Author's Note: This is hardly the first thing that I've ever written, but it is my first fanfiction before. I thought I'd dedicate it to a moment that has always held me captive to curiosity - what exactly did Gideon's letter to Spencer say when he left? I mean, how do you explain to someone that looks up to you that you're giving up on life, on everything? . . . Anyways, this is what I'v convinced myself happened. Most of this is accurate to the episode in which it was partially shown (Season 3, Episode 2, "Love In Birth And Death"): every quote of the letter that Jason Gideon narrated is included, as well as about an additional 1,000 words I put in myself, and how Spencer discovers the letter (driving to the cabin, entering, turning on the lights) is mostly accurate to how the story (I threw in a few things to mix it up) dictated.

I hope you guys like this - I wrote it for anyone else who has ever wanted to know, too. I hope it's good, and right, by you all.

I'd love to hear any input you guys have - I want to write more, but only if you guys want me to.

Warnings: Spoilers for the following episodes can be found throughout the following tale: "Profiler, Profiled," "Revelations," "Lessons Learned," "Jones," "L.D.S.K," "Love In Birth And Death," and "The Boogeyman."

Disclaimer: I have no intention of making any money off of the demented spawnings that are churning stories in my head. I also do not own the CBS drama series "Criminal Minds" (although I have all of the seasons on DVD, and indulge in them frequently) or SSA Dr. Spencer Reid (not to say that I DON'T have a giant sticker of him on my wall that I bought on Amazon several years ago . . . )

Enjoy.

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A perfect example of contrasting elements, the cabin that was registered to belong to one Special Agent Jason Gideon was dark, quiet, and utterly lifeless in its understatedness. The woods surrounding the modest structure, however, were alive and fraught with the sounds of twigs snapping, owls calling out their simple inquiries, and the wind whistling through the bare, budding tree branches that reached out to the sky as if in question, scraping against one another in a futile attempt to grow taller and mightier than they already were.

None of this seemed out of the norm, of course. It was often such an evening that could be seen when the cabin's sole occupant was residing somewhere else, and it was the dead of night, after all.

But what made this evening different from the thousands of other too-similar ones that had already come to pass was signified with (and started by) a small, red light flashing on and off, one and off, on and off, from seven feet up in one of those eerie trees.

The flashing was soon accompanied by a rapid succession of beeps, filtering and corresponding with the little light, soon so that every time a dot of red alit the darkened forest, a quiet bell sound bounced and echoed between the mossy trunks, getting unnoticeably louder until it reached a very worn, overgrown, well-traveled road.

And it was here, perhaps, that the biggest disruption and variation of the norm could be found on this balmy evening, as a twin set of lights suddenly appeared on the distance, and gradually grew larger and larger and larger, until they overtook the minute light offered by the moon, and the mysterious red dot (that the driver did not see) and the sound of a roaring engine that quickly drowned out that of the repeated dings (which the driver did not hear). Within seconds, the mid-sized turquois Volvo had sped (relatively, of course – the driver was cruising the speed limit, after all) past all of the glory that Mother Nature had grown to surround the small, sheltered cabin, and slowly pulling into the graveled driveway next to the aforementioned structure.

The engine of the car was silenced, the lights dimmed slightly (although they remained on), and the driver's side door of the car was opened. Slowly, the vehicle's conductor, the man who had driven the no faster than the law permitted and kept his eyes on the road the whole time, unfolded himself from the front seat, and stepped out of the car.

He was an extremely tall man – made to appear taller by how skinny he was. His back was bowed slightly (presumably from the faint chill offered by the fog that settles amid the forest floor on the cusp of midnight), and, while both arms were crossed slightly, the man was breathing steadily, and kept his eyes trained on the small structure before him – which had not shown the slightest sign of life since he had stepped out of the car.

The man's name was Spencer Reid. Much like the listed owner of the cabin, Spencer was a Special Agent who worked in Quantico, Virginia, with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. Much like Jason Gideon, Spencer drank an abundance of coffee (perhaps explaining how alert he was able to remain after a three-day work trip, two hour drive, and knowing that, at this point, it was much closer to morning than evening) every day. And also much like the other Special Agent, Dr. Reid had seen some terrible, tragic things throughout the course of his years on the job (although he had been alive and working for significantly fewer years than Gideon had).

Unlike Jason Gideon, however, Spencer Reid had shown up at work for the past few days. Unlike Gideon, Reid had helped to solve this one more case, and save this one more life. Unlike Gideon, Reid was greatly concerned about the closest member of his pseudo-family, the BAU, and the fact that he had been MIA for nearly 72 hours, now.

And that's why Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid was here, by himself, at three in the morning, chilly and alone, on a property that wasn't his, and was one that he'd seldom been on before.

Gideon, that man he viewed as a sort of surrogate father, had been missing for too long, now. And Reid had to find out what had happened to him.

Slowly, Spencer made his way towards the door.

"Gideon?" He called out tentatively, before knocking on the door several times. No response was heard, except for a slight creaking sound, as the door that Spencer had just ambushed swung wide open.

"Gideon . . ?" Spencer asked slightly quieter, a whimpering note finding its way into his voice.

Something's wrong, something's so, so wrong. Gideon's too careful, he would never leave his door open like that, not after Frank, not after Sarach . . .

Unconsciously, Spencer's hand floated down to his side, where it twitched near the handle of the '64 Smith & Wesson he kept strapped there at all times (even more so since Tobias Hankel), and his pianists' fingers graced the wooden handle.

Spencer caught what he was doing, and forced himself to calm down, taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes for a second. You have no proof that anything happened, and it's late and you're tired and seemingly alone. Don't do anything stupid, Spencer . . . The voice in his head taunted him. Reid squinted his eyes shut, shook his head rapidly and quickly, and stepped inside.

It was dark. Not dark like people see in the movies, or dark like the night sky – it was actual, solid pitch black in the cabin, and Reid couldn't see a thing. His hands fumbled around in his pocket for a few moments, growing more frantic as he tried to find what he was looking for. Spencer had never liked the darkness – it was, perhaps, the only thing in the world that truly scared him (not that he would ever admit that – Derek already teased him about being too tall, too skinny, too "pretty," . . . well, for everything, actually, Spencer mused).

His oft-acclaimed beautiful mind was working at full speed again, and Reid almost didn't notice that his hand had curled upon a round, firm object in the side pocket of his cardigan – the thing that he had been looking for. A flashlight. Eager to be away from the surrounding blackness, Spencer clicked on the light, and looked throughout the cabin.

It was a very small structure, something Gideon said had appealed to him when he bought it – 'I don't need room for anyone besides me and maybe the occasional weekend with friends.' He had said, squeezing Spencer's shoulder comfortingly at the time – and no one besides Aaron Hotchner, Sarah, and Reid had ever seen it besides that owner himself – at least, no one else that Spencer knew of.

But, for such a small space, Spencer had remembered, it certainly made the most of every square foot. Bookcases (which Gideon had kept stuffed with classic literature, bird-watching guides, music tapes from the sixties and earlier, and so, so many pictures from work) covered each of the walls in the entryway from floor to ceiling. Spencer so admired those bookcases – they had even inspired him to build some of his own, which he had, of course, filled only with books.

The cases had always greatly cheered Spencer when he had been extended the invitation to visit Gideon. But now, as he swept his gaze (aided by the small flashlight he clutched tightly in his arms) at the walls where they stood, he saw something that startled him verily – they were empty. Completely bare – but still wiped free of dust, as if the occupant had had to leave and didn't want to leave behind the slightest mess for the next resident.

Reid shook his head free of the thought, and tried to think like Agent Morgan would have: C'mon, man, don't do that to yourself. Just get around, and figure out what's going on. Reid nodded to no one in particular, and continued his survey of the cabin.

The kitchenette looked fine – that is to say, it, too, was empty and spotless, shining and sparkling eerily as Spencer swung the light around it. He went to open a few cabinets, and was unsurprised (although still a little taken-aback) to find that all of the dishes were gone. As was the food. Even the camera system that Gideon had been so proud of, the one that had recorded Spencer earlier, was immaculate, and Spencer found himself staring at four pictures on a small television recording machine that resided in the corner upper cabinet. One was that of the road that he had just driven down to get here; one was of the outside of the cabin, where he could see a crow had landed on the driver's side mirror on his car (Reid, unlike Gideon, did not care for birds much at all); but it was the last two images on the bottom of the screen that really caught Spencer's attention. They were both colorless, grainy, and somewhat dark, but he could still make them out; the first one showed, . . . well, it showed him.

Not his face, of course, but Reid still knew that it was his own image on the screen – it showed the back of a very tall men, sunken into the large cardigan sweater that he was wearing, with a flashlight in front of him – the beam from said light was bouncing off of a screen in front of the young man, and causing a bit of a glare in the image. Spencer moved his hand, and the matching figure onscreen moved his own. In a rare (very rare) moment of children's antics, Reid angled his body slightly to where he thought that the camera might be, and waved his fingers, grinning faintly. The figure on the small TV set waved back at him. Reid's smile turned to a grimace as he then turned back to face the screen, and set his focus on the last, most quiet of the images.

This one was the only one that had not moved since Reid began studying the little television. It was of another room in the cabin (the living room, Reid was quite sure, as the only other rooms in the cabin were the bedrooms and bathrooms – and he saw neither a twinset nor a toilet anywhere on the images), and although the arc of the camera was wide, he could only see two things clearly on the image – a card table, and a chair.

But there was something on the table – several somethings, as a matter of fact. But as much as Spencer focused and squinted his eyes, he couldn't make out more than a few black and white smears, all arranged evenly and symmetrically on the table.

Reid knew that he had to get to that table.

At last dropping his gaze from the glow of the security monitor, Spencer again scanned his light around the small kitchen, which bled seamlessly into the sitting area. Immediately, Spencer's eyes alighted upon a small, square table pushed into the corner, with a little wooden chair shoved roughly beside it. As Reid made his way over to it, his legs brushed up against another, unforeseen object – a little end table with a lamp resting on top, plugged into the wall.

Reid was mildly startled at the sight of it, but grateful for the additional wattage. He flicked on the light and felt his heart rate lower immediately as the room was bathed in the warm glow that only an old fluorescent could provide. Able to see clearly now, he cautiously made his way to the table to examine what his mentor had left behind.

The sight of something left for you by a person you care about a great deal should be a comforting and enjoyable feeling. But Spencer Reid felt his blood run cold as he took in the three things the resided on the old gambling top. A gun. A badge.

And an envelope.

The gun, Reid knew instantly, was Gideon's own. A long time ago, when he had first head-hunted Spencer to join the BAU, the man had allowed Reid to hold his gun for a moment. Gideon, from the way he handed it over, obviously cared fro his firearm a great deal, and Reid commented on that as he gingerly fingered the older model.

'It was a gift from my good friend Sarah,' Gideon had remarked as he watched Spencer twirl the pistol in his long, pale fingers. 'She bought it for me the day I joined the Bureau. Check the bottom.'

'Check the bottom . . .' Reid could almost hear echoing as he delicately picked up the gun for the second time in his life. And, surely enough, there was a carving of a mockingbird on the bottom – glaring at him with one hollow eye, just as it had almost six years ago. Reid shuddered slightly – he really didn't like birds, despite all of Jason's attempts to persuade him otherwise – and he remembered commenting how expensive the etching must have been to make in a pistol this old.

Gideon looked up, tumbled out of his reverie by Spencer's remark, and looked at the young man in his too-big sweater and slicked-back hair that stood before him. 'Yes,' he said, as Spencer handed him back the gun, and he looked at it longingly for a moment, 'Yes, I suppose that it did. But there's not price too big, and no gesture too small, to give to someone when you love them, Dr. Reid.' He holstered his gun, and patted it into place. 'C'mon, Spencer – let's get you upstairs.'

Reid sat down the gun lightly, looking at it with a level of care and respect similar to what the older agent had once looked at that same gun with. No gesture is too small, . . . Reid pondered as he turned his attention to the next item on the table – a badge.

It wasn't, of course, just any badge. It was a set of FBI credentials, with a SSA gold badge pinned to the front. If he were to open it, Spencer know that he would find a laminated slip of paper inside. It would be a plain, creamy white, with the light blue letters saying FBI stamped in the background. On the forefront of the document would be lines stating Agent Gideon's full name (Jason Alexander Gideon), date of birth (March 24th, 1951), and what department of the FBI he was a member of (the Behavioral Analysis Unit), of course. And overshadowing all of that would be, to the far left of the document, a picture would sit in all of it's square-inch glory – a picture of Gideon himself, taken several years ago (he had insisted it be updated shortly after Spencer was taken onboard the team) when he had a smaller bald spot, fewer wrinkles, and more light in his eyes. In that picture, he was grinning ear-to-ear – Spencer knew that he had been about to burst out laughing when the photographer had snapped the shot, because he had been the one to make Gideon laugh. He had been doing a magic trick, trying to make the camera being used (or, really, attempting to be used) for Gideon's photo disappear before their very eyes.

Really, Spencer mused, still staring down at the small patch of black leather on the table, it only failed because Morgan snuck up behind me and scared me – otherwise, that camera would have been out of there like that!

Smiling a little bit at the thought, Spencer at last let his eyes rest on the final (and, he sensed, the most important) item on the table. It was a simple, plain-white envelope. Reid reached his finger forward slowly – almost catatonically – and lifted the envelope off of the table.

Something's in here . . . Spencer realized as he shook the paper very slightly, and heard a faint rustling sound coming from within. He flipped the envelop over to the other side, and felt his heart stop for a brief second when his gaze took in the seven cursive letters sitting front and center in the white background, spelling out the name that only Gideon had ever called him.

SPENCER

Taking a deep breath, Reid forced himself to sit, and sunk down into the small chair that the old profiler had left behind, slowly and in a weary manner. Flipping the envelope back to the other side, Spencer noticed that it hadn't been sealed, and pried open the edges.

Inside was, as he had thought, a letter. It was written in royal blue Montblanc pen – Gideon's favorite. It was scrawled onto 5 pages (front and back) of old, serrated-edge 7 inch notebook paper – Gideon's notebook. And the lettering was smushed together, cursive, and skinny, with an overabundance of capital letters – Gideon's handwriting.

A faint shiver of dread worked it's way up Spencer's spine as he unpeeled the pages from one another, and, in the dim light and chilly air, began to read.

Spencer,

I knew that it would be you who would came to the cabin to check on me.

You must be frightened; I apologize for that. I never meant to cause you any pain.

And I also never envisioned writing this letter. I've searched for a satisfactory explanation for what I'm doing. All I've come up with is this: a profiler needs to have solid footing – and I don't think that I do anymore.

The world confuses me. The cruelty, indifference . . . the tragedy.

When my dear friend Sarah was murdered, it tore a hole in me. And I truly believed that the way to handle the pain was to get back to my work as quickly as possible. Get on to helping somebody else. I thought that I could handle Sarah's murder, work through it. But that very first case we had after – it was out on a college campus.

I met Sarah at college, on a campus just like that one, thirty-one years ago. Campuses are supposed to be places of life and excitement. They're supposed to be about the future, figuring out who you are, who you're going to be. They're supposed to be about dreams – not nightmares . . . about hope.

I really don't understand the world anymore.

All homicide scenes are tragic. But when the victim is someone young, when their life is ripped away before they've even had a chance to live...it's devastating.

In this line of work I was afraid that I would lose the ability to trust. I have lost the ability to trust, to have faith – in myself, in God, the light . . . everything. I've realized that I can't look at anyone without seeing their death – how they'll have been undeservedly punished for something so wrong, so inhumane, that their eyes will look into me, empty, and ask, "Why?" and that, what's worse, is that I will have no way to answer them, to put them to the peace that they deserve.

As bad as losing faith in humanity seems, losing your faith in happy endings is much worse.

How many victims have we seen? How many crime scenes? Hundreds? Thousands? Pictures of families, victims - both alive and dead. Before, I was always able to stay objective, to stay at arms' length – but now, all I see is Sarah.

Nathan Tubbs was easy, but there was a time in my career when I would have asked the question I should have asked: Was it too easy? The biggest trap for a profiler to fall into is pride: forgetting that, for all your skills, profiling is just a tool.

It was like you could physically feel the mood change on the campus. Kids, . . . they're so resilient. They trust and believe in a way I can't reach any more, like a very old picture. You remember the circumstances, but the feelings, the emotions, they're just out of your grasp. They believed in us. They believed in me . . . the way Sarah believed in with me. And, as with Sarah, I believe – I know – that I led them right to the slaughter.

What was I even doing there? I mean, how many times have I told you that a profiler cannot do the job if the mind is unfocused? That if anything was going on in your personal life, it would cloud your judgment? My mind has never been more unfocused than it was on that campus. Did I let a lion loose amongst babies? Was my judgment clouded by a need to make someone, anyone, pay for Sarah's death?

Two more dead. Was it a price that needed to paid? Is death ever worth it? Was the world always this gray? Is it only in the movies that it's black and white? Is that just an illusion? I used to know. I used to understand my place, my direction, where I was headed . . .

I was a father, once. I had a wife, and a child – I loved them so much. If nothing else can be said for me, then at least let it be known that I have always loved my family.

But I gave her up. My wife – she was sacrificed so that I could do my job better. My job. And my son fell victim to it, too – to me, and my need to try and fix these things that, truthfully, I have no business, no right, to fix.

But I had to try. And in doing that, I gave up one family – for another. The BAU started as my baby, and, in there, I found my family – a new one that, I hoped, could help me appease the guilt eating away at my soul for terminating the old one. A new family that I thought I could do right by.

You have become a son to me – I hope that you know that. I've wished long and hard, on my knees, under my bed, and in my mind, that I could snuff out and erase all of the pain that you've suffered in your life, and help you heal. To protect you from any more suffering in your life. That's a father's job, right? To protect his family?

So how can I sit there every day, with you and Derek, Aaron and Emily, Jennifer and Garcia? How can I call myself your family, you mine, and claim to love you so much when I have failed in this basic, small duty?

A good man – a worthy man – would protect you – all of you.

I haven't done that.

I couldn't stop Derek's career – his ambitious, golden career that I know could go all the way to the top, someday – from receiving a permanent black mark on it when he was arrested in Chicago. And I couldn't save him from the pain in his memories when he was forced to re-live what he went through as a child.

Aaron's marriage is falling apart – and that's on me. Because I've pushed him to make this job, and his time at the FBI, and us more important. I've told him that to be good at what he does, he has to be dedicated. Unfortunately, I never told him that to be dedicated to one thing you must be dedicated to nothing else. And now Haley and Jack are paying the price for my blindness.

Emily needs acceptance – don't we all? But I haven't been able to give her that, because all I can do when I look at her is notice the fact that – good as she is at what she does, as fine an example as she is of humanity, and the perseverance of life – she isn't Elle. (And Elle is my fault, too.) Emily has barriers up around her self, and her heart – barriers that prevent her from living life, and experiencing the world. But instead of helping her tear down those walls, I've added to them, with my scrutiny and mistrust. What kind of man does that?

Jennifer is so sweet, so innocent – and so strong. But she's trying to make the best of the job that she's been given, trying to still see the good in life. She's falling in love, did you know that? I know that we, as people, and as human beings, need love and companionship to survive – it's a fact of life . . . But all I've done since I found out about her and Will is try and discourage her from getting too attached. She hasn't spoken about their relationship because I've warned her not to go openly about it – I told that it would hurt too much if something were to happen between them. I've been pushing her to give more to the BAU than to her romance, and because of that, she's stepping lightly when she should be falling head over heels. She should be ecstatic. Not scared, like I've made her.

Even lovely Penelope, with her bright, flashy clothes and toys, with her warm smiles and cookies and big, loud hairdos and makeup . . . even she is going to lose it. Every day, she sits there in that tiny room, surrounded in the dark by those screens, and is forced to take in, and search out, and understand – understand, as if, . . . as if we even can understand it – the worst of things that the worst of people do with the worst of intentions in the worst of ways. She has to see senseless defilement, harm, and sickening anger and hurt, all day every day – all so that, in the evening, she can go home, and have nightmares about what she sees, what she knows – and then it's back to the BAU, where it all starts again . . . She's so brave, so resilient – but she'll break. And that, too, will be my fault.

And what about you, Spencer? Have I protected you?

When Tobias took you – when he beat you, and drugged you, and made you dig your own grave – I couldn't do anything for you. And even when I thought I had the chance to help you, to talk to you, to assure you that you would be okay, that you were safe, I failed. Did it really do anything? All my words did were get you hurt worse by a madman.

I've done nothing for you, Spencer. Not when it mattered, when you really needed my help. I couldn't talk you through your feelings, help you find the way again, when it was most important – not when you needed advice and counseling about killing Phillip Dowd, or Tobias Hankel; not when you were struggling, and told me so; not even when you were so broken-down and catatonic that you were s thinking about whether to indulge your thoughts of your need to leave the FBI. No, instead of protecting you, and trying to heal your injuries, nurse you back into being the good man – good person – that we both know that you are, I pulled you back into profiling, into the BAU – back into the abyss.

Profiling requires belief: Belief in the profile, Belief in yourself. After Sarah, I no longer trust myself at home. After Tubbs, I no longer trust myself in the field. And after you and the team, I no longer trust myself with people.

And without that, I have nothing.

I'm not trying to justify anything that I'm doing, or anything that I've done – I accept blame for what is my fault. Everything that's happened to you for the last four years is my fault. There are no excuses.

Before, I thought that I could handle it. That with all of the good that we (you, and I, and the team) were doing, that it was worth all of the blows that we've had to take in this job.

But Sarah changed that. And Frank changed that. And Nathan Tubbs changed that. Suddenly, it wasn't a fair trade-off anymore.

We give so much of ourselves to this job: but no matter what, it always takes more. It needs more – needs everything that we have. And eventually, that's what it takes, I guess. I can't stay any longer, can't find out for sure . . .

This job took my family. Frank took my dreams. Tubbs took my hope.

And that, . . . that was the last domino: the death of that girl, and Hotch being suspended over something that was my fault . . .

I said at the beginning of this letter that I knew that it would be you to come up here. I'm so sorry the explanation couldn't be better. And I'm so sorry it doesn't make more sense.

But I've already told you . . . I just don't understand any of it any more.

I'm sorry.

There was no name at the bottom of the letter – like Gideon hadn't even had the time to sign his signature, illegible scrawl before he rushed out of this building, this countryside, this state . . . and this life.

Spencer looked up from the words, blinking rapidly a few times. Then he looked back down at the papers in his hands, and began to ferociously re-read the letter – not that he needed to, of course. The downside of having the eidetic memory that he did was that Dr. Spencer Reid would have these words of goodbye etched into his brain forever and ever, whether he wanted them there or not.

He didn't even say goodbye to me, . . . Reid realized as he scanned over the words again, and again, and again, and again (reading 20,000 words a minute meant that it took only seconds to get through each page, and also that he spent more time flipping from one side of the paper to the next than he did actually reading the letter) . . . All he said was that he was sorry.

The thought didn't comfort Reid, however – all it did was jolt him back to when his father had left him and Mom, never saying goodbye or even that he loved either of them. He, too, had only scribbled some words on a page in a hast explanation (not that there really was a satisfactory explanation for doing something like this, and certainly noexcuse) and then taken off without a moment's hesitation.

Just like Gideon.

Just like my father.

And suddenly, Spencer felt the same overwhelming feelings he had been forced to live through as a child – and then again, as an adult at the mercy of Tobias Hankel.

Spencer Reid, the man with a mother who loved him and needed him more than anything in the whole entire universe (when she was lucid enough to remember just who he was, anyway) felt completely and utterly totally alone.

Spencer Reid, the man who had been head-hunted and groomed specifically for a choice job at the BAU where he threw his life into working and saving lives, and earning the respect and devotion of those around him, felt worthless.

Spencer Reid, the man who had had the extremely good (and admittedly, well-deserved) luck to find himself surrounded by a new family that adopted him in the FBI (with mother and big sister JJ, father Hotchner (and, once, Gideon), brother Derek, sister and little cousin Emily, and crazy Aunt Penelope Garcia), felt unloved and empty.

Spencer Reid, the man who had endured two days of torture at the hands of a very disturbed individual without losing it, who had slipped away into the realm of merciful death and then been dragged back, who had gotten addicted to a narcotic (DiLaudid) and then stopped himself cold-turkey, who had seen dozens of sick, evil killers, hundreds of bodies, thousands of cases, and millions of grieving family and friends, in his 26 years and never once cracked from it all, felt weak.

Spencer Reid, the man who never stopped, be it in a conversation where he didn't know when to quit spouting off statistics and just shut up, or on any other case at the BAU where he would forgo sleep, food, and peace of mind until the unSub they were hunting that week had been caught, was giving up.

And Spencer Reid, the hidden and protected baby in all of his circles, the man who took in the world around him and all of its joys and horrors without blinking, the man who had ascended from a painful childhood into an even more painful adulthood, who always stoic and expressive, accepting what cards were dealt to him in life without ever finding fault in their unfairness or lack of love, and who had survived more in his 26 years of life than most people did in 100 without breaking, at last had the exteriors in his impeccable exterior surface cracked, as SSA Dr. Spencer Reid, the genius and child prodigy, purveyor of the astounding IQ of 187 and holder in three doctorates, curled his knees up into his chest, ducked his head down, and with strands of chestnut hair veering his eyes, began to cry.