretend.

It didn’t matter that Val had stolen him from his mother, whispering promises of dance schools and bright futures, a lie too easy to sell to a woman drowning in her own mind.
It didn’t matter that he was sold off like a prized cow, paraded and auctioned to the highest bidder.
Or that Val beat him bloody when he even slightly messed up or dared talk back.

None of it mattered.

Not on nights like these.

When Val was soft.
Gentle.
Careful with him, like he was something precious.

He was always soft here, in this room.

The only mattress in the entire building that wasn’t tainted with memories of pain.

His nails draw blood.
Small droplets gather, gravity tugging them down toward the mattress, painting his skin in a mosaic of red.

But the pain is grounding.
It reminds him that he's real. That he's here.

Val’s other hand drifts upward, lazy and slow, fingertips grazing the curve of his waist, brushing higher toward his chest.
Then he feels Val’s grip close around his left shoulder—tight, unyielding.

In one practiced, fluid movement, he’s pulled onto his right side.

Val shifts easily behind him, slotting their bodies together, his front pressed against Spencer’s back.
His skin burns hot, like an oven left on too long.

But Spencer had been cold anyway.
Cold all the way through.
So the heat is a welcome change.

The warmth spreads through him, heavy and comforting, sinking deep into the hollow spaces inside his ribs.
Spencer lets himself relax, just a little, molding into the solid line of Val’s body behind him.

The hand on his shoulder eases its grip, smoothing down his arm, slow and reassuring.
It should have hurt — he thinks it might have — but the sting is already dissolving into something else, something easier to hold onto.

Val’s breath is a steady rhythm against his neck, steady and grounding, even as Spencer feels the subtle, impatient flex of fingers against his hip.
He focuses on the good parts — the steady breathing, the warmth, the way the sheets are just soft enough under his skin if he doesn’t move too much.

There’s a tremble in his legs he can’t quite get rid of.
Maybe from the cold that still clings to his damp hair.
Maybe from something else.

But it doesn’t matter.
Not here.
Not with Val's hand sliding lower, guiding him closer with a patience that only seems tender.

If he thinks hard enough, he can pretend this is what love feels like.
Heavy, and hot, and just a little bit painful.

Val’s hand flattens fully against his stomach now, warm and heavy, the tips of his fingers dipping just barely beneath the waistband of Spencer’s sweats..
Just enough to remind him who he belongs to.

Spencer breathes shallowly, feeling the slow, lazy patterns Val’s fingers trace along his skin—circles, swirls, meaningless shapes that should have been comforting.
That are comforting, if he tells himself hard enough.

Hot breath ghosts over the crook of his neck, humid and steady.
Spencer can't quite make out the words Val whispers there, not over the roaring in his own ears.
But the sound of it—the low murmur, the mouth so close—feels good.
Safe, almost.

The whispering shifts, lips brushing against his skin, then opening into wet kisses that trail along his shoulder, up toward his collarbone.
He bites down a small noise in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut.

He shouldn’t mind the way Val’s mouth drags against him.
He shouldn't flinch when teeth scrape against bone.
He shouldn't.

Still, a part of him shrinks, remembering how furious Val gets when there are marks left behind—marks he himself put there, but still somehow expects Spencer to be ashamed of.

Spencer forces the thought away, shoving it into the corner of his mind where all the other bad things live.
Instead, he focuses on the lighter feeling blooming in his chest.
The secret, shameful pride at being claimed.
At being wanted enough to be ruined.

A shiver runs down his spine at the contrast—the heat of Val’s mouth, the cool air conditioning hitting the wet skin just after.

He feels Val’s laugh rumble against his back, low and knowing.
His stomach flips.
Or maybe it cramps.
He’s not sure he knows the difference.

Val’s fingers dip lower, slipping past the waistband of his sweats.
A small gasp escapes Spencer’s lips before he can stop it—sharp and thin, cutting through the thick air of the room.

It’s anticipation, he tells himself.
It’s because he wants this.
He does.
He has to.

Before the thought fully settles, he’s moving—no, being moved.
Val’s hand leaves his stomach, and suddenly Spencer is on his back, staring up at the low-lit ceiling.
Val's large frame moves fluidly, effortlessly, positioning himself between Spencer’s thighs like it’s his right, like he belongs there.

Maybe he does.
Maybe he always has.

It’s like that small noise had granted him access, some invisible door swinging open.
As if a gasp—soft and involuntary—could equal a clear yes.

But Val had never needed a yes.
Not really.
Not from him.

He was Val’s.
Owned, body and mind.
Keys handed over long ago, or stolen—Spencer can’t remember.

Val didn't ask for permission.
Never had.
Never needed to.

And Spencer... Spencer would’ve said yes anyway.
Wouldn’t he?

The thought trembles at the edge of his mind, fragile and uncertain.
But he shoves it down, like he always does, burying it beneath the heavy warmth of Val’s body, the scorching press of hands that never ask and never wait.

The weight of Val’s body above him is familiar.
Too familiar.
He’s been in this position countless times—too many to even begin to count.

On his back like this, or curled on his side, or bent over on trembling hands and knees.
It doesn’t matter.
Val was always there.
Always above him.
Always on him.
Crushing him with his weight, heavy and sure and inevitable.

Even when Spencer was performing—on stage at Pride, in front of a camera's unblinking eye, or tucked away in the private rooms where no one asked for his name—Val’s weight still lingered.
Maybe not in body, but in presence.
Always looming.
Always watching.

It should suffocate him.
Maybe it does.

But it’s almost... comforting.
Yeah.
Comforting.

Knowing Val is always there.
Keeping an eye on him.

Protecting him.

Not physically, no, that was usually Harry’s job.

But Val’s presence alone was usually enough to keep the worst of the monsters at bay.
Usually.

His pants are off.
When did that happen?
He doesn't remember.

The air should feel cold against his bare skin.
He thinks it does.
Or maybe it doesn't.

His whole body is shaking.
So he must be cold, right?
That’s the logical explanation.
It has to be.

But he’s so hot, burning from the inside out, his skin buzzing and prickling like he’s about to combust.
It feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of it all.
Or maybe he’s just getting sick.
Yeah.
That would explain it.

That’s the most logical explanation.
Right?

He keeps spacing out—slipping in and out like a scratched-up tape skipping its track.
Or maybe he’s dissociating.
He’s not sure.
He doesn’t like to think about it too hard.

He wants to enjoy this.
He wants to be here.
He wants this.
He repeats it like a prayer, like a mantra.

He should want it.
He should.
He does.

So why can't he focus?

He blinks back into himself just in time to realize that his leg has been lifted, draped over Val’s shoulder.
The stretch burns down his thighs, sharp and unrelenting.
It hurts.
Really hurts.

But Val wouldn’t do anything he couldn’t handle.
Val knows what he's doing.
Val always knows.

It’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.

It’s fine.

It’s fine when he feels Val’s hand drift higher up his thigh, nails scratching light, lazy paths into his skin.
He enjoys it.
He does.

It’s fine when Val reaches toward the bedside table, fingers curling around the handle of the drawer and sliding it open.
Spencer has nothing to hide anyway.
Nothing that isn't already his to take.

It’s fine when he hears the familiar click of a cap being twisted open.
His breathing picks up, but that’s anticipation, not fear.
It has to be.

It’s fine when he watches Val squeeze the bottle, the slick noise loud in the otherwise silent room.
At least he’s using it this time.
That’s good, right?
That’s... thoughtful.

It’s fine.

It’s fine when Val’s coated fingers prod low, insistent.
When they force their way in.
The sting makes his back arch off the mattress for a second, but that’s normal.
The tears that spring to his eyes are normal too.
Sometimes you cry when things hurt— or when they feel good.
He can’t really tell the difference anymore.

It’s normal when Val loses patience.
He’s not a patient man.
He never has been.
It’s just who he is.
It’s not his fault.

It’s normal for Val to lean down, breath hot against his ear, and whisper things he can’t quite hear over the ringing in his head.
Soft, sickly-sweet words that force Spencer’s body to loosen, to obey.

And when the sob escapes his throat—raw, broken, unwilling—
that’s fine too.
It’s all fine.

He’s fine.

***

Blood is normal.
It always has been.

He keeps an extra set of sheets under his bed for a reason.
It’s just practical.
Val even told him once—it was smart to be prepared.

Val’s hand is on his face now.
Covering his mouth.
Maybe he was crying too loud.
Or moaning.
They're the same thing, really.

His hand pushes Spencer’s face away, pressing it down into the pillow, away from him.
Spencer lets him.
Of course he lets him.

The pillow muffles everything. His gasping breaths, the small, broken noises clawing their way up his throat.
The hand over his mouth makes it harder to breathe, the wetness from his nose clogging what little air he can suck in.
He feels like he’s drowning.
He deserves to drown.

He must look like a complete disaster.
No wonder Val is pushing his face away.

He’s ruining this.
It’s his fault.
He always ruins everything.

Val’s nails dig into his cheeks, sharp enough to leave tiny crescents of pain blossoming under his skin.
He loves it.
He hates it.
He craves more.
He needs it to stop.
Please, please, make it stop.

Val forgets his strength sometimes.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.

But the grip he has on him hurts .

Val isn’t paying attention anymore,
too busy riding the high, too lost in it,
like Spencer’s body is a drug he can't get enough of.

Val’s nails rake down his ribs, sharper this time, dragging deep enough to break skin.
There’s no pretending it away, no soft excuse he can whisper to himself.
The pain is real.
Searing.
Unavoidable.

His scream rips out of him,
raw, strangled, desperate,
but it goes unheard, swallowed up by the mattress, the pillow, the hand still clamped over his mouth.

His head bangs against the headboard now.
Over and over.
Matching Val’s rhythm like some sick, broken metronome.

His hands, on instinct, reach up, reaching for something—
to push him away,
to beg,
to defend himself—
he doesn't even know.

But Val beats him to it.
Catching both of his wrists in a bruising grip,
slamming them down on either side of his head like he's nothing more than a doll.

The blood—his blood—smears everywhere.
Under Val’s nails.
Coating the tips of his fingers.
Streaked across Spencer’s own wrists, his pillow, his face.

His body looks like a crime scene.

Because it is one.

Oh God.

Val had always been gentle here.
Here, in this room.

What’s different about tonight?
He said Spencer did good today.
He said so.
He was proud.

So what went wrong?

What did he do wrong?

He must’ve done something.
He always does something wrong.
He ruins things.
He always has.

God, what’s wrong with him?

Maybe he shouldn’t have pretended to be asleep.
Maybe that was it.
Maybe that was the mistake.

Val said it was a game earlier.
Maybe Spencer just wasn’t playing it right.

He’s never liked Val’s games.
Never liked the rules that only Val seemed to know.

But even that doesn’t answer the real question gnawing at the edges of his mind—
what’s different about tonight?

This room,
this mattress,
this place,
it was supposed to be safe.

His safe haven.

Now it’s hell, just like everything else.

No.
No, that’s not right either.

He keeps clean sheets under the bed.
Always has.
In case he needed them.

Why would he need that if this room was really safe?

It doesn’t make sense.
None of it makes sense.

But Val doesn’t mean it.
He doesn’t.

He’s just strong.
That’s all.

He doesn’t know his own strength sometimes.
He doesn't mean to hurt him.
Right?

Right?

But if he doesn’t mean to—
if he’s so sorry afterward—
why does it keep happening?

Why does it keep getting worse?

Spencer’s mind spins and spins, unable to catch on anything solid.
He’s so confused.
So lost.

He wants it to end.
God, he needs it to end.

He can pretend.
He has to pretend.

He does it all the time.
Usually he’s somewhere else, mentally,
far away, somewhere safer, somewhere quieter.

But tonight, that distance won’t come.
His mind keeps getting stuck here, in this room, in this body, with this weight above him.

So he puts on the show.
He always puts on the show.

It should be easy.
It’s what he’s good at.

He pushes the pain aside,
the throbbing down his sides, the searing sting in his wrists, the dull ache in his head.
He boxes it up, shoves it to the back of his mind.
He’ll deal with it later.
He has to.

All that matters now is surviving.

It takes everything in him to relax his muscles, to force his body pliant.
He shifts upward, pushing his hips into Val’s rhythm, forcing himself to meet it, to match it.

He wants to recoil.
Everything in him screams to pull away.
But he doesn’t let himself.

He moves with purpose now.
Practice.
Polish.
He’s done this a hundred times with strangers—
he can do it with Val.

He forces his eyes open, blinking past the sting, the blur, looking up at Val through heavy lashes.
He knows the look to give.
The angle of his jaw.
The curve of his mouth.
He knows what sells.

And from the look in Val’s eyes, it’s working.

If Val weren’t so busy, Spencer thinks he’d be proud.
He should be proud.
Spencer’s damn good at this.

It’s in moments like these, when Val’s too far gone in himself to play the role, that Spencer sees him clearly.

He always looks so put together—his face smooth, his grooming flawless, always carefully composed.

But not now.
Not when he’s like this.

Face twisted, lips parted, the illusion breaks.
And Spencer sees it.
The lines at the corners of his eyes.
The creases in his forehead.

Val’s not old,
not really.
But in these moments, he seems it.

Like someone who’s been pretending a long, long time.

A man playing dress-up in the skin of someone in control.

And in that flash of unguarded honesty,
Spencer sees it.

The truth.

A broken man.
That’s who he is.

Might he say again,
he’s not stupid.

He knows why he’s in this mess.
He knows exactly who’s to blame.
Logically, he knows it’s not him.
It’s the man falling apart above him—
the man using him like a shield against his own decay.

Val.
Always Val.

But thinking logically isn’t easy,
not when you’re fighting for your life.
Not when your body’s been trained to obey before your mind even catches up.

Still.
this.
This right now.
It’s the first clear moment he’s had in—
fuck, he doesn’t even know.
Hours?
Days?
Weeks?

Time is slippery when you’re high on coke 99% of the time.
Everything stretches and folds into itself until you can’t tell if it’s morning or night or somewhere in between.

But here, now, through the haze—
he feels it.
The clarity.

He clings to it like a drowning man to driftwood.

Val’s face presses into the crook of his neck again, damp and hot.
Breathing heavy, sloppy.

It’s almost over.

Almost over.
Almost over.
Almost over.

The words loop through his mind, fast and desperate,
like they’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
The only thing holding the last thin threads of his sanity together.

Almost over.

Maybe if he let himself think he actually enjoyed it,
it would go faster.
it would end sooner.

No.

He can’t do that.

Val needs to believe he has control.
Needs to think he’s winning.

But Spencer can’t actually give him that control.
Not again.
Not tonight.
Not now.

He doesn’t know when Angel will come back—
when he’ll crack wide open again,
when the drug-fueled, fucked-up, sex-addict part of him will claw its way forward to protect what’s left.

Not that he blames Angel.
Not really.
Angel kept him alive.
Angel made it bearable.

Angel is a good thing, to some extent.

But not now.
Not here.

He needs to fight.

He needs to stay here, stay himself,
even as he feels Angel pounding against the inside of his skull,
scratching,
begging to be let in.
Begging to take the hits so Spencer doesn’t have to.

It would be easier.
So much easier.

To let go.
To float away.
To let Angel deal with the ugliness.

He wants to.

God, he wants to run.
Run as far and as fast as he can,
out of his body, out of this nightmare.

But he doesn’t.

He feels Val’s hands slip, loosen on his wrists, just for a second.
A window.
An opening.

He takes it.
Rips his hands free of Val’s grip,
but instead of pushing him away,
instead of fighting—

he reaches up, grabs a fistful of Val’s dark, sweat-slick hair, and tugs.

Hard.
Controlled.

He knows Val like the back of his own hand.
Knows what gets him off.
What makes him lose control faster.
What shortens this nightmare.

He’s never wrong.

***

He just showered.

For some reason,
that’s all he can think about
as Val finally stills above him with a final, guttural groan.

The thought loops in his mind,
absurd and pointless.
He just showered.
Scrubbed until his skin burned,
until the soap ran pink down the drain.

And now?
now he’s filthy again.
Dirtier than before.

The self-loathing crawls up from the pit of his stomach,
sick and familiar,
wrapping tight around his ribs.

He’s disgusting.
Covered in his own blood,
both of their sweat.

He’s laying in a puddle of it now—
a mess of fluids he refuses to name.
He can’t think about it.
He won’t.

Val’s weight crushes him,
his full body slumped down heavily,
pressing Spencer deep into the soaked mattress.

He can barely breathe,
but he doesn't move.
Doesn’t even try.

Val doesn’t care if he’s suffocating under him.
Doesn’t notice.
He’s too busy catching his breath,
his mind somewhere else entirely—
coming back down to earth.
No pun intended.

So Spencer lays there.
Completely still.
Trapped beneath him.

And he waits.
Waits for the weight to lift.
Waits for it to end.
Waits for permission to move.

It feels like hours.

Maybe it is.
Time doesn't make sense right now.
It stretches, yawns open like a black hole,
pulling everything into it—especially him.

For a while, he thinks Val is asleep.
Wouldn’t be the first time.

Just collapsing on top of him,
spent,
satisfied,
as if Spencer were nothing more than a pillow with a pulse.

He stares at the ceiling, blinking slow,
lungs struggling under the weight pressing into his ribs.

Please let him get up.
He doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn’t get up.

The fight is gone.
Drained.
Burned out somewhere between the pain and the pretending.

He doesn’t have the strength to shove him off.
Not this time.

So he pleads, silently,
to a god he’s never been sure believes in him.

Please. Get up.

Get up.
Get up.
Get up.

The prayer spins on repeat in his head,
quiet and desperate.

Maybe he should start going to church.
Maybe then,
God would actually listen.

Maybe God is real.

Because Val shifts.
Slowly.
Finally lifting his weight off of him,
the heavy suffocating press of his body peeling away from Spencer’s skin.

His legs close instinctively the second they’re free,
no longer forced apart,
no longer pinned open like something on display.

Val kneels there, on the bed in front of him,
and Spencer feels it—
the weight of his gaze.
The studying.
The cataloging.

Like Val is the god Spencer had been praying to only moments ago.
The one who gets to decide if he lives or dies.

God’s not real.
But Val is.
Val always is.

He knows that now.
Knows it in the marrow of his bones,
now that he isn’t suffocating,
isn’t begging for breath with his face shoved into the mattress.

He looks up at him—
panting,
shaking,
blood drying sticky under his nails—
and he knows.

Val looks disappointed.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable.

Staring down at him like Spencer is the one who failed.
Like he's the one who ruined this.
Ruined him.

As if it’s Spencer’s fault he’s in this position.
His fault he’s bleeding.
His fault his neck, his face, his whole body are marked and bruised and broken.

As if he could have prevented it.
As if he should have stopped him.
As if he ever had that power.

The weight of Val’s gaze is heavier than his body had been.
It presses down on Spencer’s chest, sharp and cold and unbearable.

Val looks at him like he’s worthless.
Like he doesn't even deserve to be looked down on.

Everything in Spencer screams to fix it.
To reach out.
To crawl to him.
To beg for forgiveness—
for what, he doesn’t even know.
Just something.

Anything to erase that look from Val’s face.

He can’t stand it.
He can’t .

He doesn’t have to.
Because Val is already up.

Moving around the room with easy, careless steps,
like nothing happened.
Like Spencer isn't lying there, exposed and broken.

Val picks up a silk robe—one that had been draped over the back of a chair—and slips it over his shoulders with a lazy grace.
A king dressing after a feast.

Spencer watches from his place on the bed,
frozen,
his bare body prickling with cold,
his skin screaming from every place it was touched, marked, torn.

He feels the air hitting him now.
Feels the way he's been left wide open,
laid bare.

But he can’t bring himself to move.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

Val disappears into the en suite bathroom.
Spencer hears the water running a moment later, steady and familiar.

He knows what Val’s doing.
He’s washing his hands.

Washing him off his skin.

Washing the blood away—
Spencer’s blood.

If that doesn’t sum up the last few years of his life,
he doesn't know what does.

Hell—
the last ten years.

Val gets to wash his hands clean,
gets to walk away spotless.

And Spencer?
Spencer stays here.
Broken.

There’s no point in reaching for a sheet to cover himself.
There’s nothing left to cover.
Nothing left of him at all.

Just skin and bruises and blood.
Just the echo of what used to be a person.

He lays there, staring blankly at the ceiling,
too cold to shiver,
too hollow to cry.

The sound of the faucet cuts off.
Footsteps.
The door creaks open.

Val emerges from the bathroom,
casually drying his hands with a damp rag.
Clean hands.
Fresh skin.

He walks toward the door without a word,
without a second glance.
But at the last second,
he spares Spencer a look—
dismissive, disinterested,
like glancing at something forgotten and pathetic on the side of the road.

Then, without ceremony,
he tosses the used towel at him.

It lands across Spencer’s stomach, heavy and damp,
soaking into his skin.

No words.
No instruction needed.

Clean yourself up.

The silent command slices through the room,
sharper than any slap.

As if it’s some kind of kindness.
A favor.

As if Val had left him anything worth cleaning.

The sound of the door opening feels like a death sentence.
And freedom.

All at once.

Val’s footsteps echo down the hallway, slow at first, then fading into the distance.

Each step fills Spencer with a fresh wave of dread.
Because he’s gone.

Val is gone.

That should make him happy.
It should.

But instead,
it leaves him hollow.
Raw.
Exposed.

Because now?
now he’s left alone.

No more pretending.
No more performance.

Just the truth.
Just the wreckage.

And that...
that terrifies him more than anything.