(Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds or its characters)

This is totally out of the blue. I was bored. This happened. Also, I just had a totally irresponsible thought telling me to start these stories I've had stored for so long... I'm not sure how I'm gonna update consistently so I'm sorry but I was really excited.

Please review, tell me what you think, should I continue writing? It really helps motivate me into writing more.

Thank you.

May 8th, 1986

"Daddy! Catch me! Caaaaatch meeeee!"

David Rossi set his newspaper down, revealing a broad grin he'd been wearing behind it.

He had the day off while his wife worked on her promotion. He felt a little guilty for leaving Jason with the dull agents they worked with, who needed approval for everything, even if that thing was taking a lunch break. He and Jason tried to time their days off together so they wouldn't suffer alone but Dave's son became his biggest priority, so he waved au revoir to their weekly golf meetups and hello to jungle gym and swimming tots.

They still had that game of golf but Dave's wife and son would play their own games off to one side and Jason would help. Spencer always got the chance to hit his ball into the main hole once the adult game was over.

So when Dave looked up and saw his son racing into the living room he couldn't help but smile and wonder how he loved this life he'd been so reluctant of.

"You can't catch me!"

He heard his son call and he smirked, pushing back from the table, the chair legs scratching the tile as his hands came down on the armrests, preparing to lift off when his son gave him some typical Rossi cheek. He expected no less.

"Why won't I catch you?" Dave called back, listening out as his son panted and rolled over the couch, something Rossi knew the sound of and something Spencer had been told not to do after falling on his elbow. The trip to the hospital and wearing a sling didn't seem to deter the kid.

Dave paused, waiting for the kid to roll back off the couch and catch his breath. After a moment the inevitable cheek came into being.

"Because you're an old fart!"

Dave pushed off the arms and hopped out of his seat, laughing as snuffed giggles reverberated from the living room.

"Oh, you're gonna regret that, bambino!"

And Dave was off, he burst through the living room doors and found his target. His son was stood beside the other door, and he squealed when Dave made his explosive entrance, nearly planting his nose into the door as he darted down the hall, screaming all the way.

Oh, you're going to get it, Dave thought wickedly as he went back into the kitchen and shot off toward the hall. He nearly intercepted Spencer on his way to the dining room and the boy made a quick U-turn, shooting off up the stairs. His skinny legs bashed the steps, his hands and knees joining the game in a desperate attempt to flee.

But despite the kid's claim, Dave was much faster and he snagged the boy around his waist and threw him back into his arms. Spencer screamed and laughed as Dave trapped him.

He kept laughing as Dave started his false threats. "What did you call me, brat? I don't think 'old farts' would be able to keep up with you, but I can."

"Ahhh! No, daddy! J-joke! Hah- I didn't mean it!" Spencer said through a fit of giggles as Dave carried him to the living room and threw him down on the couch. He began a tickle assault that had Spencer kicking and writhing and his laughter reaching new levels of loud.

"Call me old! You know what 'old fart's' like me eat? Huh? We eat little boys called Spencer!" he said, grabbing Spencer's arm and (with his lips pressed to his teeth) and started to bite the little arm. He licked his lips as he went in for another 'bite' and Spencer giggled and yanked his arm away.

"Ew! Daddy! That's gross! Your tongue's covered in germs!" the boy insisted, wiping his arm on the couch.

Rossi shrugged. "I bet your arm has plenty of germs too."

"No more tickling," Spencer said, putting on his serious face that Rossi could link only to Erin, that cute little glare had his mother written all over it.

Dave conceded and let Spencer sit up, still recovering from his giggles. He sucked in a breath and let out one last laugh before just beaming at his father.

"Are you done being a brat?" Dave asked and back came that frown.

"I'm not a brat daddy... and you're not an old fart... so I'm not a brat, right?"

"Oh, I'm glad to hear that. Course you're not, bambino, you're mummy's angel remember?"

Dave chuckled as Spencer nodded solemnly.

"Yes. What am I to daddy?"

"You're my ragazzino intelligente''

Spencer hopped up on the couch, bouncing his feet into the cushions (we won't mention that to Erin, Dave thought.)

"I know that, daddy! I know I know!"

Dave smiled. Erin had always taken the time and patience with Dave's first language and when Spencer was born she insisted they brought him up as bilingual. It had worked some but Spencer was still learning both and his English was always stronger.

"Go on then, tell me."

"I'm your clever little boy!" Spencer said proudly but then a frown marred his happy expression. "But daddy, I'm a big boy. I'm not little anymore."

"You are."

"No! I've grown to ninety centimetres. I'm not that small," Spencer said indignantly, putting his hands on his hips as he balanced on the cushions. Rossi laughed and pulled the boy down into his arms. God, the kid was like Erin... like David himself too.

"You'll always be my little boy, no matter how tall you get. Even if you get to... seven foot!"

Spencer was giggling again. "That's too tall, daddy!"

"Really?"

"The tallest man ever is seven foot. I don't want to be that tall!"

Dave was about to reply when he heard a car pull in. He grabbed Spencer and whispered, "We better get off your mother's favourite couch."

He swung the boy down onto his feet and followed his clumsy footsteps to the front door just as Erin walked in.

"Mummy!" Spencer cried, leaping up at his mother. She barely caught him but once she had her hands under his arms she heaved him up.

"Oooof, hello angel, I forgot how big you've gotten," she said as she laid a kiss to rest on his cheek and he blushed.

Spencer turned to his father as he subtly wiped his cheek and he smirked.

"See, Daddy! I am a big boy!"

"Right you are," Dave said as he leaned in and kissed his wife. Spencer thrust his head back and his tongue poked between his teeth.

"Gross! Germs!"

"What did you say about kissing exchanging fewer germs than shaking someone's hand?" asked Erin and Spencer shrugged.

"Still gross."

With that, Dave pulled Spencer out of Erin's arms and said, "run." He set him down before chasing after him.

And that was how most of David Rossi's days looked. A smiley breakfast and a story and kiss at bedtime. Dave thought perfection was in the money he craved but after every day he looked into the eyes of his wife and his little boy and wondered if he'd already achieved it.

It was perfect. Dave realised that after. They'd been perfect.

That perfection had lasted another week until May 17th, 1986. For three weeks they stayed up and crossed their fingers before bed, waking up with them stiff. After those three weeks a new living hell opened up for the Rossi's.

May 22nd, 1986

Aaron Hotchner hated his dad. Sometimes he believed it was just a teenage phase that his fifteen-year-old self decided to explore but the hatred had blossomed over years.

So when his dad went to the bar again leaving Aaron with Sean and his mother, the teen stepped out to get some air, grateful he hadn't yelled at his father in front of his mother and brother.

Air wasn't enough, and Aaron decided to take a walk.

He was almost past Mrs. Forester's house when he heard the rev of an engine in a small clearing on the other side of the road.

Aaron frowned to himself as he gazed into the thickets of dead weeds and bushes. If a car was stuck up there they were probably going to struggle to get back out.

Aaron glanced both sides of the road before crossing over and striding toward the clearing. He knew a thing or two about cars, his dad pushed it on him and a career in the blasted things was bright in his future.

He got to the clearing and just as he had thought there was a car sat there. It was a bland crimson, a bumper sticker peeling and cracking on the back just beneath a circular dent.

He saw a shape in the front seat so Aaron walked around slowly, his hands still in his pockets, establishing the moody teenager stereotype to a T.

He got to the window and found a pale, gaunt-looking man in the driver's seat. His fingers were long, like a pianist and they held the wheel tightly. The man's sunken face turned to Aaron and he smiled. Aaron felt a chill on his spine and he pulled his hoodie against him.

"Hello."

The man had rolled down his window and he gave Aaron a grey toothed smile.

"Um... hi. Are you stuck?" Aaron asked slowly, still wary of the situation. The man smiled again and pushed open the door with a creaking groan.

"No... but I do need a hand. Come."

The man walked to the trunk. Aaron glanced over his shoulder but decided to follow.

"What is it? I'm a bit handy, but... I'm not that experienced," Aaron confessed as the man wrenched open the trunk.

"The spare wheel," the guy said, pointing down at the trunks flooring. "I can't get the blighter out. Gimme a hand?"

Aaron looked into the trunk and then back at the road. He didn't want to go home yet. Maybe a good deed would cure his mood.

Oh, what the hell, he thought and he leaned into the trunk. Just as he was hitching the material off the floor he was suddenly pushed from behind. Aaron tried to catch himself and he landed awkwardly in the trunk.

"Ah!" he cried out at the sudden action. He screamed louder when his legs were stuffed inside too and just as he turned to see daylight he saw the man's gleaming smirk. Then the lid was slammed shut.

Aaron didn't stop panicking as the car jolted with movement. He had two panic attacks before the car finally stopped. A blindfold was wrenched over his eyes as soon as the trunk was opened and he saw nothing as he was led by a firm hand.

He pleaded desperately, not caring how he may sound. He was sure his father would call him a wimp.

When the blindfold was torn away Aaron blinked ahead of him. The room he was in was dark, the only light coming from the door they'd decended the stairs from. He glanced up with narrowed eyes at his captor before he was pushed so suddenly that he flailed and toppled over.

Aaron landed painfully on his side and he groaned, his hands biting into the dust and stone littered on the floor.

He squinted into the darkness as he sat up and rubbed the sweat from his brow. He caught sight of the door shutting above and he huffed.

"The hell was that?" he grumbled, his voice raw from screaming. He heaved himself to his feet and rubbing the spot on his elbow that had connected with the floor. As his eyes settled with the blackness he made out movement.

He stepped back, his shoulders thumping into a wall.

"Hello?"

"It's a new one," someone whispered and Aaron swallowed quickly.

"Where am I?"

There was quiet muttering until out of the shadows a little face came into view.

Aaron frowned. The boy couldn't be very old, three maybe. He was dirty, his clothes covered in gunk, mud perhaps, some spots looked like blood but it was too dark to tell.

Aaron felt less afraid when the kid smiled. He pushed himself off the wall, turning toward the door again. There was a sheen of light peeking under it and Aaron inhaled sharply when a shadow passed by. He moved away from the door and toward the boy. He knelt slowly, his eyes hooked on the child.

"Hi," the child whispered.

"Hi... where are we?" Aaron asked in a whisper and the small boy shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm not sure. I counted it being thirty-two minutes eighteen seconds from the parking lot they took me from... b-but I don't know which direction. I counted some lefts..."

The boy shrugged and Aaron had to shake his head to rid himself of bewilderment. Maybe this three-year-old wasn't three, but a thirty-five-year-old in a child's skin.

If kidnap was truly possible and Aaron had never imagined himself being a victim of it, maybe time travel was too.

Aaron felt his blood grow cold in his veins, a pulsing panic thrumming in his chest. His throat felt tight and constricted and he was almost sure he'd be sick. He'd been kidnapped; this was happening. It was real. The impossible could happen. To him these things only happened to the people in the papers: they happened to people in the writing on the pages, on the front pages of the newspapers, while Aaron and his ordinary life hung off the words in the safety of the white space. It looked like he was going to be front-liner after all. 'Fourteen-year-old boy kidnapped by a weirdo with car trouble.' Aaron swallowed as worse titles came to mind. 'Young boy with mechanic aspirations killed by maniac.' Why had his dad forced him into car repairs? He was going to die with stupid, unachieved life goals. 'Fourteen-year-old's remains found in creepy guy's basement.' Aaron shuddered at the thought

He slid down the wall and sat there looking at the boy as the cold truth sank in and he finally found his words again.

"Okay... um... I-I'm Aaron...Hotchner."

The boy nodded and turned his head towards the door Aaron had come through. Without looking back he said "I'm Spencer. Spencer Rossi."