The Shadows We Dance With

Ch3: Turbulence

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.