The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

-Sylvia Plath

When it comes, it comes from a place as far away as health, from the other side of death.

Spencer leaned into his cane, licking his lips, and wondered if the other man would undo the chain, the last barrier between himself and the world outside.

"You didn't have to come." Aaron's voice was low, controlled, his gaze unwavering. Yes, Hotch, at work, but Spencer never thought of him that way otherwise.

He remembered what he had said to Garcia, a little over a month after Foyet had dragged the other's unconscious bleeding broken body to the hospital, like a cat depositing a mouse, pleased with its kill. Spencer blinked, and tried to make the corners of his mouth quirk up.

There was nothing to smile about.

"No," he agreed. He licked his lips. "I brought something for Jack."

"Reid—"

"Art supplies." He held up the paper bag with the hand not grasping his cane.

Jack was thrilled, he had brought purple glitter, and together they sat on the floor by the coffee table. They drew clouds and angels with shimmering wings, and short brunette hair. Spencer did a magic trick, something simple, pulling quarters out of Jack's ears, and the little boy gasped.

"Show me!" Aaron was leaning against the back of the sofa, his face tender as he watched his son.

"It's time for dinner, buddy, why don't you come help me make some mac n' cheese?"

Spencer tilted his head at Aaron, considering. "And a magician never reveals his secrets."

"I wanna be a magician! I won't tell, I promise. Daddy, you can go cook for me an' Spencer so you don't see Spencer's magic."

So while the shadows lengthened, Aaron worked in the kitchen while Spencer tried to show a four year old a magic trick that required longer fingers. "It's okay, Jack. You just have to get a little bigger before this one will work," he explained, trying to quell his panic at the quivering lip. "Tell you what, the next time I see you, we'll make a rocket and launch it up really high. You don't have to be big for that."

Jack sniffed, golden curls falling above eyes as dark as his father's. "How do you make a rocket?"

"Very simple, you just need Mentos and Diet Coke."

"You want to teach him to blow things up?" Aaron appeared in the doorway, with a bowl in each hand and one balanced between his arm and his side. He set the bowls on the table while Jack raced to the kitchen yelling about forks.

Rolling his eyes, Spencer gripped the arm of the couch and the coffee table and began levering himself up, keeping his bad leg straight in front of him. "It's not exactly the homicidal triad."

Then there were arms under his shoulders, helping him rise, and Spencer caught his breath. "I'm fine." The moment he was standing he shifted his balance and snatched the cane from where it rested against the couch. He kept his eyes lowered and hoped the older man didn't notice that his cheeks felt too warm, that his breathing was faster.

He's a profiler, genius, if you didn't want him to know, then you shouldn't have come.

Spencer looked up at Aaron, uncertain, but that expression gave nothing away. "I, ah—I should go."

"But Spencer, Daddy made us mac n' cheese!"

So he stayed, and Jack gave him a small green fork with a handle shaped like a hippopotamus.

It was only after Jack was bathed and read to and finally asleep, not without many complaints, that Spencer pulled on his jacket and limped to the door, purple scarf in hand.

Aaron was by him at the door, closer than he would usually stand, and took the scarf from unresisting fingers. "Thank you. That's—the first time since—he hasn't smiled a lot, lately." And the older man draped the scarf around his neck.

His fingers stopped, resting against Spencer's collar bones. He felt his cheeks warm again, cursed himself, looked at the other man and saw acknowledgement there.

"Hotch, I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"

But then lips were pressed against his, soft, warm, chaste. His heart began to pound, he felt his pulse fluttering in his throat like a trapped thing. Aaron drew back and regarded him, something dark and vulnerable in his eyes that Spencer had hoped but never expected to see.

"Breathe," the low voice ordered.

And those flashes he had told himself he imagined, had tried to push from his mind when he heard his own voice betray anguish asking if Aaron's divorce was not what he wanted, so many years ago—they were there, they were real, even on this side of death.

He realized his was pressing his fingertips to his lips, and his eyes had widened, and he was staring at Aaron.

He wanted to push forward, let his tongue flick over the other's lip seeking entrance, seeking that delicious thrill that sent spikes of fire from his chest to his groin. But Aaron had just buried his wife, and he had loved her, no matter what else he might feel.

There were so many things he wanted to say, statistics tumbling through his mind, and none of them were right. He looked into the other man's eyes and hoped his eyes at least could say the right thing.

"There will be repercussions at work." Aaron's voice was reluctant.

"They don't have to know."

"They're profilers, Spencer, they'll figure it out."

"They've never said anything about my movies."

The two men fell silent, not looking at each other, worried, wanting.

And then Spencer pushed himself forward, caught the other man's mouth with his, feeling desperately that if he didn't this would never be within his reach again. We've both been tortured, we've both killed our torturers, we're the only two people in this place and I'm so tired of being alone— And Aaron met his bruising force, gripping his arms, Aaron's tongue running lightly over his lower lip, and Spencer allowed him entrance, their tongues slipping beside each other, and the kiss changed, a dance, delicate, and Aaron moaned when Spencer sucked lightly, drawing his tongue in farther.

Aaron yanked him closer, a quick jerk, with his hands at the small of Spencer's back. He arched his neck and groaned, cane falling as his hands flew up to Aaron's shoulders, to catch himself, to save himself. Lips were trailing down his neck like fire, biting, pulling, wonderful.

He raised his hands to Aaron's jaw, trying to pull him up, reciprocate, when hands gripped his wrists, holding them in one hand while the other gripped the spot between his shoulder and neck and slammed him back and up against the door-

And Aaron's body was flush against his, Aaron's erection pressing against his hip, and Spencer felt his eyelids flutter as he drowned in sensation and desire.

He cried out when a hand dropped to the front of his pants, pressing, and lips covered his to swallow the sound. "Hush, you'll wake Jack."

"A-Aaron—oh god—wait-" But he couldn't help thrusting his hips into the other man's hand and he bit his lip to keep himself from crying out again. "Please-" This was fast, too fast, this was perfect, his mind was whited out, what was he pleading for?

The touch changed, holding him up, letting him drop his forehead against Aaron's shoulder and pant.

"It's been awhile. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His panting was slowing and he raised his eyes to Aaron's, lifting one of his hands to his lips to feel them swollen and hot. His hand was shaking and the what light there was seemed terribly bright. He smiled. He grinned. "That was—nice."

"Nice?" Aaron's eyebrows lifted and a faint smile.

Spencer flushed. "Um."

"We have work tomorrow."

"Yeah," he sighed, quivery.

Aaron dropped and picked up his cane. "Can you drive?"

"I'm not helpless, Aaron."

The other man gestured, taking in his still fast breaths and dilated pupils.

"Hah." His voice was only a little shaky. "Friday? If we don't have a case."

Dark eyes stared back into his own. "It's a date."

Another kiss, soft this time, just a brush of lips, and it comes from a place of hope.

And as Spencer slipped out of the apartment, limping worse than before because somewhere in there he had pulled his knee, he felt his lips curve higher. There was something real here, even on the other side of death. He had found it, and he would fight with everything he had—which was considerable—to keep it.