He kept his eyes closed. Even if he opened his eyes, he wouldn't be able to see anything. His hands were pressed tight to his sides, his thighs pressed together and his toes pointing down. Well, down for him. According to the way his hair was laying around his ears, he was being carried sideways. His nose was pressed against the rough fabric he was wrapped in—antique carpet, dusty. Just like the M.O.
Reid grimaced as he was jostled, the grip around his torso even tighter. He heard the heavy footsteps underneath him, the sound of size 11 ½ shoes on a boardwalk, and he took a deep breath through his nose, just dust and old fibers. He missed his clothes; the side of the carpet that was touching his was rough and chaffing. Of course, he knew this would happen. He had this man's method mapped out and scheduled to the second. He hadn't quite expected the material of the carpet to be so rough. Reid frowned. He hadn't even had time to hide his gun anywhere.
He didn't know what to think. He wanted to tell himself that his team would be there in a few moments, just before he was doused with gasoline, set aflame to be tossed on a rowboat and pushed out to sea until he would be found days later on the shore, just ash and bone. But there had only been one death prior to their engagement in the case, and one when they got there.
Although he wanted to consider the very, very rare possibility that they'd save the third victim, it was just that—rare. So rare that he didn't want to think about the precise number. He was starting to lose air and blood circulation due to the constricted nature of his posture and the arm around his waist on the other side of the rug. The man was talking to him, talking about some backstory that they'd already put into the profile. Reid couldn't afford to feel pride about it. It just irritated him. He was minutes, maybe seconds away from being burned alive without saying goodbye to anyone.
He was so stupid. So, so stupid to have gone by himself. Morgan offered to help, but he was stubborn and he expected that sketchy nameless man that had given anonymous tips time and time again to understand that they were the same, in many ways. Reid had caught onto his autistic tendencies moments into their first meeting at the station. He kept wringing his hands and every time Morgan or any alpha male would speak he would sink into himself and hyperventilate. He should have seen it. A man afraid of those bigger than him would dominate those who were smaller than him. He saw through a keyhole—the keyhole only including those who were inferior to him. Anyone else in the room that wasn't in that keyhole was a threat, and he shut down. Strip away the threats, and he was in control. And when he was in control, he was dangerous.
There was nothing to do. His legs were losing circulation and his lungs were burning for fresh air. It was dark and he was losing breath, experiencing sensory overload. He could hear his pulse, he could hear the other man's pulse through layers of thick carpet, yet he couldn't move his toes or hands. No chance of fighting back if he was given one. He moved his jaw. His throat was raw from the failed attempts to scream into the microphone that he didn't have. The more he thought about the insane and terrifying situation he was in, the less resolve he had to continue breathing slowly and deeply.
So he closed his eyes. Accepted the fate he was given and drowned out the sound of clunky boots on hollow wood, imagined what it was like at home. With Hotch on the couch, Jack tucked under his arm and some mind-numbingly, agonizingly repetitive show that the little guy loved that made him want to claw his eyes out. But he knew that his favorite boys were partial to it, so he didn't say anything. Just tapped his fingers against his ankle and ducked his head down to kiss Jack's hair or Hotch's hand and everything was fine.
The talking was finished. Reid would have been relieved if he hadn't known what was next. He felt the grip on his waist release, and seconds later his back and his head hit the hard ground with a thud. He heard the rattling of a plastic cap being unscrewed, the sloshing of gasoline. He could smell the gas, as well as the distant salt of the ocean.
Then the thought hit him: maybe he didn't have to die. Maybe he didn't have to just lay and wait to be burned alive, and especially... maybe he'd be able to see Hotch again. He was going to do everything in his power to see Hotch again.
"What's your name?" He asked, his voice muffled to his own ears.
"What?" The gruff voice replied.
"Your name," Reid moved his shoulders, trying to unravel the carpet to get a glimpse of a human before he died. It was some sort of comfort. Made things less distant. Humanized him.
"Greg..." He replied, unsure, just as one of Reid's eyes peeked out from the dark. "What's-"
"I'm Spencer," he replied before the question could be asked. He found enough strength in his legs to push his head out from the opening of the carpet cocoon. He took a silent but deep breath through his nose, letting the cold air "This is a nice rug. Where did you get it?"
Greg stared at him for a long time, before opening his mouth and sighing. "My grandma's house."
"How many rugs did she have there?" Reid looked down, "I might want one."
The other man made a face, one of confusion and annoyance itching under the surface of his skin. His body language gave it all away; he wasn't sure how to react. A lifetime of being pushed to the side of people bigger and smaller than him and this person was trying to talk? It was too good to be true, and Reid knew that, but as soon as he got his arms free, he could sell this connection long enough for sirens to be heard and he could beat this guy and grab something to cover himself with.
"She only had four."
"Four," Reid nodded thoughtfully and looked down again. "I'm the third, right?"
"You're the fourth," Greg replied before looking down to the gallon of gas in his hand. The action didn't go unnoticed by Reid, but he said nothing.
"Oh, cool." Reid nodded, slowly but surely scooting upward. His shoulders were hit by the cold air, and he thought long and hard about what they had missed. They thought there had only been two prior murders, but there was a separate body out there. One they'd missed. It would have to have been an antisocial person with a significantly under par social network, probably relied on previous relationships for money in the present, possibly even planning to get a job in the future. He blinked a few times. That was the profile of the unsub—Greg, apparently. He frowned. "Who was the third?"
"The third hasn't happened yet," Greg said quietly. When Reid raised an eyebrow he continued, "It's going to happen, though."
"Then wouldn't I be the third?" Reid asked carefully. He was almost halfway out of the cocoon, but Greg wasn't looking at him.
"No, the third is going to happen in a few minutes."
His confusion was clear on his face, upset that they had missed the possibility of an accomplice, but Greg just played with the cap of the gallon. Before he could get out all the way, he realized that fighting or trying to console someone while naked was an issue. He reached out for one of the haphazardly strewn tarps on the boardwalk. Once he had it in his grasp, he looked back to Greg, who was still staring at the gas can.
"Why am I going to be the fourth, Greg?" Reid asked quietly, shimmying himself out of the carpet all the way before tying together a makeshift toga and stumbling to his feet. He hurriedly shook his feet, trying to kickstart his circulation again. The shifting of his feet on the wood made Greg look up and his face transformed into the one from earlier when he got into this mess.
"How did you get out?"
"I'm skinny," Reid smiled for a moment before letting it drop, "Now, why am I the fourth, and who is the third."
"You'll die anyway," Greg said quietly yet harshly, "Why does it matter to you."
"Closure?" He raised his hands in a shrug, scanning around the boardwalk for some sort of weapon to protect himself with. A few 2x4s laid behind Greg's feet under a separate tarp.
The man sighed. He rubbed his eyes and let out a loud sigh. Greg obviously wanted everything to be done with. "The Lamb of God opens the first four of the seven seals, which summons forth four beings that ride out on white, red, black, and pale horses."
"The... the four horsemen?" Reid asked, almost breathlessly, "Of the apocalypse?"
"The Four Riders," Greg conceded grimly.
"But... Kerri Marshall," Reid spoke carefully, curiously, attempting to keep his voice somewhat submissive in order to keep Greg's temper down. "She was the first death, so she would have been Conquest, right? But she worked at a nursery."
"Orphanage," the gruff voice spoke back, plaid-covered shoulders rolling back in a defensive stance, "She stole children from their homes, from their parents-"
"Greg, the parents gave the children away," Reid whispered, his mouth unable to keep from twitching into a comforting side-smile like Gideon used to do when he was talking himself out of a bad situation, "She didn't steal them."
"She terrorized those families." A blip was heard from Greg's pocket and he pulled a phone out. Reid felt hope-the phone could be traced easily. "The third is done."
"I—okay," there was no use crying over spilled milk, not when Greg had Reid's gun in his left front pocket. "Marcus Filier. He was War. How?"
"He routinely threatened his boss through various anonymous usernames on websites-"
"Well, duh. We know all that," Reid replied, causing Greg's eyes to widen threateningly, "But that isn't War. War is fire, destruction, not telling your boss you want him to fuck himself. We all want our bosses to fuck themselves, Greg. Even I do." And I'm in love with him.
"I don't."
"You don't have a boss." Reid took a step forward, "Who was Famine?"
"Catherine Small," Greg said softly, remorseful, "She is... was my neighbor."
"And what did she do?"
"Stole tomatoes from-"
"Greg, do you understand the gravity of what you're doing." Reid couldn't hold back his parent tone, the one he used on Jack when he did things that were out of his scope of understanding. "She took tomatoes. Okay. Fine, ruler to the wrist. But killing her, Greg. That's ridiculous."
Greg's eyes were furious at the mere idea of someone so inferior trying to scold him, "Don't tell me-"
"I don't care," Reid held a hand up, now only three feet away from the other man. "Tell me about me. Why I'm Death. What you know about me to deem me the last horseman."
Greg seemed to be unable to hold in his laughter. Reid glanced down at himself, wondering if it was his current ensemble, but as Greg stumbled backward in his laughing fit, Reid quickly swooped down and grabbed a considerably large block of wood and clutched it behind his back.
Slowly, the other man came to his senses and slowly pulled himself back together, "You're a federal agent. I've seen your badge. You showed it to me in the station."
Reid closed his mouth, gripping tighter to the wood, splinters penetrating the skin of his palm.
"You deserve it more than all of them," Greg murmured, a smile present on his lips as he glanced down at the gallon of gasoline next to his feet. "You've killed more people than I ever have. And you'll kill me too, and once I'm gone, you'll kill more people. And you won't care."
Reid kept his mouth closed. He could hear the faint sounds of heavy boots on gravel, and he knew he was safe. He was vulnerable, sure, naked and his legs couldn't work all the way yet. But he wouldn't kill Greg, no one would. He'd be scooped up in the back of a car with his hands tied behind his back, and he'd live out a long sentence behind bars. That was worse than Death, but it was the best Reid could do.
Perhaps the difference between he and Death was that Death didn't know when to stop killing. Besides, Reid thought, it would have been a paradigm to try and kill Death.
Greg seemed to hear them as well. He maneuvered to grab the gasoline, but Reid pulled out his concealed plank of wood and promptly knocked the man unconscious before screaming out to the rapidly approaching team. Hotch appeared first, running just the slightest bit faster than everyone else, his sleeves rolled up and his weapon drawn, eyebrows pulled together in concentration as he sprinted down the boardwalk. Reid didn't bother to identify anyone running behind him—he just dropped the board and ran as best he could toward his lover, throwing his arms around the other man's neck and letting all of his pent up emotions release in the form of silent sobs.
"I've got you," Hotch whispered, wrapping one arm around Reid's waist before gesturing with the other to his teammates, telling them to go ahead and arrest Greg and check for anyone lurking around to ambush. "I've got you, Spencer. Are you okay?"
Reid took a deep breath through his nose, the rough fabric of the tarp irritating his skin and his hair getting in his face, before leaning back and looking Hotch in the eye with tears shimmering on his cheekbones, "Aaron..."
"What's wrong?" Hotch's comforting smile fell slightly.
"I..." Reid sniffed and grabbed the straps of Hotch's Kevlar before speaking shakily. "Will you marry me?"
"W-what?" Hotch's eyes widened but his firm hold on the genius didn't falter. None of the agents seemed to mind the scene that was quietly unfolding on what was some sort of a crime site considering the past hour's events.
"I kept thinking," Reid whispered, "About how I wasn't going to see you and Jack again, and how I wasn't going to be able to say goodbye and I just... I love you."
Hotch just stared at him for a long time, looking for any signs of shock or trauma, but all he saw was Spencer looking back at him with a slowly crumbling sparkle of hope in his eyes.
"I... yeah, I'll marry you. Right here?" Hotch joked. Well, he was only half joking. He'd do anything for Reid right in that moment.
"No, I think my mom would claw your eyes out," Reid kissed him quickly before extracting himself from the embrace and wrapping his arms around himself, "Can we go home? I need some clothes."
"Of course," Hotch looked to JJ to inform her, but she was already looking at him with a fond but concerned smile. She nodded in silent consent, and Hotch lifted Reid to carry him to the car. "Did you ever find out the significance of the number three? Was it another compulsive case?"
"We missed one," Reid said sadly, resting his forehead on the base of Hotch's neck, "His neighbor. He was bending religion, using the four horsemen of the apocalypse as excuses to kill those who wronged him in the past."
"What did you do to him?" The older man asked, his tone suggesting he regretted asking the question but wanted the answer anyways.
"I had a gun and I was skinnier than him," Reid answered as he was gingerly placed in the passenger seat of one of the BAU vans, "He inferred correctly that I'd killed before. I was just an unlikely target for his unfortunate views on law enforcement."
"I wish I saw-"
Reid grabbed him by the tie and tugged him down to cut him off with a kiss. "If it wasn't me, if would have been one of the ladies, and I didn't want that. I'm not happy, necessarily, understand me when I say that, but... I got a fiancé out of it."
Hotch chuckled, walking around the front of the car to settle into the driver's seat. "I don't suppose you have a ring hidden anywhere?"
"Left it in my other birthday suit," Reid mumbled, turning on the heat and buckling himself up. "We're taking a day off tomorrow."
"Seconded."