"Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul." - Dave Pelzer

"Clooney," Morgan whined, pushing the dog away from the coffee table where he'd just sent a half-empty bottle of beer tumbling over in his enthusiasm to get to his master for a fuss. Most of the spilled contents ended up seeping into the rug, and Morgan wiped he few splashes on the table with his hands and then slid them along his jeans. Clooney settled his head on Morgan's knee, and even as he tried his best to look reproachfully at the dog, he couldn't resist scratching at his ears. He was over-energetic and needed a good long walk, but the BAU case schedule had got in the way, and Morgan's neighbour had been unable to help him out like she usually did, so the canine had only had short walks that week. Now it was late and raining and Morgan couldn't summon the will to go out.

"Sorry, boy," he cooed, lowering his head to give the dog a kiss. "I'll give you a long walk tomorrow, c'mon." He patted the sofa beside him, encouraging the dog to jump up and sit with him. He was pretty lax about having Clooney on the furniture, but he'd never seen the sense in treating a pet like family but not letting them sit in the comfy spots. He picked up the beer and gave the bottle a little shake, judging there to be enough to be worth his time despite the spill, and settled back into the couch. Clooney nuzzled against him, putting his head in his lap and making a little sound that was almost conversational.

"I'm just not up for it tonight. Drunk a little too much," he admitted, recognising the tipsy feeling in himself. "Been thinking too hard."

He clicked the bottle against his bottom teeth absently, and then took a sip. It had been more than a week since he'd turned up at Reid's house and fucked him, and it probably topped the list of the stupidest - and cruellest – things he'd ever done. He had given in to a purely sexual desire, a territorial and claiming want that left him feeling dirty.

"There's something wrong with me," he murmured, to himself or the dog it didn't matter with a few beers in him. "I fucked my life up and I don't understand it. I don't understand why I still want him. Even though what I did was horrible, and he wants nothing to do with me, I still think about it, about what if he wanted me too."

Clooney looked up at him, as if he was really paying attention to his words. It was pretty convincing. "Reid," Morgan explained to the dog. "The skinny guy."

He slipped down further into the couch, exhaling slowly through his nose. Drink had lubricated his thoughts, and everything he'd been fighting against had come much easier tonight than other nights. It meant he had nowhere to hide, the alcohol inhibiting his ability to deny what he knew.

"I think I love him," he muttered. "But I don't. I think I do, but I can't. But I can't tell him, what am I gonna do? Waltz up like 'hey kid, I know I used you for sex, manipulated you, hurt you, treated you like shit, but hey I love you, so forgive me'? I won't. Won't do that."

He couldn't love Reid, he didn't like men like that, he wasn't gay. He was so adamant of the fact, and so terrified of thinking otherwise. Because if he wasn't straight, he knew what that meant, knew that every lie he'd ever told himself about coming through unscathed was untrue. He had fought so hard to keep the manifestations of those possibilities a bay, and somehow they'd broken through and consumed him, consumed Reid right along with him.

"I can't believe what I've done," he groaned, dropping his head back onto the couch. "I don't wanna be this." He screwed his eyes shut tight. "I don't wanna be like him."

+o+

He hadn't talked to Morgan since they'd had sex. Even in the weeks after when they'd been paired up on cases, they'd only shared rare essential words. It would surprise him if the team didn't realise something was up between them, but nobody mentioned anything. When he was called to Hotch's office one morning, he wondered if an awkward conversation was finally going to ensue, and steeled himself.

"Reid," Hotch said as he entered his office. "You remember James York, in Iowa?"

It was not what he was expecting, but of course Reid remembered – he still sometimes had nightmares about the man rubbing against him, the nightmare visions going further and further than it actually had. Sleep was hard enough to come by, having nightmares of being raped and sliced open by York did nothing to help.

"Yes," he said, shifting his weight and doing his best to display nonchalance at the mention of a man that haunted him in such a way.

"Since you got him to reveal that he'd had female victims too, a lot of missing person cases have been linked to him. He's been unwilling to talk so far." Hotch delivered the information in his usual work tone, but he had fixed Reid with a stare laced with concern.

"So far?" he asked, shifting on his feet again, knowing he could get away with it because of his fidgety nature. There would be no alarm bells, though Hotch's looks were always quite penetrating, and sometimes he wondered if the man picked up on all the things people consciously or unconsciously tried to mask, even beyond the way the rest of the profilers did.

"He's said he'll talk to you."

"And you're sending me to Iowa?"

"It's not an order, Reid. You don't have to go."

For a second he wondered if Hotch was hoping he'd turn him down; he was still staring levelly at him as he gave the thoughts a moment to process, and while it didn't surprise him that Hotch didn't try and dissuade him, he was sure the man's gaze had softened.

"Hopefully I can get some of those families some closure."

Hotch nodded, resigning to Reid's decision. "You and Morgan can go as soon as we've arranged travel."

"Morgan?"

"It'd be irresponsible for me to send you alone to see York again, considering the interest he showed in you. I asked Morgan, and he accepted. Would you prefer to go with someone else?"

"No, it's fine." He didn't want to have to explain why he'd rather not be in a situation alone with him, even if it was a professional one. It wasn't the issue of fraternization that worried him so much as having to explain in detail what had happened in Iowa, what he'd hidden from the team. He didn't know if not telling anyone he'd allowed himself to be molested by a suspect to get him to talk was cause for termination, but he was certain the outcome wouldn't be a positive one.

"Good. They want you there on Thursday, to interview him at noon, so it's an early flight. I'll make the arrangements."

"Thanks, Hotch."

As he lingered, Hotch spoke up, voice edged with concern. "Are you sure you're up for this, Reid?"

"I'm sure if anything goes wrong, Morgan will save the day."

Hotch raised an eyebrow; apparently he hadn't hidden his bitterness well enough. "Is everything okay with you two?"

Reid waved his hand, adding a small smile and a shrug. "It's nothing. I'll let Morgan know we're on for Thursday."

+o+

It was not an enjoyable flight – Reid didn't say a single word to him even though they sat next to each other, and there was a definite chill in the air. He didn't push the issue, because he couldn't blame Reid not wanting to talk to him after what had happened. A big part of him was regretting agreeing to accompany Reid to Iowa, but a more steady part of him knew it was best if it was him; Reid wouldn't end up in a situation where he was forced to reveal what had happened with York last time. As much as the thought of what he knew had transpired made his skin crawl, Morgan wasn't about to contribute to a situation where Reid would have to deal with dragging it all up again. Seeing the serial killer was going to be hard enough without the rest.

He knew he needed to apologize, to talk about what had happened even if was only to take the rest of Reid's anger like he deserved, but he couldn't bring himself to broach the subject on a crowded plane. He'd had several weeks to reflect on the stupid decision he'd made and how he seemed to have become a terrible person in the past few months, turning through all the events in his head over and over and cursing himself for the kiss that had started it all, a kiss given in comfort to a Reid who had been wanting to get high, a kiss that had awakened terrible things in him that he hated. The more he thought about it all, the more anxious he became, existing in a state he was so unsure about, but knew didn't feel right. He didn't love Reid, he couldn't call it that, it wasn't what love was meant to be; it was something altogether unwholesome, a desire he was trying his very best to fight back.

It was hard, when all he wanted to do was get on his knees and beg Reid to forgive him for what he'd done, as if that could really fix anything. Even forgiveness right out of the man's mouth wouldn't change what he'd done, wouldn't change the context in which he'd done it, or how his feelings had come to be. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to fix it.

+o+

Reid had gone on custodial interviews before, he knew how they worked. He'd even been on one that went wrong; when he and Hotch had been trapped with a murderer set on killing the both of them, he'd managed to keep talking, keep them alive, until they could get out.

"I have to go in alone," Reid said as he rolled down his sleeves, eyes on the one-way glass.

"Reid-" Morgan said, as if he wanted to protest, but he knew they were unlikely to get results from him with Morgan in there, so he couldn't let him come in.

"He responds to me. We have an established relationship," he reiterated, running a hand over his jaw. He'd just been to the bathroom to give himself another quick shave with his electric razor to make sure he didn't have the trace of a stubble shadow; looking young was key to getting York to want to interact with him.

"He's not cuffed, Reid," Morgan pressed.

"That's one of the conditions of him talking," Reid reiterated. "There's a guard in the room, you're out here; it'll be fine."

"Couldn't you use me?" Morgan asked. "Couldn't you use me in some way to get him to be more forthcoming? Play us off each other, or make him jealous, make him want to have your attention all to himself?"

"The local officers have already questioned him, that should incline him to me. I don't need you." He knew there was more venom in the words than needed, but Morgan's face didn't betray anything in response. He turned away, steeled himself with a deep inhale, and proceeded.

The only thing different about York was the prison jumpsuit; the smug air of confidence was intact as it had been the last time Reid had seen him.

"If it isn't my favourite faggot," he said, and Reid let himself flinch more obviously than the slur would have usually made him. He needed to appear weaker than he was, softer, younger. "Aw, son," he cooed, and his face softened in a caricature of kindness. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to upset you. You're a sweet boy, you've been on my mind. I think about the last time so often, about how much I gave you."

He slipped into the seat opposite, noting the lack of restraints. There had been a part of him that had thought he'd have to do the same as last time to get information out of him, but he knew he couldn't for his own sake, he couldn't give that part of himself up again. That meant he was going to have to placate him in some other way.

"Mr. York," Reid said, trying to sound like he didn't want to upset the man, deferring to him. "I know they've offered you deals if you give them the information they want. Why haven't you taken any?"

"How else was I going to see you?"

"You know that if you don't cooperate, they'll take the offer off the table," he said, smiling in what he hoped was an apologetic way, meeting the man's eyes more, as if he was becoming braver, more at ease with him like York wanted.

"I have information they want," he confirmed, "but you only just got here, Spencer, there's no rush. I didn't ask you here to let you leave disappointed, I wouldn't let my favourite little fag go home empty handed."

"How many have you killed in total?" Reid asked, keeping his voice as soft and meek as he dared without being obvious that he was acting.

"That's no fun, boy!" he laughed. "Remind me, how many did I tell you about last time?"

"Five," Reid said, before he could stop himself.

"Do you remember their names?"

"Luke-"

"The straight boy," York supplied, and Reid felt his stomach lurch.

"Colby-"

"The disappointment."

"Kieran-"

"Ah, beautiful Kieran. Big brown eyes, like yours."

"David-"

"The loudmouth."

"Tommy."

"My first boy."

"Counting Gregory," Reid said, "was that all the boys?"

"Gregory," York said, rolling the name around in his mouth with some delight. "My legacy. My new favourite, in fact. Special, that one."

"You let him live," Reid said.

"I created something beautiful in that boy," York mused, genuine, sickening fondness in his voice. "Something that lives on, even if I'm here."

"Did you let any of the girls live?" Reid asked, and tried his best just to sound curious, keeping eye contact, feigning intrigue.

"Why would I of done that?"

"Legacy," he suggested. "Aren't girls, generally, a better way to leave a legacy?"

"You're thinking very literally," York said smugly. "I'm sure I made most of those little whores pregnant, but they weren't really around long enough for it to take. Fathering a child is an inexact way to leave your mark on the world. If I let one of them live, to have my child, she'd raise it as best she could. Maybe she'd give it up to some family that wouldn't even know how the baby came to be. That baby would grow up without knowing anything about me, without being affected by me in any way. For all that risk, I'd have made no difference. With Gregory, I had a much better opportunity. He's alive. He's out in the world, living his life, and at the same time he's mine. He will always be mine. My boy. My creation. My legacy."

"Tell me about the girls."

"You don't like girls, son," York teased. "Don't waste your time."

"They were a waste of your time, weren't they?" Reid asked. "Last time, you said they were disappointing."

"They were easy."

"They can't have all been easy," Reid said sceptically. He was careful to try and keep his tone like that of a precocious child, curious and just waiting to be impressed, rather than a grown man passing judgement and doubt on the killer's assertions. "The first one couldn't have been easy."

"You wanna know about my first?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Reid wasn't really surprised by the angle, but he tried to look like he was seriously considering it. He could probably spin something up off the top of his head, but he didn't want to have too many lies going, or have too much to focus on making sure he was projecting. He'd have to go with the truth, mostly.

"Okay," he nodded. "I was seventeen, and at college. I graduated high school a year early." That part was a lie, of course – but he didn't want York to get distracted with the information that he'd graduated at thirteen, and by seventeen he'd already completed two college degrees. "We were in a study group together, and one night after a study session we ended up back at her dormitory, and the other members of the group sat outside while we did it."

"C'mon, boy," York scoffed, "I'm going to need more than that if we're playing tit-for-tat. How did it feel to fuck someone for the first time?"

He knew the man wanted Reid to identify with him, so he considered the profile they had on him, and all the other information they'd gathered once they knew who he was. He was very intelligent and deeply misogynistic, raised by father who beat his mother, in an environment where that was the norm, and his father's pinpoint rage directed at the most significant woman in his life imbued him with a warped entitlement to others. It wasn't a remarkable upbringing by any means, and if James York had been a heterosexual, bisexual or homosexual man attracted to other adults, he would have likely turned out as a run of the mill misogynist, destined to treat women badly and likely be an abusive spouse. But James York was a pedophile with a focus on newly pubescent children, with gender as a tool rather than a preference, which changed things significantly.

Reid was relieved that at least to try and keep York onside, he'd have to veer away from the truth by necessity; he didn't want to have to give up anything else to this man.

"Powerless," he said, averting his eyes in faux shame. "She was experienced, and she got on top. She took charge and I was just swept along. It wasn't really memorable, and I didn't really feel like..."

"You had any control?" York asked, a knowing smile. Reid wondered if he'd hooked him successfully.

"No," he lied. The actual coupling in question had been awkward and exploratory, but ultimately mutually fulfilling.

"Was she your age?"

"Basically," Reid gave small shrug, still trying to make the whole discussion awkward.

"I like them younger."

Reid bit back a snappy retort, instead just let his gaze wander back to the man.

"Not at first, I suppose. I felt the same as you, at first. When I got older, the same kind of girls that had intimidated me, who seemed so unreachable and unfathomable were suddenly... not. Dumb as mud, most of them, for one," he said, offhand. "Girls tend to begin to sexually mature earlier, so I suppose when we were the same age they were all advanced, only by benefit of their hormones. Quirk of nature. But once I had the upper hand, they were all so easy. Girls crave attention and validation, and that was something I could give. They'd do practically anything for it. Though the fact that they were easy made me challenge myself, so I really couldn't have done it without girls."

"You said you'd tell me about your first girl."

"The first one I fucked, or the first one I killed?"

"They're not the same one?"

"No, boy," York laughed. "I was like you, remember? I couldn't have killed the first bunch of girls I ever fucked, I could barely get them to do what I wanted. It was slow going, though as I got older than fourteen I started realising wanting young girls wasn't just a fourteen year old being into fourteen year olds. I got older, the girls didn't, and slowly I got better at fucking them. Getting older, I realised the joy of virgins; there's something special about being the first to pop that cherry. Even if you're rough with them, it takes a bit more work to get a boy bleeding, but virgin girls with a hymen still intact will pop however gentle you are. I guess I do miss girls, sometimes," he said wistfully.

Reid tried his very best not to let his disgust show, trying instead to seem reluctantly curious. He knew York liked to flesh things out, he enjoyed making people uncomfortable, and he enjoyed when others involuntarily responded to him even more.

"The older I got, the better I got at making them cry, too. I didn't discover the best way to do it until I was nineteen. I'd spent a few months working on a farm outside Algona, and I'd got fit because of it. I'd always been skinny before, not much to look at. I filled out that summer, and the girls loved it. The local school girls would hang around by the fences on their way home from school just to look at me. Now pay attention, I'm getting to the good part," York said, glee clear in his voice. "One girl, cute little blonde thing. Fourteen, maybe. Mary. She was sweet on me, and it didn't take much for me to get her in the barn on her knees thanking me for taking her out for ice cream in town. She wasn't as cooperative as I wanted, though, and things got a bit rough. She's lying there, mouth bleeding, crying, begging me to stop out in a barn where nobody can hear her, but I still worried we'd get caught. I threatened her with my knife, but she made so much noise when I fucked her, I cut her a little bit on the tit just to show her I meant business. The way that skin cut under the knife, well, I knew I'd found something special. Before I knew it, she was cut all over her tits and stomach, crying and screaming and writhing about, and I was in heaven."

He shifted in his seat minutely, but Reid already knew the man was getting aroused from the minute changes; dilating pupils, increased lip-licking, vocal changes.

"I'd seen the farmer slaughter a cow once, and I knew there was only one way this could get better, and not leave me having to deal with a bleeding, crying girl running to the police. It's harder to cut someone's throat than anyone ever leads you to believe."

Reid hated himself for picturing it, for picturing it all, but his brain readily supplied the images. He knew her face, which made it worse; there was a missing Mary from the Algona area of Iowa that fit the timeline, he knew what she looked like in life, and what her bloated corpse had looked like when they'd dragged it out of the river.

"What did you do with her body?"

"Threw her in the river," he confirmed. "They found her a few months later, I heard, but I was long gone. My name never came up, as far as I'm aware."

Reid scratched his neck thoughtfully, taking a moment to compose his thoughts and push away the images.

"Will you tell me how many girls there were in total?"

"That's no fun, boy! Don't you want to hear about them?" York teased.

"Yeah," Reid said sheepishly. "But I want to know how many there were."

"You tell me how many men have fucked you, and I'll tell you."

Reid wondered whether the honest answer of two would put York off being agreeable with him. He was well aware of the tropes that York assumed he fit, so he played to that, shrugging.

"I dunno."

"Yes you do, boy. I know you've kept count."

"Twenty, maybe, twenty one-"

"Which is it, boy, twenty or twenty one?"

"Twenty one!" Reid said breathlessly, casting his mind about the most embarrassing thing he could recall in the hopes it would leave him blushing, adding credibility to his claim.

"I knew you were a little faggot slut," York said, though despite everything it was clearly an affectionate tone. "Straight men too, I bet. Real men who just want a hole, not fags."

Reid couldn't stop himself shaking, but hoped he was still hiding his disgust. He wanted this to be over so much, but they'd come a long way and there were so many missing girls who had potentially been linked to him.

"I killed five, including Mary," York offered, as though the information was a reward.

"Did you bury the other four, like the boys?"

"Yes and no," he said evenly. "Buried them, but not all in the same place like the boys. I know putting them all in one place got me caught," he mused, "but it was worth it. Those girls taught me a lot, but they turned out only to be practice."

"Were they all in Iowa?"

"You got a list to narrow down, boy?"

"I was only allowed to come here if I got answers."

"You seem to of lost interest in what I've got to say."

"I haven't," Reid shook his head. "I just want to know about the circumstances."

"Your boss promised you a nice hard fuck if you get all the information he wants, hm?" York teased, eyeing Reid. "Married, is he?"

"He's not the one I've been thinking about!" Reid blurted wildly, knowing he was losing the man's interested, having spoken about his interest as procedural rather than personal. He needed to get him back onside. "I wanna know about you, about all of them."

"Boy, let's not play anymore," York said, waving a dismissive hand. "You look young, but we both know you're not young enough. We both know you're not fresh enough for me. Don't get me wrong, boy, I'd tie you up and give you the best fuck you ever had, but I wouldn't put the effort in making you one of my boys, even if I wasn't doing life right now."

For a split second Reid was upset that for James York he wasn't attractive enough to torture and kill, that between coworkers and Spanish lovers and serial killers, he was worth nothing but a fleeting fuck; and then fought back the wave of acute self-loathing that followed the thought.

"James," he tried desperately to get him to keep talking.

"Guard," York called, holding Reid's gaze and grinning. This was another win in his mind. "I want to go back to my cell."

Reid pushed himself away from the table and left the room with the greatest of efforts it took to remain calm. Outside the interview room, the eyes of Morgan and the detective who had headed up the York investigation were waiting for him.

"I lost him," Reid shook his head. "I couldn't keep it up, I started asking about numbers and locations and he thought I was losing interest."

"You did well," the detective said, and he looked like he wanted to reach out and give Reid a reassuring bat on the shoulder, but didn't. Reid was glad. "I didn't expect him to tell you anything, to be honest," he admitted. "I thought it was a long shot. He likes game-playing too much."

Reid nodded, looking through the one-way glass at York being prepared to be taken back to his cell.

"There's something else," the detective said, holding out a folder to both of them. Clearly he hadn't told Morgan about this yet, because he looked just as interested as Reid. "Gregory Taylor's mother brought these to me. She found them in her son's room."

Morgan, who had taken the folder, flipped it open to reveal the first of a stack of letters in a small, cramped handwriting. There were perhaps two dozen letters, one for each week over six months.

"They're from York," the detective confirmed. "Men like him sometimes get a following of sick fans, so strange letters aren't new. The prison doesn't know how he's getting letters out to him, because they'd never approve the boy as an allowed contact. I don't know if the boy is sending replies. I was hoping you'd go talk to him."

"Not today," Reid said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We'll go tomorrow. In the afternoon, after school's out. Can you let his mother know?"

"You got somewhere to stay?" the detective asked.

"Yeah," Morgan nodded, closing the file. "We're here two nights, our flight back is early Saturday."

"I don't think York is gonna talk again that soon, fellas," he said, as he offered his hand. "But you know where to contact me if you need anything."

Morgan didn't try to talk to him as they drove back to the hotel, though Reid wasn't entirely sure he would have noticed if he had. All he could think about was everything York had told him, every horrifying detail he'd shared and what he knew from case files, his mind oh so helpfully threading them together in graphic embellishment. As they walked through the hotel, got in the elevator, Reid wanted Morgan to say something, anything he could use to jump off on; to shout, punch, kick, scream, anything. Morgan stayed quiet.

When they reached their room, before Reid could think too much about it he dropped the box of files he was carrying and his bag onto the table, crossed to one of the single beds, flung himself onto it, smothered his face in his pillow and screamed at the top of his lungs. He knew Morgan was standing right there, knew he'd be judging, but he didn't care. He used to do it regularly, screaming out his frustration at his mentally ill mother where she couldn't hear it and be upset by it, or have it worsen an episode of unreality for her.

He took a deep breath and let out another scream into the pillow, and it seemed to help to take that energy and expel it. When he extracted himself, breathing heavily, Morgan was looking at him with an impassive look. Reid widened his eyes in challenge, and in response Morgan raised his eyebrows and averted his gaze.

"I've got some movies on my laptop. You want to watch something?"

"No," Reid said. "We're going to go through those files and work on York's other victims."

"You think he gave enough information?" Morgan asked, immediately attentive to the task. He went over to the table and began taking files out of the box as Reid came over to join him.

"He gave away more than intended," Reid said. "We know there's four to identify. And he told me about the first time, and that changes what we're looking for."

"The pattern of escalation," Morgan muttered, and Reid nodded along. "We'd assumed he would have worked his way up slowly with the sexual torture, discovering what he likes."

They both settled into chairs by the table and spread the files out across it.

"But he found what gets him going with Mary; the cutting," Reid supplied. "The act of cutting, slicing into flesh; that's what he wanted to describe in detail, more so than the rape. The rape factored in, but it was about how his victim reacted to the cutting that enhanced the rape for him."

"But there's going to be some degree of experimentation," Morgan pointed out. "The cuts on Mary were numerous but shallow. The boy's wounds were different, much deeper."

"I know," Reid murmured. "We should eliminate those victims we're sure don't fit into his preferences."

"He likes children who are hitting puberty. So for girls, it'll be the development of breasts that attracts him."

"On average, girls with the corresponding sexual characteristics begin puberty between eleven and fifteen, but it can be much younger, or delayed much later."

"We should focus younger," Morgan said grimly. "Double digits, but young." Reid gave him an inquisitive look, wanting Morgan to elaborate on this thinking. "He's not an opportunistic offender, so he has a specific type. He has a thing for virgins, so the younger, the better. But not too young, because even if they're hitting puberty early, they're not necessarily in the same situations and social groups for him to access. Think twelve and thirteen, when kids are getting some independence. Let's go up to fourteen, too. I think the girls are going to skew younger than the boys, and they were fourteen and fifteen."

Reid nodded, and together they began to sort the files out; some were of girls who had gone missing, others of girls whose bodies had been found. Every girl fifteen and older, they put in a pile on the nearest bed, out of the way.

"He admitted to burying the other girls," Reid said. "So let's eliminate any bodies that hadn't been buried."

"What else?"

"Cuts to the breast," Reid said. "They're a focal point or him."

"They are for most sexually-motivated killers who kill women."

"I know."

"Actually," Morgan said, looking in a file, "we might be able to exclude this one; multiple stab wounds to the stomach and breasts, but no slicing cuts."

"A stab is dangerous, especially to the chest," Reid mused, taking the file to speed through it. "He's got no medical training, and the coroner concluded these happened in quick succession and were the cause of death. We should assume he tried to keep them alive for days, leading up to the MO we saw with his male victims. That's probably not him."

"Reid," Morgan said considering another file, "I think we should set aside all the cases of bodies found or girls missing from Iowa."

"Seven out of eleven of his victims were killed and disposed of in Iowa; it's significant."

"I know, he admitted as much when he said that burying the male victims together got him caught, but was worth it. Iowa is his home. It's special. Even if he killed the other four female victims at the corners of the state, I think he'd have made the effort to bury them in the same place, maybe even near to where he killed Mary."

"He just might not have been confident enough to do that yet," Reid said, needing more convincing.

"Yeah, but if we eliminate her," he said, holding up a file, "on the basis of there being no ligature marks on the body, which is unlikely because he would need to restrain his victims somehow for keeping them long-term, we're left with only three missing girls from Iowa. Assuming we're not missing a potential, it doesn't seem likely that one out of eleven victims was killed out of state, deviating from a pattern."

"Unless the pattern was started after her," he reasoned. "If she was the second victim and he went out of state, then returned to Iowa because he realised he preferred it."

They worked on it for several hours, pouring over and over the files and rerunning theories, a constant chatter of back and forth, bouncing off each other in a way they'd honed through years of working together, any current tension and animosity set aside. Eventually things began to slow, and they found themselves talking over the same points again and again, until even their discussion tapered off.

Morgan sighed, sitting back in his seat and pushing the file he'd been holding onto the table.

"White or white-passing, female, twelve to fourteen, tied up, raped, cut multiple times focusing on the breasts and torso, buried. None of the bodies we have in these files fits all the criteria. None of these are his victims for certain."

"He'll want to talk to me again," Reid said, pressing his fingers to his temples. "In a few months, maybe longer, he'll ask for me again. And I'll go through the motions again, and maybe he'll give me another name. I don't want to do that again, I don't want to sit there and listen to him detail raping and torturing children!"

"Reid, let's give this up for today. We're not going to get anywhere pouring over these files. We need names and burial sites to match so many of these missings up, we're pushing a dead end right now."

"Yeah, okay," he sighed. "We should go over those letters to Gregory Taylor."

"In the morning," Morgan insisted, beginning to gather the files up. "Let's order food, I'm starving."

Vaguely, Reid remembered that he was still angry with Morgan, incredibly so. But he thought that Morgan was being deliberately civil, not because he was pretending what had happened between them had not happened – Reid had to believe despite everything, that Morgan was a better man than that – but because he knew that facing York again was stressful, this case was stressful, and the last thing either wanted to do tonight was get into a discussion, or a fight, about whether they were even still friends at this point.

"You think we can get sushi out here?" he asked half-heartedly.

"Maybe," Morgan shrugged, looking at his phone. "I have an app, I'll check."

Reid finished packing the files into boxes as Morgan tapped away on his phone, and then tugged his tie from around his neck.

"Hey, I found a sushi place with delivery," Morgan updated him. "You wanna just get a mixed platter, or you want something in particular?"

"As long as it's got tomago, order whatever you think works," Reid waved his hand. "I'm going to get a quick shower."

It was a kind of truce, for the night, and with a roll of his tired shoulders, Reid committed himself to it. Time would tell whether Morgan would use it against him, and if he did, he knew there was nothing to salvage between them.

+o+

Reid had read through the letters from York to Gregory in just a few minutes, but Morgan had spent a much longer time on them. Hours, in fact; there were twenty two, anything from one side of a page, to three pages, writing on both sides. There was no way that York was getting them out legitimately, he was sure the content would have been flagged if they were subject to checking. In them were accounts of the boys he'd killed, in graphic, vivid detail, more so than the accounts he'd given to Reid, essentially pornographic retellings of the things he's euphemised under interrogation. There were what seemed like responses too, to questions Gregory was asking.

He'd figured that Gregory must have been writing back, and had probably initiated the contact. It wasn't that much of a surprise for a traumatised victim to develop curiosity or fascination with their abuser, but it was still unnerving.

The letter spoke at length about masculinity and gender roles, though they were a skewed vision of the concepts. The misogyny was not disguised by York's preference for boys, and the man's hatred for women and femininity was particularly vitriolic. A lot of it was almost indistinguishable from the rhetoric of organisations that advocated child abuse and paedophilic relationships, right down to the reliance on ancient Greco-Roman relationship hierarchies. Bitterly, Morgan thought James York fancied himself an Allen Ginsberg figure.

"Morgan," Reid said, getting his attention, "we should go now."

Anne Taylor was tearful as soon as they arrived at her house. It wasn't that her tears were an affront to Morgan, but his mind was on her son, and despite how hard it must be for her as a parent, it had little time to spare for her feelings.

"Mrs. Taylor, is it okay if I go talk to Gregory?"

"Sure," she sniffed, "he's upstairs in his room."

"Come up when you can," Morgan said to Reid, nodding at him. He left his colleague to talk to the boy's mother; her information might be useful, but Morgan needed to see him first.

Morgan headed upstairs and knocked on the door with a 'keep out' sign, judging that the most likely candidate for a teenage boy's bedroom. Greg answer a few seconds later, opening the door a few inches and looking at Morgan with a furrowed brow, defensive and annoyed. The large keloid scar across his face was hard not to linger on.

"Hi," Morgan said, "I'm Derek Morgan, I'm with the FBI. I'm here with my colleague, he's downstairs talking to your mom. Can we talk?"

"She told me you were coming," Gregory said, stepping away from the door to let Morgan inside his bedroom.

It was, by most accounts, a normal bedroom of a teenage boy; a bit untidy and covered with posters of bands. The only things that struck Morgan as he gave the room a once over were a couple of places on the walls that were darker than the surrounding wall, suggesting posters recently removed, and a likely new collection of pictures of nearly-naked men covering what Morgan thought by the frame was a mirror. He thought first about Owen Savage's blacked-out mirror, as his mind tried to avoid presenting the second image to him; the mirror in his own childhood bedroom, hidden under a football poster after Buford had started hurting him until he'd smashed it a few years later.

Turning to Gregory, he could see he had the look of a pudgy teenager who had recently started working out, losing fat and forming muscle, on his way to being a stocky young man. His hair was cropped short, and he held himself with a quiet defiance that Morgan recognised all too well. Everything he'd been through and everything he knew Gregory had suffered put a lens on even the most normal teenage behaviours – including having half-naked pictures and beginning to work out.

"I guess you know why I'm here, then?" Morgan asked, going for casual but not too familiar.

"My mom found my letters."

Possessive, taking ownership of them meant he cared about them.

"How often does he write?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," the kid said, flopping down into his desk chair and swivelling himself idly.

"No," Morgan agreed, "but I'm guessing ever since your mom let you stop going to therapy, you haven't talked to anyone about what happened to you."

Greg stopped swinging himself momentarily, then narrowed his eyes and huffed a laugh as he resumed. "You want to hear all about it?"

"No," Morgan said firmly.

"Of course not," Greg retorted, "there's no desk for you to sit behind to cover your hard-on."

"Is that what your therapist did?"

"He said it was normal to have a reaction to hearing me talk about what happened."

"How often did he make you recount what James York did?"

"Dunno," Greg shrugged. "More than ten times."

"Did you tell your mom?"

"No, but it wasn't hard to talk her into not making me go anymore."

"Your therapist shouldn't have done that," Morgan said carefully. "Do you understand that what he did wasn't okay for him to do, as someone who was meant to be helping you?"

"What does it matter? Real men take whatever they want, they get people to do what they want."

"Is that what York says?"

"James taught me how the world really works," Greg said. His tone wasn't aggressive, and he was sitting as if this were any other mildly awkward conversation with an unknown authority figure. Presently there was a rap of knuckles on the door, and Reid stepped in.

"York killed a lot of young boys and girls," Morgan said patiently, looking back to the boy.

"Not me," Greg insisted, eyes lingering on Reid. "I'm special."

"Yes, you are."

"He cares about me."

"No, he doesn't."

"He does!" Gregory said, jumping up from his chair and squaring his shoulders. "He loves me!"

"You don't hurt people because you love them," Morgan said gently. "You hurt people because you want to control them, or get something from them, or because you like hurting them."

"He didn't kill me," Greg said, and it was almost a plea. "I'm the only one."

"He didn't kill you, because he's getting more out of you alive," Morgan said, knowing it was harsh but hopefully not too much. "You writing to him lets him know he's having an impact in the world."

"But it doesn't matter!" Greg threw his hands up exasperatedly. "Don't you get it? He made me this way, everything I do is because of him now. Even if I killed myself, it would be because of him. He won. He won me. He has me. I'm his. I'm always going to be his."

"You're not, Gregory," Morgan said. "You're not his." He took a long breath in through his nose, considering his next words. He gestured at the boy's bed. "Can I sit down?"

"What? Yeah, whatever."

Sitting, with Reid settling to lean against the door and observe, obviously understanding not to interrupt the flow of the conversation, Morgan put his forearms on his knees.

"When I was younger than you are, I knew a man like James York."

"Yeah?"

"He liked to rape young boys. I was one of them." Focused on him like Morgan had hoped he would, Gregory sat down in his desk chair again. "They weren't exactly the same kinds of men," he explained. "He wasn't into being as rough as York was with you. But he did tell me that the things he made me do were things I was meant to do, that they were the proper way for me to show I cared about men I loved. He taught me that I should learn to like them, because it was normal and good and what I was meant to do, but only as long as I didn't tell anyone. A lot of the time, I believed him, because he cared about me, and I was special to him. The thing is, that when you're around someone, when they're a big part of your life, it's hard to look at the way they behave objectively. It's not until you get away, that you realise what happened to you wasn't okay. Be honest: have you thought about that, even just occasionally? When you're alone, thought what he did wasn't right?"

"Well, yeah."

"Even once he'd stopped hurting me, I kept thinking about everything he'd done and how to affected my life, about how it shaped everything I did. It was like there was a score being kept, and whatever I did he was still winning, because he had a hand in it. He got points along the way."

"It's like he cheated," Greg muttered, nodding, evidently the use of points echoing with his own understanding. "If I like boys, he wins because he made me that way. If I can't like boys, it's because he scared me off. If I kill myself, it's because of him. He's always going to win."

"What took me a long time to work out," Morgan went on, "what I'm still working out, is that every person I've ever known, and everything that's ever happened to me, has some effect on me. So of course what he did to me affected me. It's why I joined the FBI, why I hunt down people like him, and like York, and stop them. I know it's easy for me to say, and hard to do, but I'm hoping if you know that even if he has had an effect on you, he doesn't automatically win might help. You don't have to do what I did; you don't have to go chasing down guys like him. The simplest way to stop him from winning is to accept that what he did is a part of your life, but your life is so much more. The things you feel and do aren't any less valid because of what he did. Some people might think they are, and try to tell you they are, but they're wrong."

"I want to," Greg sniffed, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "But I'm scared he made me bad."

"Bad, how?"

"Like.. him. Like I'll want to hurt people."

"You won't, Greg."

"But I think about boys, and men, it's wrong."

"It's not," Morgan said gently. "You're fifteen. It's perfectly normal for you to think about boys around your age, and older men, in a sexual way. The idea that men who are victims of rape as children go on to become abusers themselves is a stereotype. It's only a tiny minority of abusers with a history of being abused themselves, but over-focus on that."

"I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Then you won't," Morgan smiled reassuringly. "It's okay if you feel messed up. What happened to you was horrible, and it's okay for it have an impact on you. I can't promise that what happened won't stay with you, and keep affecting you sometimes, but your life is going to be full of things that shape what you become. This is just one, and it doesn't have to make you anything you don't want to be."

Greg wiped his eyes again, and as he composed himself Morgan spared a glance over at Reid, surprised to find that instead of looking at the teenager, Reid's eyes were on him. He blinked and looked away, but it couldn't mask how intense the gaze had been.

"Do you have my letters?" Greg asked.

"Yes," Reid spoke up, gesturing the file he was holding.

"You can't give them back to me, can you?"

"Yes, we can," Morgan said.

"I don't wanna keep them," Gregory said, and he began shuffling around things on his desk until he produced a lighter.

"Do you have a shredder?" Reid suggested, understanding that the boy wanted to destroy the letters from York.

"No," Morgan shook his head, smiling at Greg. "It should be by fire. Not in your room, though."

Not long later, Morgan and Gregory Taylor stood in the backyard of the house around an empty metal trashcan, Anne Taylor looking on nervously from the kitchen window, Reid watching from the back door.

"They might not burn as well as things do in the movies," Morgan advised. Greg looked up from the top letter of the stack he was holding, and nodded, thin-lipped and wide-eyed, nodding his understanding. "Whenever you're ready."

There were over thirty sheets of papers, and the first couple didn't burn very well. After about the fifth page, the fire got good, to the point where Gregory could drop each page into the flame, watching the paper burn and crinkle, adding the next one before the flame got too low. Morgan could visibly see the weight lifting from the boy's shoulders as he consigned the letters to the flames. He knew it was going to be a long road, and it might not even be something he could ever get over, but the visit had gone better than Morgan feared it would.

"You should let the fire die, let the trashcan cool and then clean it out with the hose, okay?" Morgan said, a few minutes after Gregory had put the last page into the fire. He nodded, not looking away from the fire.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Here," he handed Greg a paper card from his wallet, "call me if you need help, or need to talk, okay?"

"Sure."

Greg headed back towards the house and Morgan followed as far as the door, stopping beside Reid. Inside, Greg allowed his mother to hug him, still tearful, and talk hushly.

"She's been thinking of putting him in reparative therapy," Reid said lowly, stepping away from the back door, "on the advice of her pastor."

Morgan seethed with white-hot rage for a brief second, and the look must have played out across his face, because Reid gave him a warning look. Morgan raised his eyebrows in challenge, then looked back to the kitchen where Greg had left the room.

"He went up to his room," Anna said as they entered. "Thank you for speaking with him."

"Speaking to him is only half the battle," Morgan said matter of factly, voice surprisingly calm for the teasing anger he could still feel. "What was the name of Gregory's therapist?"

"Look, he did his therapy, and I think it really helped, but he doesn't need that kind of help anymore."

"Will you please get me the name and contact information of Gregory's therapist?" Morgan said, more insistently.

Anne Taylor buckled and nodded, then scurried off to find it. Reid looked questioningly at him.

"We're going to make sure this therapist is struck off, and hopefully thrown in jail," he muttered. "He's a predator."

Reid gave a nod, obviously understanding something like what Greg had told him, as Mrs. Taylor came back.

"Here you go."

"Mrs. Taylor, I'm going to give you a number," Morgan said, taking out another business card and writing a phone number and name on the back of it. "If you speak to a woman named Sandra, explain in brief your situation, she will work with you to find a suitable therapist to work with Gregory who is also covered by your insurance. You understand?"

"I understand," she said, taking the card, "but I was going to get him therapy through the church..."

"Your church is flat-out wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"Putting him into therapy to 'cure' him will unequivocally harm him. He will be told to hate himself for something he can't help, and something horrible that happened to him will be blamed for 'making' him that way. Gregory does not like boys because of what happened to him; he is a young kid in the middle of exploring his orientation when something awful happened to him. James York did not turn him gay or bisexual; in fact, James York emphatically does not identify as gay or bisexual. Rapist's motivations are primarily power and opportunity, not orientation. Your son suffered multiple rapes and extended torture, he needs therapy to rebuild his self-esteem and to help him to be able to build healthy relationships."

"He can do that at church," she said meekly.

"Yes, he can," Morgan said. "But not any church that advocates or even tolerates therapy to cure gay people of being gay. These kinds of therapies are being challenged in the courts to make them illegal, they are that harmful. If he's going to be part of a church community, it should be one that accepts who he is. You need to fight for that. If you don't, you're going to hurt him."

"I just want him to get better," she cried.

"Better shouldn't mean 'straight'," Morgan said as forcefully as he dared. "Better should mean healthy, happy, and dealing adequately with the trauma he suffered. Anne, are you going to be able to do the right thing to support your son?"

"Yes!" she gasped. "Yes, yes. I will, of course I will. I just want him to be okay."

Morgan hoped he'd gotten through to her – if Gregory didn't have her fighting in his corner, this recovery was going to be even harder than it needed to be.

+o+

"A shredder's too practical," Morgan said suddenly into the quiet that had come over the hotel room. He was sitting on his bed, stretching one arm across his chest and then the other.

Reid looked up from his book, and immediately knew he was referencing the events at the Taylor house hours earlier. Morgan had been quiet most of the day since, had his headphones on as he worked on his laptop, only breaking for food. He hadn't tried to engage him, knowing the day had been very draining. He felt somewhat guilty that he'd been so wrapped up in how York had focused on him that he didn't think about how much Morgan related to and was impacted by the case.

"It's probably more efficient in destroying something, especially if it's diamond cut and pulped," Morgan went on, "but it's not about efficiency. Fire's symbolic, right? Cleansing, destroying something by burning it to ashes. It helps more than putting it through a shredder."

"It was good that you understood that," Reid said, wondered what Morgan had burned, how he knew so clearly it was a necessary step. "I think it helped him."

"I hope so."

Reid watched as Morgan stretched for a few more minutes, realised the man hadn't met his eyes during this conversation.

"I'm sorry," Morgan said into the lull. Reid didn't say anything. "I know it's probably not something you want to hear now. I know I left it too long, but I was... a coward. I didn't know how to make everything I did, how I treated you, how to make it all better." He swapped arms, stretching it out across his chest, and still didn't look at Reid. "I know I can't. But I am sorry that I messed you around because I wasn't in a good headspace. Don't know how long I haven't been."

He looked across finally as he dropped his arm, rolling his shoulders and meeting Reid's gaze.

"Everything that Gregory Taylor said about York turning him into who he is, that's something I've lived with for my whole life. And I was okay, really, until you. I'm not saying it's your fault-" he said quickly. "But wanting to be with you, I mean, wanting to be sexual with you was confusing. Because I believe what I told Gregory, and I know logically that what happened to me didn't cause those feelings. But when you've lived with it, it's hard to shake, no matter how illogical it is. You probably don't want to hear that."

"That you thought your sexual attraction to me was because you were sexually abused?" he asked before he could stop himself, sharper than he knew he should, but the thought hurt. "No."

"Have you ever been raped, Reid?" Morgan asked in return, voice matter of fact but clearly countering his own sharp tone. "Molested?"

"No," he said honestly.

"Then you'll never get it. And that's good, that you'll never have to understand. I'm sorry that it makes you feel bad. I know it's stupid, and ridiculous, and almost certainly untrue. But I can never really know. I honestly don't remember whether I liked guys before Buford started hurting me. Some days, I know for sure I was. Other days, I'm sure I wasn't. Usually I just don't know. It's not your fault, and I'm sorry I got you all caught up in my personal bullshit."

"That doesn't excuse how you treated me."

"I know," Morgan nodded. "That's all on me. That was me being a bad person. I was a crappy friend. I still am. You don't have to tell me it's okay or that you forgive me. I just want you to know that I'm sorry, and I'm trying to sort my issues, and if it's even remotely possible, I want us to be friends."

"Morgan-" he started, then sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers, leaning his elbows on the tables. "Not being friends like we were before these last few weeks has been horrible. So I want to be friends again, but that doesn't mean I forgive you, or that I've forgotten."

"That's okay. I can live with that."

"Are you really okay, Morgan?" he asked, finally allowing the worry to play out, overriding his anger. "You're 'sorting your issues'? What does that mean?"

"Honestly? Not really sure yet," he said. "Admitting what was going on was a pretty big one. I tried to ignore it, to pretend what I was doing was just... I don't know. I wasn't facing it. I was acting out and I used you, hurt you in trying to distance myself from my own issues. I'm sorry."

"Please don't keep apologising," Reid said. "You've said you're sorry, you don't need to keep establishing what you did for accountability. I believe you. I believe you're sincere."

Morgan exhaled through his nose, nodding a little. Reid felt relieved too, that finally they'd acknowledged the tension that had been lingering between them since their last encounter.

"I'm gonna hit the hay soon," Morgan said, as he got his toothbrush out of his go-bag. "It's been a hell of a trip."

"I know what you mean," Reid agreed, watching Morgan as he headed for the bathroom.

"I am a part of all that I have met." - Alfred Lord Tennyson