evil has never loved you as i do (1/2). reid/nathan & hotch/reid (criminal minds), pg-13.

[likecharity]

Title: evil has never loved you as i do
Author: likecharity
Pairing: Spencer Reid/Nathan Harris, Spencer Reid/Aaron Hotchner
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Discussion of murder (not graphic) and drug withdrawal
Summary: Three years since Nathan Harris first entered the BAU's lives, he's back, a suspect once again. But this time, it seems he really is the unsub.
A/N: Set in some sort of alternate universe mid-season 5. Title from 'Evil Has Never' by Union of Knives. Endless thanks to crumpetdear for the encouragement! ♥ ( 2/2)


Hotch doesn't think of Nathan Harris straight away. Not when JJ comes into his office and tells him they've got a case. Not when she shows them the pictures of the victims, young prostitutes found lying on motel beds in D.C., naked and stabbed to death. Not even when she states that this latest victim was found with a lock of her hair cut off.

Instead, he thinks of the meaning of the act, the psychology behind it. "So that's his trophy," he says.

"That's what I thought, but look-" she points to the picture on the screen, where the girl's hair is spread out like a golden halo around her head. At first Hotch can't see what she means, but then-

"It's still there," says Rossi, and Hotch peers closer and sees that he's right. A lock of hair has indeed been cut off, but it lies on the pillow less than an inch away from the girl's head.

"Why remove the hair but not keep it?" asks Prentiss.

"The unsub probably intended to cut off all of the victim's hair but lost his nerve," Hotch says.

Morgan nods. "That suggests inexperience. Uncertainty about what he's doing."

"The victims were young, too," Rossi adds. "He probably felt safer going after a teenager, less intimated by her. Plus, a prostitute. Low-risk victim. He definitely doesn't seem practised at this."

"The stab wounds show hesitation, too, even with the third victim," Prentiss agrees. "I'd say he's young. Early twenties, if not younger."

There are general sounds of agreement from the team, but Reid interrupts with a "Why?", rather sharply.

This is when Hotch thinks of Nathan Harris, and, it seems, when everybody else does too. Except-

"You think he's older?" Rossi asks, oblivious to the sudden tension in the room.

Reid says nothing for a moment. Prentiss is staring at the table, looking almost guilty. "I just-inexperienced doesn't necessarily mean young," Reid says eventually, his voice small.

"The age of the victim in this case is a heavy indicator," Rossi replies with a frown.

Hotch doesn't like the atmosphere in the room. "Reid has a point," he speaks up. The others look at him, a little surprised. He doesn't meet Reid's eyes. "We don't want to jump to conclusions too early. It's entirely possible that this is a man in his thirties or forties who simply sees teenage prostitutes as easy targets. Or they could represent somebody to him, like a daughter or niece. We can't be sure at this stage."

Reid nods, says quietly, "Thank you, sir."

Further silence, and then Rossi leans forward again, forearms on the desk, voice sharp and serious. "Am I missing something?"

Again, nobody speaks. Hotch sees Morgan throw a glance Reid's way, but Reid does not return it-his arms are folded and he's hunched uncomfortably in his chair, eyes cast downwards.

"If there's information here that's relevant to the case," Rossi continues, "it shouldn't be held back." Still, silence. "Aaron?"

Hotch hesitates. He looks to Reid again, gives him a chance to explain for himself, but Reid is still refusing to look up. "A few years ago we worked a case in D.C.," Hotch says, eventually, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand. "The unsub murdered prostitutes and cut off their hair."

"You think that's our guy?" Rossi asks, puzzled.

Hotch shakes his head. "No, we caught him. But only after being lead down a different path for a while. Our initial suspect was a teenager called Nathan Harris who admitted to fantasizing about the murders."

"Ah. You think that's our guy?"

Before Hotch has a chance to respond, Reid lets out a little noise, almost a gasp. He's shaking his head vehemently. "It's not Nathan. It can't be Nathan."

"Reid," says Hotch carefully, "no one is saying for certain that it is. It's just that, given the circumstances, we ought to keep him in our minds. It's a possibility."

Reid does not stop shaking his head, and Morgan reaches out, puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Rossi's eyebrows are raised in confusion, curiosity, but Hotch isn't sure he should tell the rest of the story with Reid here and so visibly distressed. He's a little surprised at the strength of Reid's reaction, but then-Reid saved that kid's life. If Nathan has gone on to commit murder, that's a real weight of responsibility for Reid to carry.

"It can't be Nathan," Reid repeats. Morgan's hand tightens, squeezes Reid's shoulder.

"Reid..." says Prentiss, hesitantly. "It could be. He would be, what, eighteen now?"

"Nineteen," Reid says right away, his voice small.

"And it's in the right area. And the hair-"

The color drains from Reid's face. "Emily," Hotch says sharply. Prentiss gives him a Look, and he knows she's only trying to do the right thing, trying to get Reid to accept that this is a possibility, but they need to be sensitive. "Morgan," he says, suddenly, decisive, "take Reid to get a glass of water."

"No, I-" Reid protests. "Don't get rid of me just because you want to discuss Nathan as a suspect."

"Reid..." Morgan says gently, pleadingly.

"Just take a minute. Drink some water. Clear your head," Hotch says. His voice sounds stern, it doesn't waver-though every other part of him does when he looks at Reid's face, the desperation and the panic evident in his eyes.

But Reid complies, following Morgan out of the room. The door clicks swiftly shut behind them, and Rossi breaks the awkward silence just as it begins to set in.

"Geez. What happened with this Nathan kid?"

JJ sighs, sits down beside Hotch and tucks her hair behind her ear. "He tried to kill himself. Reid saved his life."

Rossi says nothing, but is visibly surprised by this information, eyebrows lifting as he considers it in silence.

"Reid got-kind of attached to him," Prentiss goes on. "Nathan sought him out, right at the beginning of the investigation, and...I don't know. They saw something in each other."

JJ nods. "I think they could have been friends, had the situation been different. And Reid doesn't find that often."

"No kidding," Rossi says, almost chuckles, and Hotch knows it's not disrespectful, just Dave's way of dealing with an uncomfortable topic. He doesn't care for the emotional aspects of the story, and is already to move on with the discussion now that he's been filled in. "You think this kid could be our unsub?"

"It's a possibility," Prentiss says. "He was young and he was really trying to fight his urges, but...it's been three years."

"He was sent to a mental institution after his suicide attempt, though," JJ points out. "Didn't seem like they'd be willing to let him out in a hurry."

Prentiss shrugs. "We could find out if he's been discharged."

"You're serious enough about this to do that?"

Prentiss seems frustrated. "C'mon, J. The unsub's killing young prostitutes in D.C. Stabbing them, like we know Nathan fantasized about. He tried cutting off her hair. Nathan saw Ronald Weems do the same thing to his victims. It all adds up." JJ goes quiet, taken aback, and Prentiss sighs. "I'm not saying it's definitely him. None of us can know that. I'm just saying we have plenty of reason to consider him a possible suspect. Hotch?"

Hotch can't argue with that. "So far, it's our only lead."

JJ looks miserable, turning a pen over and over in her hands, fidgeting.

"I don't like the idea any more than you do," Hotch adds. "But it's dangerous for us to ignore the possibility."

The door opens again, and Morgan enters with Reid in tow. Reid still seems shaky, clutching a half-empty plastic cup in a trembling hand as he sits down.

"So what's our next step?" Rossi prompts.

Hotch frowns, thinking. "JJ, I want you to track down Nathan Harris's file. There'll be a mention of the institution he was taken to. I want you to call them and find out if he's still under their care." JJ nods. "This doesn't mean anything," Hotch adds, "we just need to find out whether it's even worth considering Harris as a suspect. If he's been safely in hospital for the past three years, we can move on with our profile. If not-well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

He's talking to the whole team, but really, the last part is directed at Reid. He knows sometimes they treat him like he's made of glass, but-sometimes they have reason to. Reid looks almost ill now, his skin papery-white, and he finishes the water in his cup as the rest of the team begin to disperse.

"Morgan?" Hotch hears Reid asking in a small voice. "Can you come get some more water with me?"

Hotch exchanges a look with Morgan as the three of them get to their feet. They separate in the bullpen, and Hotch heads to his office.

Waits.

***
There's something different about Dr. Reid lately, something Nathan can't quite put his finger on at first. He glows a little brighter, burns a little stronger. He seems more at ease than Nathan has ever seen him, peaceful, happy to talk and equally happy to just sit, cross-legged on Nathan's bed and facing him in comfortable silence. Zoning out. Like he's high.

Maybe Nathan figures it out because he, too, is high these days-on the mind-numbing drugs he was prescribed shortly after entering the hospital, the cocktail of pills he takes every morning from a little paper cup. It's pretty much like every fictional depiction of a mental hospital he's ever seen, but he doesn't mind it-he sort of likes being watched and checked up on. He feels like he needs that. Like he's safe from himself as long as there are people keeping an eye on him.

And the drugs-they don't do much of anything at first, at least not that he notices, but as the days pass he grows more aware of the change. It's a sort of dulling sensation, like his surroundings are slowly turning grey, but it's less unpleasant than it sounds.

Dr. Reid's first visits were a little bit awkward, and Nathan was sure that he was only doing it out of some sense of obligation. They would sit in the foyer, like Reid didn't want to go too far into the building in case he might need a quick escape. Nathan liked seeing him-really liked seeing him-but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just something Reid felt like he had to do. Their conversations were stilted and awkward, yet over too soon.

And then a few weeks passed with no visits. No contact at all. And Nathan convinced himself that this was some sort of FBI protocol that Dr. Reid had now fulfilled, and he would not see him again. He resented him at first, but quickly turned his anger back in on himself-of course it was just an obligation. Of course Reid wasn't genuinely interested in him.

Reid returns when Nathan has given up hope, when he has been in the institution for two months and has resigned himself to a lifetime there. He shows up on a different day to his previous visits, and asks, quietly, if he can see Nathan's room. This is where they sit, cross-legged and facing each other, on Nathan's bed in his clinically white room. Reid is thinner than Nathan remembered, his face sort of gaunt, his eyes a little sunken and his skin as white as the walls. In Nathan's mind he has always been a glowing beacon, brighter and bolder than anyone else, and it's jarring to be reminded of reality.

At first he is just thrilled to have his savior back, but as they talk, Nathan grows gradually more concerned. There are marks on Dr. Reid's wrists, faded but sure, visible when his sleeve slips back a little. There is something in his eyes like a haunting. He is jittery, jumping at every little noise from down the hall. He is not just thinner than Nathan remembers, he's thinner than he ought to be, slight and bony with his clothes hanging awkwardly off his body. He looks sick, and Nathan says so, just blurts it out in the middle of one of Reid's sentences.

Reid says that he's not, but he holds his bruised wrist in one hand as he speaks, like he's cradling it, like he's keeping a secret. And then he makes his excuses, and he leaves.

The next time Dr. Reid visits, he is dazed and a little clumsy. His eyes don't seem to focus properly, and the pupils are full-blown blackness gazing back at Nathan. Nathan leads him down the corridors to his room, and tries to keep the conversation going, talks about the books Reid lent him-but Reid is barely there, drifting, untethered, and Nathan can't bring him down.

***
"Sir?" JJ enters Hotch's office hesitantly, a folder clutched in her hands. "I found the number. I just wondered if you had any interest in the rest of the file."

"What else is there?" Hotch asks.

"Well, there's a recording of Nathan's psych evaluation with Gideon," JJ says. "I wasn't sure if-well, I just thought it might be helpful."

"You didn't call the institution yet?"

JJ shakes her head. "I'm sorry, I just thought I'd drop it off on my way-"

Hotch's heart sinks. JJ came by to give him further evidence before even checking if it was worth taking Harris into consideration. Like a part of her believes there's no point in calling at all, because she knows it's him that's out there, killing these girls.

"Thank you, JJ." Hotch gestures for the file, and she hands it over. "Come straight back to me once you've made the call."

"Yes, sir."

It seems to take an age, but at least now Hotch has something to occupy himself with. Harris's file is sparse, made up of just a few documents stating his case, as well as statements from Reid and Garcia from the night of the boy's suicide attempt. And, as mentioned, a small tape in a plastic wallet, dated and marked with psych eval alongside Gideon's name. Hotch turns it over in his hands as he tries to read the papers. His eyes skim Reid's handwriting, usually so neat but shaky and spidery here, detailing in clinical terms the way he staunched the blood flow from Harris's wrists until the paramedics arrived.

He wasn't there, but he heard about it from Gideon-heard about Reid shaken and stunned afterwards, wondering if he did the right thing, his hands stained with the kid's blood. Hotch hasn't thought about it in a long time. It seems like a small thing when compared to what else Reid has been through-after all, the horrific incident with Tobias Hankel came so soon afterwards, overshadowed it.

The door opens suddenly, startling Hotch out of his thoughts. JJ did not knock, and the look on her face tells him the answer before she gives it to him.

"He left the institution six months ago."

"Did you ask about the circumstances of his release?"

JJ nods. "Apparently he was a good patient. He seemed to have recovered. They felt there was no risk in returning him to society. He had a few check-ups upon leaving and they felt confident that he was getting his life in order."

"Well, that's something, at least," Hotch says, but even to his own ears he doesn't sound convinced.

JJ frowns. "Should we tell Reid?"

But before Hotch can even decide how to answer that question, the door opens again.

"Hotch?" Morgan bursts in. "Reid's been in contact with Nathan Harris."

"What?"

"He visited him in the institution, and they wrote letters."

"Are you sure?" JJ asks, looking astonished.

"Well, he just told me, so yeah, I'm pretty sure." Morgan sighs. "He said they lost touch about six months ago, when Nathan was released."

"Why wouldn't he tell us?" JJ asks, sounding hurt. "He kept it a secret for this long?"

Morgan shakes his head. "I'm just as shocked as you are."

"JJ," says Hotch sharply, reaching for the little tape on the desk in front of him and holding it out. He understands that this has come as a surprise-hell, he's stunned too, wondering how none of them noticed-but there are more important things to deal with. "Take this to Garcia. I think it needs another listen. Explain to her the situation, but please-be brief and professional. Tell her to listen for anything else that paints him as our unsub."

JJ bites her lip, hesitates, but takes the tape and leaves, mumbling a "yes sir," on her way out.

"Morgan. Does Reid know that you're telling me this?"

"He said he didn't want anyone to know, but...I said I had to, for the sake of the case. He knew I'd come straight to you. He just couldn't do it himself, I guess."

Hotch frowns. "He withheld information relevant to the case. That's very serious."

"I know. But he's upset."

"It doesn't excuse it. I have to talk to him."

Morgan nods, sighs. "All right," he says, but on his way to the door he stops, turns back. "Just-Hotch, go easy, okay? Kid's messed up right now."

Hotch wants to say, when isn't he? but holds his tongue, just nods, waves his hand at the door for Morgan to leave. A moment goes by, and then he gets to his feet, heads out to find Reid.

The excuses start almost immediately.

"I know I should have said something right away. I'm sorry. I just-I can't deal with the idea of him doing this, I can't-"

"Reid, sit down." Reid is pacing, agitated, back and forth across the office floor. He ignores Hotch, and Hotch sighs. "Is there anything else you can tell us that you think is relevant? I know you don't want to think of it in these terms, but if there's been any indication from your contact with Harris-"

"What? That he was going to-?" Reid can't even seem to bring himself to say it. "And you think I wouldn't have told anyone?"

"I don't know," Hotch says, honestly. "You didn't tell us he'd been released from the institution. Now I'm concerned about what else you might be withholding."

Reid stops abruptly, but even though he's still it seems like his whole body is thrumming with energy. He stares at Hotch, wide-eyed. "I know nothing more about these murders than you do, sir."

"You may know a lot more about the person who committed them."

Reid sighs. "I don't know what you want me to say," he bursts out. "Nathan seemed like he was getting better. We lost touch. I just thought-I thought he didn't need me anymore." At this, he averts his eyes from Hotch's steady gaze. "I had no-there was nothing to suggest-" he seems to crumple against the wall, going limp, "I still don't think this can be him."

"Would you let the team analyze the letters he sent you?" Hotch asks, cautiously. "There may be something you didn't see at the time."

"No," says Reid sharply, and it's the strongest his voice has been all day. He looks aghast. "No, I-I'm sorry, sir, but I really-they're personal."

Hotch frowns. "That may mean we're more likely to find something of use to us."

Reid says nothing. There's a knock at the door.

"Just a minute," Hotch calls sharply. He looks back at Reid, who shifts uncomfortably. "Reid," Hotch says quietly, "as it is, I'm not sure we have enough evidence to bring Harris in for questioning. Without anything more to go on, all we can do is try and refine the profile until there's another murder. At this point, anything more, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem, could help us save another life."

It's a transparent tactic, he knows, a guilt-trip-but though he expects Reid to see through it, he also expects it to work. Which is why he's surprised when Reid just shakes his head, says, "I'm sorry, sir," once again, and heads towards the door.

He passes Garcia waiting outside, and Hotch sees her briefly stroke Reid's arm in sympathy. He can tell she wants to hug him, but holds back. She enters Hotch's office in an uncharacteristically nervous way, holding the tape of Harris's psych evaluation.

"Sir," she says, quietly, and checks behind her that the door has closed, "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I'm comfortable with listening to this. In fact, I-I just spent ten minutes sitting and staring at it and I couldn't bring myself to listen to it, so, uh, I'm pretty sure, actually."

"Garcia," Hotch says, tiredly, pressing his hands to his forehead where he can feel a headache coming on. "At the moment, Nathan Harris is our only suspect. There could be something on that tape that gives us reason to bring him in for questioning. Or even reason to discard him completely from this case. Either way, that tape could be important, and we're not going to know until it's listened to."

"With all due respect, sir," Garcia says, her voice still wavering just slightly, "you didn't see him, that night." She swallows. "Nathan wanted to die. And I mean-I mean he really wanted to die. You didn't see the way he looked at Reid when Reid said he wouldn't let him. Nathan would rather die than kill anybody, so the idea of him murdering three girls, I just-"

"I know it's hard to deal with," Hotch interrupts, "but-"

"I am not just being emotional, sir," Garcia interrupts him, her voice louder now, certain. "I am telling you this from a professional point of view. I do not believe Nathan Harris is capable of murdering three girls. Not the Nathan Harris I met back then, and definitely not one that's had a few years of therapy. This tape..." she holds it up, "I don't believe it can tell us anything we don't already know, and what we already know is not evidence." She takes a deep breath, and, as she looks at him, goes slightly pink in the cheeks.

For a moment Hotch doesn't say anything. He isn't sure what to say. It's easy, perhaps, to ignore Garcia and Reid, to class their views as biased, too caught up in emotion. After all, it's the two of them that were in the motel room with Harris the night that he almost died. But-

"I didn't like the kid, sir," Garcia says as though she's reading his mind, "he gave me the creeps. But a creepy kid does not a serial killer make."

Hotch nods, tiredly. She's right, and that's not all she's right about. Hotch didn't see Harris that night, nor did he see much of him at any other point during the investigation. He didn't even really discuss him with the rest of the team-once they had the kid under their surveillance, Hotch only wanted to talk about alternatives. Not to mention the fact that he was distracted by Congresswoman Steyer throughout the whole case. He really doesn't know much about Harris at all beyond the basics, and it's realising this that helps to bring him to a conclusion.

***
He listens to the tape.

He waits until he's sure he won't be disturbed, because it doesn't feel like something he should be doing, even though he knows that in the circumstances he certainly has the right. The tape is old, now, a little crackly, and he has to turn the volume up loud to even hear Harris's voice. It's paper-thin, shy and ashamed, not much more than a whisper as he admits a vague, I've just been thinking about stuff.

About hurting women? Gideon's voice comes back, louder, steady and sure, and Hotch isn't prepared for how strange it is to hear that voice again.

Yeah, Harris's small voice responds.

Hotch listens to the boy talk about his mother-a doctor, Hotch gathers-and her med school receiving cadavers for students to examine. This was the way in which young Nathan first saw a naked woman-dead-and Hotch can't help but feel a little bit sorry for him at that. It's not hard to end up with issues if that's the way your sexuality begins.

Sometimes I think about feeling their blood in my hands, feeling it flow through my fingers.

Does it ever make you climax? Just by thinking of that?

A shaky intake of breath on the tape, here. The boy sounds close to tears, and Hotch imagines that he is nodding. I know I'm crazy.

Maybe Hotch understands a little more, already, what Garcia was saying. It's hard to believe that this boy, young and scared and so full of self-hatred, could ever really manage to commit murder. But as he listens, he becomes less sure of this-Nathan is overwhelmed by his desires, and perhaps they're something he never learned to control. Perhaps they got the better of him.

You approached Dr. Reid, says Gideon. Why was that?

Silence. I don't know. A moment's more silence. I thought-I thought he'd be able to help me.

What was it about him that made you think that?

I-I knew his job. Nathan seems even more reluctant to talk about this than about the previous topic, which strikes Hotch as odd. There are long pauses, and he seems to be choosing his words carefully. I saw a couple of his lectures and I just thought he would understand.

When my agents came to arrest you, you said 'I knew if you were really good, you'd find me.' Did you talk to Dr. Reid because you specifically wanted to be found by the FBI?

No, I-I just wanted to talk to someone who would understand.

Why not a counsellor?

Nathan sighs. He sounds frustrated, flustered. I don't know. I don't know, I just...

You chose Dr. Reid. I'm just curious about why. Nathan says nothing, and Gideon goes on. It's a good thing; it shows that you have serious concerns about your desires. It's a healthy thing to seek help. Another pause. It's just a little unusual to seek it from an FBI agent. Gideon chuckles here, and Hotch is surprised to find himself smiling, just a little, at the sound of his old friend's laughter.

I don't know, Nathan says again. When I saw him lecturing I just...admired him, I guess. I thought he seemed cool. I wanted to talk to him. I don't know.

A thoughtful silence on Gideon's end. Do you ever think about hurting men?

Hotch is a little surprised at this turn in the conversation, and he wonders what Gideon's thought process was. He wonders if the tape skipped, if he missed something.

Nathan seems taken aback, too. No-what?

Are you attracted to men, Nathan? Or to boys at school?

Hotch can almost hear Nathan shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The boy clears his throat, but his voice is still as faint as ever. No-I-not...not generally.

Are you attracted to Dr. Reid?

Silence. That shaky breath again. There's no real audible response to the question, but it's not necessary.

Is that why you approached him?

Hesitance. Yes, but-but I didn't think anything would happen, it wasn't like that, I just-I wanted help and I chose him. Nathan's voice is desperate then as he begs, please don't tell him.

This is confidential, comes Gideon's reassurance.

Hotch has to pause the tape here, though he's not sure why. He needs a moment to take it all in, and his fingers tremble on the button, his hands clammy. Did Gideon tell Reid about this? Gideon didn't reveal anything about Nathan's evaluation (as far as Hotch knows) beyond the fact that there was definite cause for concern. Hotch tries to put himself in Gideon's shoes, and realises that perhaps he would have kept Nathan's secret too. After all, what good would it do telling Reid? It wouldn't have mattered. If the kid wanted Reid to know, he'd tell him himself.

Hotch wonders if he did. If perhaps that's what's so personal about Nathan's letters, the reason Reid doesn't want them to be read by the team. Perhaps if the others listened to the tape and it was all out in the open, Reid wouldn't mind so much about that. Hotch can't help but be bothered by the idea that Reid might be sitting on something that could be helpful to the investigation-he trusts Reid, of course, but he knows his judgement could easily be clouded by emotion and they might catch something in the letters that he didn't.

For the first time he wonders if perhaps Reid shouldn't be on this case at all; if he has too much personal involvement.

And then he brushes the thought aside, and listens to the rest of the tape.

***
"Are you on drugs?" Nathan asks this time, clear and to the point, saying what's been going around and around in his mind for what feels like so long now. He whispers it, the door to his room open in accordance with the hospital's visiting rules.

Reid is dazed again today, hazy and out of it. On something. "You noticed," Reid breathes. "I didn't think anyone had noticed."

Which strikes Nathan as kind of sweet, really, kind of naïve-Reid works with people whose entire jobs revolve around noticing things, and he's sure they're aware, even if Reid doesn't know it.

"Why?" Nathan asks, his voice hushed. He'd convinced himself, but to hear it confirmed is something else, and he's overcome with curiosity. A sick part of his brain wants to celebrate, says he's fucked up like you. Dr. Reid is not the image of perfection Nathan imagined; he needs drugs to get along, and Nathan needs to know why.

Reid tells him. Lies down on his back first, like he doesn't want to look at Nathan's face while he says it. He murmurs, "Is this okay?" tentatively stretching out his legs. His feet rest on Nathan's pillow, shoeless as per the hospital's rules, the laces an apparent danger.

Nathan lies down too, awkwardly settling himself beside Reid's outstretched body. Top-to-tail, like kids at a sleepover.

"It's okay," Nathan assures him, and it feels odd that Dr. Reid is the one needing reassurance from Nathan, the one suddenly timid and unsure. He doesn't know if he likes it; behind his nerves he can feel a tiny pulse of arousal.

It only gets worse when Reid starts to explain. Kidnapped, tied up, tortured and drugged for two days-it makes Nathan's heart pound hearing it, words uttered quickly in Reid's shaky voice as he stares up at the ceiling. The story is not told chronologically, and Reid's current state makes some parts of it almost completely incomprehensible, but Nathan's own mind fills in the gaps.

He turns onto his side, wants to press his body right into Reid's, for comfort and for something else, something that grows and grows the more Reid talks about the fear and the pain and the helplessness he felt. Nathan's belly roils, and he curls in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his own torso like he needs to restrain himself from reaching out. He thinks he should be telling Reid it's gonna be okay, patting him on the back and saying it's all over now-but nothing comes naturally and Nathan ends up silent, images burning through his brain.

And he does feel sympathy, and he wishes that bastard didn't get such an easy out with a bullet through his chest, because Nathan wants to find him and make him pay, but-but the feelings that ripple through him when he thinks of Reid bound to a chair, beaten and vulnerable-they're ones he hasn't felt in a long time, desires dulled by drugs and therapy and just now coming back strong. Reid is quiet, and Nathan realises that he has been quiet for a while now. There's a gentle click-clack of a nurse's shoes out in the corridor, but the sound fades gradually away.

"You're the first person I've told," Reid says in a small voice. His feet quiver on Nathan's pillow, trembling in their mismatched socks-one grey, one striped purple and black-and Nathan brings his face to them, lets his nose and cheek brush against them in a way that could almost seem accidental. But then he hears the way Dr. Reid's breath catches in his throat, and he wants to hear that sound again.

He leans in closer, shakily inhales the smell of fabric conditioner and a slight musk of sweat and he presses his lips to the soft cotton that covers the tender arch of Reid's foot, the place where Hankel's belt stung him. His heart is in his throat and he feels like he might throw up from the urge to pull Reid close, to touch him and caress him all over and to dig in his fingernails until that white-soft skin bleeds. His hand hovers over Reid's skinny ankle, where his pant leg rides up, exposing pale skin and downy hair and a knob of bone-and then Reid jolts, pulls back and sits up, shaking.

Nathan hurriedly sits up too, drawing his legs up to his chest, hiding the swelling in his close-fitting jeans and blushing badly. They are still very close, side-by-side, and Reid fumbles for his bag where it lies beside them on the floor.

"I have to go," he says, words coming out in a rush, "I'll-I'll see you next week, I-"

"I'm sorry," Nathan cuts in, and Reid looks at him for the first time since laying down, his eyes wide. "I'm sorry that happened to you, I'm sorry, I-"

"It's-" Reid starts like he means to shrug it off, but stops like he can't.

And then with a quick nod he's gone, and Nathan listens to his socked feet padding softly away down the hall, and he hates himself, he hates himself, he hates himself.

***
Hotch can't sleep. He hasn't slept well since Foyet, but this time it's not Haley on his mind, and he thinks his brain almost appreciates the change-something else to agonize over as he tosses and turns. He thinks about Reid, and what Reid might be hiding, and he hears Nathan's little voice in every corner of his brain. He's rarely disturbed by anything he comes across at work these days, and he hesitates to say that the tape has disturbed him, but the memory of it won't leave him alone. It's not the fantasies that bother him, not Nathan's meek confessions, his desires to cut women open-Hotch has heard these things thousands of times before.

Perhaps it's the strength of Nathan's involvement in his team's lives. It seems that, despite the time that has passed, this kid still holds some power over everybody. It was one of their most emotional cases, perhaps. But when Hotch thinks back, all he remembers is the stress of dealing with Congresswoman Steyer. He thinks he only ever caught a glimpse of Nathan, in the interrogation room, talking to Morgan and Reid. All he really remembers is this mousy young teenager, hunched over in his seat, his hair a mop of unruly brown curls. He doesn't remember his face.

He's surprised to realise that he can recall Reid's-remembers seeing him through the window, leaning in towards Nathan almost sympathetically. He remembers, suddenly, the look in Reid's eyes, a look he thought was odd at the time. Reid looked truly sad for this boy, his forehead creased, his whole attitude giving off the impression that deep down, all he really wanted was to make things better for this kid. It didn't matter to him that, at that point in their investigation, they believed that he may have killed two women. Reid just felt sorry for him.

Hotch is awake when his phone rings at 5:34am. It's the D.C. police, telling him they've got a fourth victim. He calls the others as he dresses, leaves Reid 'til last. As he scribbles a note for Jessica, kisses Jack goodbye without waking him, and leaves-he can still hear Reid's voice, thick with sleep and worry, saying just one word. "Okay." Just "Okay," and then he hung up.

The team gathers quickly. Everybody looks a little tired, a little shaken, but it's nothing compared to Reid-hunched over the table with both hands clutching a cup of coffee like he needs to brace himself with something, like he's afraid he might just slip away if he doesn't hold on. He looks like he hasn't had much sleep either, if any, eyes ringed dark. His hair hangs flat and unwashed. When JJ brings the first picture up onto the screen, he has to force himself to lift his head and look at it.

"Eighteen year old Ashley Hogg," JJ says, her voice dull and flat as if she's reading from a script, "found stabbed to death in a D.C. motel room." She takes a deep breath before saying what they're all focused on, the most obvious thing of all. "The word 'help' was carved into her stomach after her death."

Prentiss makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "Like Weems," she says, voice muffled.

Rossi, the most together of them all this morning, asks, "Any signs of sexual assault?"

"Well-hard to say," replies JJ. "There's evidence that intercourse took place before the murder, but as with the other victims, there's no indication that it was rough or violent. It doesn't seem that she was forced."

"That's unusual," Hotch says, frowning. "Consensual sex rarely has anything to offer for a sexual sadist."

"In all likelihood, he hired these girls to have sex with like a normal client," Morgan speaks up. "The stabbing's clearly not a replacement for penetration, he's not impotent. His sexual urges are simply linked with his desire to kill. He fulfils both urges at once."

"But he shouldn't need the sex," Hotch argues. "The murder itself should fulfil his sexual impulse. It's something else he's looking for."

"Intimacy?" Rossi suggests, but looks skeptical.

"Maybe he chooses prostitutes not just because of the low risk involved," Hotch goes on, "but because he wants the sex to be consensual. He has no desire to take what he needs by force. Maybe he feels lonely. Ignored or betrayed by a woman in his life. Or maybe he's never been in a relationship." He thinks of Nathan Harris, spending three years locked away, probably forbidden from coming into contact with female patients. "He uses these girls for the intimacy he's been deprived of, then expresses his anger and frustration with the act of murder, which brings him the satisfaction he needs."

"It's unusual, but it makes sense," Prentiss agrees.

As they continue to talk, it strikes Hotch that they're all thinking about Nathan Harris without ever mentioning his name. He tries not to look at Reid, but can see him out of the corner of his eye; fingers drumming agitatedly against his coffee cup, body tense with nervous energy.

"This victim was found only a week after the last," JJ adds. "He's devolving."

"But he's not slipping up?" Rossi asks. "No signs of disorganisation, leaving anything behind at the crime scene?"

JJ shakes her head. "We'll know more once we've examined it, but if anything, this murder seems more organised and premeditated than the others. He was neat, efficient. This time, he went through with the carving, while he failed to cut off the last victim's hair. He's sure of what he's doing now."

"But he's asking for help," Rossi interjects. "He clearly doesn't feel completely in control."

JJ exchanges a look with Prentiss. "It's possible," Prentiss says. "But Weems was the one who cut words into his victim's bodies. It seems more likely that this is a copycat action, not a compulsion that belongs solely to the killer."

"Like the hair-cutting," Morgan adds. "But he couldn't go through with that. This time, he's sure. See how the cuts of the letters are straight, neat, certain? He didn't do that on the spur of the moment, panicking in the aftermath. He planned it."

"But why?" asks JJ.

"Maybe it is a cry for help," suggests Hotch. For a moment, he forgets the tension in the room, too focused on the case, on figuring this out. It's habit. "He knows we worked the Weems case," he goes on, "maybe he's trying to alert our attention to him. Maybe he wants us to consider him as a suspect."

Nobody says anything right away, and Hotch's hands ball into fists instinctively beneath the table. So far, they'd been keeping it vague, but without thinking he's made it more clear who they're all thinking of. And he can see Reid beginning to tremble, realising they're all pointing the finger.

"Because he thinks the only way he can stop is if he gets caught," Prentiss agrees, quickly, filling the silence. "That makes sense."

"Or perhaps he's just remembering the corpses from the original case," Rossi suggests. "You said he saw one of them? Maybe he's trying to relive that moment. Maybe the murders aren't bringing him enough excitement anymore, and there was something special to him about that time that he's trying to bring back by copying Weems's behaviour."

Prentiss nods. "It's possible..." she says, carefully. She's looking at Reid as she speaks, not bothering to hide it, and the others follow suit. Reid seems to hunch over further in his seat, staring blankly at his coffee, like he's trying to pretend they're not there.

"You okay, kid?" Morgan asks, gently, his voice low. "You don't have to be involved if this is too hard for you."

"Morgan's right," Hotch adds quickly. "I can have you taken off the case if it'll make things easier."

Just yesterday, he was demanding Reid get more involved in the case than anyone else, but today-today he can't take it. He can't take the look on Reid's face, the way he's almost doubled over in his seat, the pain visible on every part of his body. It makes his heart ache, and maybe it's because he knows pain like that, recognises it, sees it in himself almost every day now. He can't understand it in Reid, can't make sense of the strength of his reaction, but maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe he just needs to respond to it, and have sympathy.

Reid shakes his head, hesitant at first and then sure, fast. "No. No. I need to-I need to know."

"Do we have enough reason to bring Harris in for questioning?" Rossi asks.

"I'd say so," Hotch nods. "We should still have an address on file. JJ, ask Garcia to track him down. Dave, you can come with me. Morgan and Prentiss, go to the crime scene and examine the body. It's worth gathering as much information as we can in case Harris isn't our unsub."

The others begin bustling about, packing up their things. JJ rushes off to Garcia's office, and before long it's only Hotch and Reid left in the conference room.

"Sir," Reid's voice wavers, "is there anything I can do?"

Hotch knew he wasn't being particular subtle leaving Reid out of the orders, but-it doesn't seem like a good idea to send him out to the crime scene to see what Nathan may be capable of first-hand, and it definitely seems like a bad idea to bring him along for the arrest.

"Paperwork?" he suggests.

Reid nods, managing a slight smile of understanding as he gets to his feet unsteadily. He leaves his coffee, cold now, behind on the table, and Hotch watches him go, unable to hide his concern.

***
Nathan Harris is still living with his mother, in a nondescript apartment building in northwest D.C. He answers the door himself, almost instantly, like he's been waiting for them, and it makes Hotch uneasy. He's used to suspects trying to run the second they hear that knock on the door, used to at least having to say "FBI" to get them to open up. But-one neat rap on the door from Hotch's fist, and the door opens, and there stands Nathan Harris, thin and pale with an almost sheepish smile on his face. His hair is a mess of brown curls and he still looks about sixteen, taller now perhaps but stooping as though he wants to shrink in on himself. His sweater is too big for him, hanging off his skinny frame, and he fists the too-long sleeves in his hands as he looks at them through wide, blue-green eyes.

Hotch isn't aware of the silence until Rossi breaks it, stepping in where Hotch has faltered. "Nathan Harris?" he asks. The boy nods. "FBI. You're under arrest on the suspicion of the murder." Rossi is matter-of-fact, to the point, pulling Nathan towards him by those skinny wrists and swiftly handcuffing them.

"Can I leave my Mom a note?" is Nathan's only response, and his voice sounds just the same as it did on the tape-and it's then that Hotch realises the tape wasn't bad quality at all, that's just how Nathan sounds, like he's drifting away. "She's at work."

"You can call her from the station," Rossi says firmly, taking him by the shoulder.

Driving back, Hotch realises that perhaps Rossi could have made this arrest on his own. He's not sure what he expected, but it's not this-not Nathan coming quite willingly, sitting quietly in the back of the car with his cuffed hands in his lap like there's nowhere else for him to be. It's unsettling, and they barely speak for the entire journey. Nathan seems oblivious, and Hotch keeps an eye on him in the rear-view mirror, sees him gazing out the window like a kid on a family drive.

Hotch isn't prepared for any of it, but least of all what happens when they return to the station. Rossi in tow, he guides Nathan in with a hand on his shoulder-though it's completely unnecessary, with Nathan showing no signs of resisting. Hotch spots Reid over by his desk, and he catches his eye for a split-second. Before he even has a chance to realise what's happening, Reid is suddenly right there in front of them, throwing himself at Nathan, embracing him, long limbs flung awkwardly around the kid, Nathan's own arms still cuffed and trapped between their bodies.

For a moment everything is stunned silence. Other people at their desks have looked up in bemusement, and Hotch is speechless.

"Reid," says Rossi, finally, his voice carrying a sternness that Hotch is sure his own couldn't possibly manage. He curls a strong hand around Reid's shoulder, begins to pull him back. Reid's face is practically buried in the kid's neck, and when he lets him go and straightens up, he's red in the face, flushed with embarrassment. "Hotch's office. Now."

Reid takes a last look at Nathan, his eyes sad, sorry, and then he turns quickly, hurries away. The people around them gradually begin to return to their work, and Rossi lets out a long, low whistle.

"I'll handle the kid. You talk to Reid," he says, steering Nathan towards an interrogation room. He gives Hotch a look, a little eyebrow-raise, a silent the hell was that? and then they're gone, and Hotch feels like he's in over his head when the case has only just begun.

In all the years he's known Reid, he can count on one hand the times he's seen him initiate physical contact. And now? With a suspect in a murder case? It's not the first time Reid has connected with an unsub, and Hotch has always let it go-he honestly believes it's Reid's empathy that makes him such a good profiler, such a good asset to their team. But if he takes it too far, he's detrimental to the team, and he seems oblivious of that, too caught up in Nathan to consider anything else.

Hotch finds Reid standing in front of his desk, feet tapping agitatedly against the floor and head bowed.

"I'm sorry, sir," he bursts out the second Hotch has closed the door behind him, "I know I shouldn't have-I can't excuse it-I just-I haven't seen him for so long and I-"

Hotch holds up one hand, and Reid shuts up instantly. "I understand that he's your friend," Hotch says, slowly, carefully, "but that's unacceptable. You treat him like any other suspect or you're off the case, do you understand me?"

Reid's mouth opens. He looks taken aback, a little hurt, maybe, and it bothers Hotch how guilty that makes him feel.

"This isn't going to be an easy case for you, I know that," he says gently, "but I need to know that you can still do your job."

Reid still says nothing. He looks like he might cry, and it makes Hotch want to break something. "Are you still able to do your job, Dr. Reid?" he asks, impatient.

Reid nods, haltingly at first, and then a little more sure of himself.

"I think it's best that you have as little contact with Nathan Harris as possible," Hotch concludes, and tries not to notice the way that Reid's face falls, as though it couldn't fall further, as though his heart is breaking right here and now.

***
Nathan does not see Dr. Reid the following week. It's the week after that when he shows up, wrapped in sweaters despite the warm weather, shaky and pale and thin, even more so than the last time. He's more lucid, but shivering and miserable, silent as Nathan guides him down the corridors, and by the time they reach Nathan's room Nathan has figured out what's going on.

"You're detoxing," he says, as they settle themselves, cross-legged facing each other on Nathan's bed once again. The windows are open and some of the other patients are playing basketball in the yard; they can hear the echoing bounce of the ball on the tarmac, whoops and yells filtering in from outside. For the first time Nathan feels like he's strong, like somebody needs him.

"Uh huh," says Reid, quietly.

"How-" starts Nathan uncertainly, "how do you feel?"

Reid looks him in the eye properly for the first time since he arrived, and his mouth quivers its way into a smile. "Like shit," he says honestly, and a surprised little laugh bubbles itself up out of Nathan's chest before he has a chance to stop it. But then Reid joins in-a sad laugh, a little wheezy, ending in a cough.

"How long has it been?"

"Four days," says Reid, and nods, lips pursed. His nod is rapid, a repeated bounce of his head, and Nathan realises that his legs are moving too, feet tapping restlessly.

Nathan has no idea if four days is significant or not, but says, "Wow. You're-you're doing really well," anyway, and Reid smiles, open and honest and grateful.

"Yeah?" Reid runs his long thin fingers back through his lank hair. "It's one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life."

He asks Nathan to talk to him, to take his mind off the pain and discomfort, and Nathan tells him about his week in ridiculous amounts of detail. Dull as it is, Dr. Reid listens intently, but doesn't ask questions or comment. He's constantly moving, and seemingly unaware of it-when he's not tapping his feet or drumming his fingers against his knees, he's twitchy with involuntary muscle spasms. It's disturbing, but Nathan keeps talking, does what Reid needs him to.

He's running out of things to say when Reid suddenly tears off the heavy sweater he's wearing. He's red-faced and sweating as he pulls off more layers-and Nathan is startled to see how much clothing he's really wearing, how much it's bulked him up. He looked thin with all that on, and without it, he's just skin and bone, shivering in a plain white t-shirt that looks like it was made for a twelve year old.

"Hot flashes," Reid explains with a wry, slightly embarrassed smile. He turns to pile the clothes up on the bed beside him, and for the first time Nathan sees the marks in the crook of Reid's elbow, little purple spidery lines. He takes the clothes, folds them, partly for something to do and partly because it makes him feel good, to look after Dr. Reid like this.

"You're sweating," Nathan says, then, because the white t-shirt is so soaked it's almost transparent at the neckline and underarms, clinging to Reid's skin.

"I'm sorry," says Reid, and crumples in on himself, head in his shaking hands, "I should go. I shouldn't have come today. I'm disgusting."

Reid is trembling so badly it's alarming, and Nathan wonders how he can do his job, how he can do anything like this. "You're not disgusting," he says softly.

Reid looks at him through his fingers. "Look at me," he says with a sad smile, but to Nathan, even bony and sweaty and miserable, he is beautiful.

He wants to say so, but words are failing him, and so instead he finds himself prising Dr. Reid's clammy hands from his face and kissing him, stupid and inexpert, pressing their mouths together and tasting the sourness of Reid's lips and feeling the cold sweat on his skin and adoring every part of it. Reid, to his credit, is gentle when he pushes Nathan away, though whether it's due to reluctance or simply the lack of a steady hand, Nathan doesn't know.

He expects explanation, excuses, the clear painful sting of rejection-but all Reid does is gather up his clothes and say, "I should go," once more, without acknowledging it. As if it never happened.

And maybe that's worse.

***
Hotch is heading to the interrogation room when he sees Rossi coming towards him, a bottle of water in one hand.

"Kid asked for this," Rossi says when they reach each other.

"And you got it for him?" Hotch asks, faintly surprised.

"It was the first thing he said that wasn't 'can I talk to Dr. Reid?'," Rossi replies with a sigh, "so I gave in."

"It's not going so well, then," Hotch gathers, feeling his heart sink a little bit. From Nathan's attitude on being brought in, he'd almost expected an easy confession.

"I can't get anything out of him," Rossi responds, and Hotch can sense his frustration-Dave hates it when a suspect's hard to crack, when he can't get through to them.

"Nothing?"

"He's not admitting anything, and he's not denying anything," Rossi goes on. "He's barely even saying anything, except requesting to see Dr. Reid."

He gives Hotch a significant look, and Hotch frowns. "Let me try."

"Be my guest," Rossi says, opening the door.

Nathan is sitting straight-backed in his chair, staring into space, but he looks up when Hotch enters, gives a hesitant little smile in greeting which Hotch does not return.

"Can I speak to Dr. Reid?" he asks before Hotch has even sat down. Rossi takes a seat beside him, passes the water over, and Nathan murmurs a "thank you," always polite.

"Dr. Reid is busy," Hotch replies, "you can speak to me."

"I'd really like to speak to Dr. Reid," Nathan says. His boyish face looks almost apologetic, and Hotch feels a strange surge of anger that has nothing to do with what they've brought Nathan in for. He's angry that this kid has affected Reid's life in such a way, that this kid is interfering with Reid's ability to work, that this kid is just another in a long stream of screwed up aspects of Reid's life.

"You'll speak to me," Hotch says, a little louder, a little sterner, and Nathan goes quiet. He chews on his lower lip, the skin there flaky, spotted with blood in the middle where he's been worrying it. It's almost comforting to see some signs of distress, something to show that Nathan's perhaps not perfectly happy to sit in an interrogation room as a murder suspect all day long. "You can start by telling me where you were at 3 o'clock this morning."

"I was out," Nathan says. "Walking."

"Do you usually go walking in the middle of the night?"

Nathan nods, seemingly unaware that this is something considered unusual. "I stopped taking my medication and now I can't sleep so well anymore. Walking helps me relax."

"You stopped taking your medication," Hotch repeats. He turns over a page in the file he brought in-Nathan's old file, now added to-and scans the list of drugs faxed over by Nathan's institution. Basic anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, and sleeping pills. "Why was that?"

"It was starting to make me not feel like a real person anymore," Nathan admits. "You know? The anti-depressants mostly-they just made me feel kind of numb. Gazy."

The kid still seems pretty gazy as far as Hotch is concerned. "Do you know why you're here, Nathan?"

Nathan nods. "You think I killed someone."

"We think you killed four people, Nathan. Four young women were found stabbed to death and we believe that it was your doing. Do you have anything to say in response to those accusations?"

Nathan shakes his head, vaguely. "No," he says, "except that I'd quite like to speak to Dr. Reid."

Hotch sighs. Decides to try a different approach. "Why? You think he can help you?" he asks. "Dr. Reid believes you're guilty just as much as we do."

It's an old tactic, that, usually used to turn two partners-in-crime against each other, and it's unsettling that Hotch has to resort to it in these circumstances. It's also extremely unlikely to work, considering that the last time Nathan saw Reid, it was with his arms around him, clutching him tight like a father or a brother, or-

"I don't think so," Nathan says, and offers a wan little smile.

But Hotch is momentarily speechless, knocked off his stride. Something has come to him, suddenly and seemingly without warning. "How would you describe your relationship with Dr. Reid, Nathan?" he demands.

Nathan says nothing for a moment, looking bewildered. "I-what do you mean?" he manages eventually.

Hotch hesitates, and Rossi, concerned, steps in. "What Agent Hotchner means-"

But Hotch cuts him off-he needs to know, speaks without thinking, forgets for a moment about professionalism and relevance. "Were you and Dr. Reid in a sexual relationship with one another?"

Nathan's mouth opens but no words come out. He looks stunned. Hotch doesn't even want to look at Rossi. "No, I-I-what would make you say that?" he stutters. It seems, at first, like lying.

"I listened to the tape of your psych evaluation with Agent Gideon," Hotch tells him, his voice coming out low like a hiss, "I know you had feelings for Dr. Reid back then, and I know Dr. Reid kept in contact with you over the three years that have passed since. It doesn't seem impossible that those feelings have persisted."

"Aaron," says Rossi in an undertone, but Hotch barely hears him.

"Even if they have, that doesn't mean-that doesn't mean they're reciprocated." Nathan seems shocked by the mere suggestion. "Why-why would you think that they were?"

"You can quit it with the innocent kid act, okay?" Hotch snaps, and it's harsher than he meant it, anger welling up inside him like bile. The look on Nathan's face makes him furious, and it's inexplicable, and all he wants is to get to the bottom of this and have the kid locked away. "The way he reacted to your involvement in this case is reason enough, and you know it."

For a moment Nathan simply looks at him, his eyes wide, and Hotch instantly starts to doubt himself, to feel foolish. Rossi is saying his name again, low like a warning, and then suddenly the door opens and Morgan enters with a handful of glossy papers, pictures from the crime scene.

"Morgan," says Rossi quickly, getting to his feet, "can you take over here?"

Morgan looks a little surprised, but nods, comes over to the desk. "Sure."

"A word, Aaron," Rossi presses, when Hotch doesn't move from his seat, still staring at Nathan, the kid looking like a fucking deer in the headlights, like somehow what Hotch said had never occurred to him.

He stands up, slowly, gathers his file and follows Rossi out of the room. Rossi doesn't even bother taking him to an office, just into the nearest quiet corner. "Wanna explain what that was all about?" he demands.

Hotch rubs at his forehead, frowning. "It's true," he says, "I listened to that tape, Dave. The kid admitted he had feelings for Reid, it's not-"

"It's not relevant to the case, and you're damn well aware of that," Rossi interrupts. "What's your problem?"

"It's relevant to the case if Reid's in danger," is all Hotch can manage in response to that, and maybe that's a bullshit excuse but it's all that's going through his mind.

"If Reid's in danger?" Rossi repeats, almost mockingly. "The kid's killing teenage prostitutes, Aaron, I'm pretty sure Reid's safe. Nathan had a crush three years ago-that doesn't mean anything, and it's sure as hell not the kind of thing you should be bringing up in the middle of an interrogation. You know that."

"Have you not seen the way Reid's reacting to all of this?" Hotch hisses. "Did you not see what happened when we brought Nathan in?"

"Yes, I saw, and yes, it's weird, but it's also not relevant to the case, not to mention none of our business," Rossi replies. "If you think Reid is going to cause problems, you can take him off the case, but you know as well as I do that that the way you acted in there was inappropriate."

Hotch sighs and it comes out shaky. He rests his head against his palm, says quietly, "I'm just worried about him."

Rossi softens a little at this, places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We all are. But don't let your concern cloud your judgement."

They're interrupted by a woman rushing over to them, her eyes wild. "You've arrested my son?" she demands.

"Mrs. Harris, please take a seat in here," says Rossi, trying to guide her into his office. "Your son has been arrested on suspicion of the murder of four young women."

Just before the door swings shut, Hotch sees Mrs. Harris collapse into a chair, head in her hands. He can't imagine what it's like, as a parent, to have this happen twice, but he can't quite bring himself to feel sympathy, not with his mind so preoccupied. Just then he hears Morgan's voice, and turns to see him exiting the interrogation room. Prentiss is at his side; she must have joined him.

"It's no use, man," Morgan says, "it's like talking to a brick wall."

"Couldn't even get anything out of him when we showed him pictures from the crime scene," Prentiss adds.

"The only thing he's giving us is that he wants to talk to Reid," Morgan says with a shrug.

Hotch sighs, rubs at his temples with his thumb and little finger, hand stretched across his forehead.

"Would it be so terrible?" Prentiss asks, tentatively, her voice lowered. "I mean-maybe Reid can get more out of him than we can. It's worth a shot, right?"

Hotch doesn't reply right away; considers it. It's not that he disagrees, that's the thing. He sees her point, but the idea of sending Reid in there with Nathan-he can't stand it. He doesn't know what it would do to Reid, for one thing (and he feels oddly irritated by the fact that Prentiss doesn't seem to have considered this), and after the ideas that he's put in Nathan's head, the possibility that Reid might just return his feelings-it all seems too complicated, too risky, for reasons he can't put into words.

"Leave it a bit longer," he says eventually. "Let him sit. Let him think about it. Maybe if we give it enough time, he'll give up and be willing to talk to us instead."

"You think it's worth waiting?" Morgan asks, looking doubtful.

Hotch sighs. "Well, he can't kill anyone while he's here. Gather everyone in the conference room, I think we need to refine our theory."

part two.