A/N:

So, this is my first story up here! I'm excited, eager, totally pumped... and nervous... and anxious, now that I come to think about it. But anyways, let's get it over with! (:

It's a crossover, because I have always wanted to write one and when I came across Fight Club I had no other choice than to put Reid in it. I did not post this in the Crossover section because there weren't any other pertaining stories and the storylines don't intersect, so I figured uploading this as a Criminal Minds story would be best.

Spoilers: If you've watched Criminal Minds past Season 2 there are no spoilers, and there aren't any for Fight Club either. Reid, doesn't know about Project Mayhem either. I only read Fight Club, but didn't watch the book to movie adaptation yet so I can't judge whether it gives anything away that's featured in the movie.

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds, which belongs to CBS, or Fight Club. If I did, I would hardly write fanfiction about it. However, I did quote the book occasionally in here. I suppose that all of that belongs to Chuck Palahniuk.

Rating: T, although I'm not entirely sure about it. It could be harsher, but it's neither UnSub-psycho, not Spacemonkey-ruthless. If you disagree, please let me know and I'll change it accordingly!

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life to front only the essential facts of life and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and that when I came to die discover that I had not lived.

- Henry David Thoreau

It is only the second week of November, but the temperature is already under 47 degrees Fahrenheit, which actually is the average for December. The sharp gusts of wind feel much icier though. Hurriedly hasting across the parking lot, at which he is completely at weather's mercy, head ducked and shoulders hunched, he thinks of Morgan, who rags him sometimes about how sensible he is to low temperatures. Much more sensible even than Emily or JJ, that is. He gets cold easily and is secretly glad whenever they are called to California, Nevada, Arizona and such during the winter months.

The thought that Morgan would surely not make fun of him now crosses his mind, but that's not what he is here for, anyways. He doesn't need to prove anything to anyone, not even to himself. He knows exactly who he is and where he stands. That's not the problem. It used to be, but now he's here and everything's going to change.

Reid isn't sure how he found out about this. Apparently, this is nothing you share with others; except sometimes you do when you're sure somebody is a dead cert for the participation and even then it's against the rules – but he still wonders whether it seriously or just officially violates them. After all, it's an idea that's meant to be spread and not restricted. It's meant to help everyone, random people like him, all of which are so extraordinarily unspectacular and uniform in their individual emptiness. The stranger must have figured out that Reid was the ideal candidate. But what did he see that told him? Reid hadn't even known for himself that this is what he needs.

It takes him only seconds to spot the place. A basement behind a bar seems like a good hiding spot, but right now it isn't. A crowd has formed in front of the stairs that leads down to it and he speeds up a little, suddenly anxious that he's too late to get in. He has been told that it's the first fifty people that they take, and then they shut down and you can come back next week. But he can't. He doesn't really know why, but today is the day. Now is the time, and tomorrow, or next week or maybe the week after that one will be too late. He needs this, and he needs it now. If he doesn't get in there, if he has to go home now unhurt even though he was promised salvation... he won't know what to do with himself any longer. All he knows is that he won't know.

As he comes closer he is incredibly relieved to see that there aren't so many people. Of course, there is no way of telling how many are already inside, but the small, narrow entry would even cause a young couple that has just found love to look like an entire assembly. He carefully approaches the place, shying away from coming too close to the others yet. It seems silly and makes him laugh about himself; sardonically grin on the inside. He wants one of these strangers to beat the living hell out of him, but right now they are so bulky, so massive that the thought of joining them seems like a dive from the top of a cliff coast into the storm-tossed ocean – something that others would do; people that wouldn't feel like they had to come here, no matter what they were to go through.

"This is your first time?"

He spins around at his heels and looks as a square-shouldered, beefy man who suddenly stands behind him. Reid didn't notice this man's coming, maybe due to the strange air that seems to surround him. He looks strong, but he stands in front of Reid like Reid stands in front of everyone else. Something in his eyes says he could be easily broken if he ever crosses the way of all the wrong people. He knows he's strong but doesn't feel it. Reid isn't brawny or sturdy or infrangible, but he doesn't have to be to understand what it's like to be strong and still the weakest link, to be there, yet always... absent.

"Yes", he nods his confirmation and raises his hand to shoulder-height as a quick greeting.

"Then you have to fight", the man states and Reid hears the excitement in his voice, even though his face doesn't give away any of it. A cold shiver runs through is body, even though he has already forgotten that he freezes. The wind is not what makes him shiver now. Neither is fear.

He nods again. "I know."

"Want to fight with me?"

Reid observes the man another time, furrows his brows, tilts his head slightly. Slides his glasses up his nose until the bridge meets his forehead and the lenses push against his eyelashes. "Have you done this before?"

"Boy, I've been here for months now."

This sounds, for some reason, not concerning but just right. He won't even have a ghost of a chance to sustain. Perfect. "Alright, let's do it."

They walk down the stairs and there really isn't very much space, just enough for Reid's lanky physique, but the other man has to walk sidewards. There is a man at the door who signs them up for a fight. Spence and Cal. Theirs is going to be the seventh fight of the night. There are more new ones in the basement. About forty people overall, he can't be sure because he's nervous and the lighting is bad, but Reid recognizes himself in at least five of them. He stays close to Cal, as do the others, and their glances flicker through the room a little more curious, a little more aimless than those of the old hands. They wait for the remaining eight opponents to arrive, but when Reid is sure that there are fifty people present now, nothing happens. He spots the fighting area in the middle of the basement and there is still blood on it. Loose chippings and small pieces of pebble cover it and he wonders why they are there and why nobody has bothered to sweep them up.

Then he thinks that the people come here to fight, not to win, and to feel life rather than to protect themselves at all costs. So maybe, nobody cares. Chances are that by the end of the night, he's not going to care either.

The man who registered them at the entry steps in the middle of the fighting area and raises a hand as to signalize the bystanders to be quiet.

„The first rule of fight club is: you don't talk about Fight Club!", he barks in a rough, hoarse voice. Nobody makes a sound and Reid isn't even sure whether anybody around him breathes. The only audible sound is the blood rushing through the veins in his ears and his pounding heart. It beats in his throat and his chest like a mad woodpecker. He suddenly gasps for air and feels Cal's heavy hand on his shoulder. It tells him to stay calm and that he does. There is no need to be afraid. He could go home now, but he knows what would wait for him.

Here is better. Here is the only place.

„The second rule of Fight Club is: you don't talk about Fight Club!"

And so he goes on with the rules, which Reid only has to listen to with a split piece of his mind. They aren't important for him anyways. He won't tell anyone about Fight Club, because telling anyone he knows about it would very likely end Fight Club and if your FBI friends end Fight Club, Fight Club will probably end you. At least that's what he figured before deciding to come here today. Looking around now, he's pretty sure to be right. But for he has no intention of telling anybody, it's not like he has to give a damn.

He won't be the one who will have to stop hitting his fight partner either. Cal won't go limp under Reid's fists, that look the way two walnuts would next to a pair of bowling balls.

Fights will go as long as they have to.

All he knows is that he has to have a fight. So this rule is just perfect for him. No more, no less than what he is looking for. If he doesn't chicken out before it starts, everything will inevitably be alright. There is this little bit of courage he will have to pluck up and if it's enough to take of his shoes and shirt, it will be enough to take a step into the fighting ring. Which will be enough for him to fight. Or be fought, for that matter.

The first fight passes and he doesn't even notice. So does the second. So does the third.

He hears fight number four, but it doesn't sound like he expected it. More like the kind of fights he already knows, like videos he has watched of people that were tortured or abused or subdued by the hands of UnSubs – of killers, thugs or peers. He considers that people in pain are people in pain are people in pain. That fights are really not that different from each other, even though he wants to be here, just like all of the others want to be here, too.

When the fifth fight begins, he is brave enough to watch. It's violent. Full power. No mercy. In the end, two guys lie on the coarse floor and a few men that are still waiting for their turn to bleed pick them up and then they are gone; and Reid doesn't know where they are.

He could die tonight, he realizes that now. He thought about it before, but in a different way. Like you think of how you can die when you try to catch your bus, cross the street without looking for any cars and so your life might end in the middle of the street under the wide eyes of disturbed, randomly present bystanders.

His circulation already goes haywire and if he falls to the ground limp, he could fall to the ground dead, too. Or he could be killed outside of a fight. This is underground. What happens here stays here. Who knows how this will end? What are the odds that these really are fifty Spencer Reid-ish people that have lost their spot in the world to something they cannot comprehend? You come here to fight. To beat up and get beaten. He is inferior. Every single soul in here could kill him. It's the perfect place for a sadistic nutcase to get the aggression out of his system. Whoever manages this place might not even know he's with the FBI and if he find out... God, if he dies here, nobody's going to know...

"Come on", he hears Cal say next to him. His head snaps up in surprise. Has he just missed the sixth fight? Had it a winner? Did it make sense? "It's our turn."

Reid only nods and slowly takes off his tie and unbuttons his shirt. Unties his Converse. Stupid choices. But man in a creature of habit. He isn't the only one who has come in office apparel either. He takes off his glasses, too. Splintered glass in his eyes is the last thing he needs and the chances of his winning this fight could be hardly any lower. What he is looking for is the feeling of being alive that the very stranger had told him about. He doesn't want to go blind, for sanity's sake!

The ground already hurts his feet. He has trouble walking on it and is distantly reminded of his short but fatal captivity. Not because it actually feels anything like it. But sometimes pain is pain is pain. Reid takes a deep breath and tries his best to relax his face. If he can't even stand in Fight Club before the fight begins that's just pathetic. So he toughens up a little bit. Thinks it over one last time.

This is stupid.

Stupidly dangerous, most of all.

And necessary.

He needs this because he needs Dilaudid, too. And if he doesn't get this fight and get his life back, he knows he'll be grabbed during a drugs raid, if he's lucky, or found dead or comatose in a nightly side alley, if he isn't.

So he gives Cal a short nod, who replies with an encouraging smile. Somebody announces something and Reid doesn't even remotely care about it. Then the fight begins.

How does he know?

In the beginning, he doesn't.

Then, three quick punches hit him in the middle of the face. Nose. Temple. Cheekbone. He doesn't even have time to raise his arms to protect himself, or to flinch away, or to fall. Instinctively shutting his eyes, he takes a few stumbling steps backwards and slowly clenches his hands to fists. It feels just like he remembers what being hit in the face feels like.

Cal comes closer to him and kicks Reid in the stomach. He grunts and falls over on his knees, simultaneously gasping for air and trying to choke back the vomit that fills up his mouth. He chokes on it for a moment, violently coughs and eventually spits it all over the ground. Nobody cares. Grosser things have happened on this spot.

The next thing Reid knows is Cal knocking a fist on the back of his head. He lands face down on the pebbly ground, for the first time in this fight feeling a new kind of pain. Hundreds of tiny, sharp stones dig surprisingly deep into his flesh. They rip open his upper and lower lip and he knows with horrific certainty that he leaves vast parts of his right cheek on the floor. Cal kicks him in the ribcage, one, two, three times and worse than the pain of his newly bruised side is the feeling of his partially skinned face being dragged across the floor with every additional kick to his body. The loose chippings stay in the flesh, altogether with dust and dirt, blood that isn't his and a few nubs of his own throw-up. That his face is on fire is all he knows.

His face is on fire, and still he tries to get up, even though he doesn't have to.

It's the worst feeling he had ever experienced, it's way worse than being dead, and this is perfect.

He doesn't give a damn, and still he finds the strength to get back to his feet.

Stands up straight for the duration of a heartbeat, and is knocked down only a moment later.

As Cal tries to kick him again, he reflexively clings to the approaching leg and pulls it towards him. It's enough to make is assailant struggle for a second, but not quite enough to make him fall. Instead, he earns himself another kick right across the face and screams grief-stricken as a thick toenail rips off the skin right above his left eye, probably altogether with his eyebrow.

It's weird... how his wounds would be healed rather soon, as nothing felt like a seriously fractured bone so far and scratches and bruises don't take dramatically long to vanish. With every further stoke he feels as if his mind is healing a little bit. It takes the body about 56 days to replace an eyebrow hair if it was plucked and generally, this type of hair grows at a speed of about 0.16mm a day. Therefor, the growth circle of eyebrows is rather short, but they don't grow very long in the first place. Then, of course, his skin would have to grow back first. So everything might be fine within a not too distant future, except he would still have to secretly try out eyebrow pencils if he wants to prevent being that genius guy who isn't only frighteningly smart, but has recently taken a liking to that one-eyebrow-psycho-kind-of look.

He doesn't tap out.

If someone … taps out, the fight is over.

No. No, he doesn't do this.

He doesn't give up just like that either.

This seems to be the distillate of his entire life. A human punching bag. Just that, this time, he's going to bear it, but he's also going to fight. No lying still and playing weak. No attempting to escape, even though he isn't only weaker but also slower and clumsier.

Time after time after time, he gets up and he falls down. Breaks a rip and probably his elbow. Takes a big gulp of his own blood that runs down from his nose and forehead in thick streams. Licks his lips, that are shiny and deep purple with it. He throws up some more and doesn't bother falling back in it this time. Just a handful of times he manages to get a hold of Cal. He scratches the skin of Cal's lower legs and feels the remains of his skin under his own fingernails. His only trophy. But good enough.

When he finally goes limp and Cal stops, it's because Reid really can't help it any longer. His breath goes heavy and every desperate breath of air inflicts deeply rooted pain somewhere in his chest, but actually everywhere else in his body as well. He can't get up, can't even raise a hand. Now would be the time to tap out, but even if he wanted to – he couldn't. There is no energy in that for him. He couldn't do it to safe his own life.

But he doesn't need to do it either.

Because he has just saved his life.

He looks at Cal, who stands above him, smiling. That means, of course, that he is almost certain that it is Cal whom he sees and guesses that this very smiles at him. He can't make out much. Both his eyes are almost swollen shut by now. This is new to him, too. Another pain he hasn't known until tonight. Another effect that is new to him.

Reid wonders what he -Cal- feels like, he didn't experience much pain today and probably didn't expect it either. He had offered Reid this fight.

Two other man come and pick Reid up. Cal follows them at a distance, as they carry him through the entry and, with some trouble because they, too, are much better trained, upstairs to the parking lot.

"Where... where are you... taking me?", he asks, but barely anything leaves his throat. Not enough breath, not enough remaining strength – they know what he wants though.

"Emergency room", Cal calmly explains and opens up the door of a station wagon. They lie him down on the back seat and then one of the men sits down behind the wheel and Cal next to him, while the third man goes back to the basement, for there still is a fight waiting for him.

Nobody speaks a word while they drive. Reid knows the map of Washington DC by heart, but he can't figure out which hospital he is being taken to. His world is spinning like mad by now. He is rather sure they are falling down into an abyss, but as he begins to scream Cal says it's only a red light they are stopping at.

When they finally arrive in the emergency room, the other man carries Reid inside. He is put down on a stretcher and there is a male nurse with stitches on his forehead, telling him that a doctor is going to be there for him soon.

"He was badly hit by a car", the man mumbles and the nurse takes a few quick notes on a pad that he holds in front of his body like shield to defend himself with.

"The first rule about car accidents is you don't talk about about car accidents", he jokes and turns around to leave the room. It takes only a couple of minutes until a doctor enters a room. No fresh wounds in his face, but a few deep scars that could have been caused by everything. Random occasions. Something normal.

But the way he, too, smiles at Reid as if he knows much more than he admits, scares him.

He is alive now.

But this man is alive on the same conditions. He smiles at a patient who has obviously not been in an accident and he does not talk about it, because you don't talk about Fight Club! Instead, you make it an accident and you keep quiet about it. You cover it up, forget about it for a week until you return.

Reid sighs and tries not be scared.

He lives.

People live in city, maybe even in this country, maybe everywhere around the world.

It has helped him.

But it is more than he has even known. Much more than he knows.

More than he can ever understans.

And therefore, it is all that he fears.

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.

- Edward Abbey