Disclaimers & Warnings:
I do not own Criminal Minds or its characters.
Hotchner & Reid as main characters story, spelling & grammar errors, OC unsub, & cursing.
The Absolute
.
.
Summary:
Vacation had never entailed getting trapped in a cellar with Doctor effing Reid and the lunatic that kidnapped them, no, not in Hotchner's book.
.
.
PREFACE PART 1
.
.
Hotchner was not having a good day – after all, getting kidnapped by every other unsub in the country was Reid's forte, not Hotchner's. Getting drugged and shot in the leg were also Reid's specialties – Hotchner's was getting stabbed nine effing times by a narcissist that later on killed his ex-wife just because. And when did vacation ever involve getting stuck in a cellar with no one, but, Spencer Reid and the effing lunatic who kidnapped them in the first place, as company?
Certainly not Hotchner's…
"So you're FBI, are ya?"
Reid nodded, playing Hotchner's poker face (to which Hotchner raised a curious brow) – seemingly the epitome of calm. "We are, sir." Polite, sincere.
The unsub spared Reid a glance, disinterested. He looked toward Hotchner. "Big ass job you guys got – huge expectations, am I right, boss-man?" He watched him expectantly.
"That's right," even though he wasn't quite sure what the man meant.
"What exactly do you mean by huge expectations, sir?" Hotchner eyed Reid wearily – curious mind, big mouth. The unsub half-turned.
He licked at his lips, considered. Reid was sitting up in his chair, back straight. The unsub's eyes glimmered and Hotchner suddenly had a bad feeling. "Well, like I said before. FBI's a big job," he began, voice raised a pitch. "You guys gotta catch all the bad guys – serial killers, psychos, rapists, child molesters, get me?"
"We get you." No hesitation, no fear, just mild curiosity. Hotchner had to wonder.
The unsub nodded his approval and continued, "But don't you guys break under pressure? I know I would have." He started to giggle.
Reid was slightly wide-eyed now. Nervous. Freaked. "Break under pressure?" Hotchner wished he would stop asking or just shut up all together.
"Yeah," the unsub was grinning like a loony, "I would've snapped – would've asked myself a long time ago, why are we just putting these guys behind bars…?" He let himself trail off and pulled out a knife from his back-pocket.
The unsub started to creep over to Reid. Hotchner half-expected Reid to tremble or beg and when he did neither those things (only staring at the knife warily), Hotchner half-expected himself to be surprised. He wasn't though. To be honest, he thought of it as a typical Reid-reaction like the whole been there, done that kind of thing.
Still…
"They will find you, you know." He had to at least try to help Reid. "And when they do, you'll be charged with the murders of two FBI agents." He made sure his voice was loud.
The unsub snapped his head to Hotchner. He glared. Hotchner stared back, a childish urge to raise his brow as if to say that's supposed to scare me? Intimidation, after all, was also Hotchner's forte. The unsub lurched over to him. Like a damned drunk.
Cold hands caught hold of Hotchner's neck and he wondered if he was going to die here in a cellar with a lunatic and Doctor effing Reid – Reid's weak cries of protests playing like background music in Hotchner's head. "They can't find us, agent Hotchner," the unsub hissed into his ear.
"My team," he choked as the unsub started to try and strangle him – what was it with unsubs and not letting him finish his damn sentences (at least the ones that began with my team)? Foyet sure started some trend there.
"Your team what – they were wrong about the profile before, and they're still wrong now! Your team isn't perfect, agent Hotchner," he spat out his name like it was something goddamn awful.
"Why exactly are you keeping us here, Charlie?" And just like that the unsub's hands dropped, his eyes darting around the room wildly until they landed on Reid – Doctor-effing-screw-Hotchner-when-he-was-just-trying-to-do-the-right-thing-Reid.
"Reid," and he really wished he could muster his FBI-please-don't-fuck-with-me tone but it only came out as weariness and he had to cough and sputter and hack because his throat still throbbed with the pain of almost getting strangled to death.