An Encounter with Horror

Professor Bernard Quatermass once said:- The will to survive is an odd phenomenon.

Disclaimer Criminal Minds is not mine.

The three men walked along the old disused railway track cutting its way through the forest. Two men limped slightly. One man slightly taller and thinner than the other. The shorter man had darker hair but both heads of hair were unruly messes. The mid day sun caught and reflected off the tinted glasses the taller man was wearing and made the rings on the fingers of the shorter man glint back.

The taller of the two was wearing an army surplus coat, a pair of faded black cords and some dirty black boots.

The shorter man was in a thigh length leather coat, black boot-cut jeans and a very old worn pair of cowboy boots.

The one not limping was walking slightly behind and was the tallest of them all. His hair shorter and very dark. He was wearing hiking boots and combat trousers with a warm jacket over the top. He also was wearing tinted glasses.

They all carried bed rolls on their backs.

They chatted animatedly. The taller of the two doing most of the listening. Learning.

…………………….

Once out of hospital Reid had gone back to his home with Floyd. Spencer was jumpy and nervous. He didn't like to be on his own, and followed Floyd around needing to keep a constant eye on him.

Flanders had taken to locking himself in the bathroom for hours on end. The relationship was suffocating him. Never any space. Wherever he went Spencer was about a foot behind him.

Hotch had told him to give it time, but how much time did he need? Spencer's knee was as healed as it would ever be and had left him with a slight limp. His speech was faltering and stuttery and the hospital were trying to balance medication to stop the seizures he occasionally had. He wanted to go back to work. He needed to do what he had spent all his adult life so far doing. Going on his adventures - but he wasn't ready. He couldn't talk on the phone – he went into some sort of word block panic when confronted with the telephone receiver. He had counselling.

Spencer sat with his back to the bathroom door. He had an old faded T-shirt and a sarong on. Something Floyd had got for him and insisted he wore. One hand fiddled with the hem of his Tshirt the fingers on this other hand ran slowly over the small scar on his neck.

He had done it again. He tried to stop himself and he knew it drove Floyd crazy but he had driven him into the bathroom once more. They must have the cleanest bathroom in the state.

"F f floyd." A sigh. "I'm s s sor – I'm s s s…"

…………………….

Floyd sat on the floor in the bathroom a bottle of bleach in one hand and something to take him into dream land in a twist of cellophane in the other.

"You're sorry?"

Mutterings from the other side of the door.

"I'm cleaning. Go away Spence." He was looking at the shadow the other side of the door. Waiting for him to give up and go away. In his whole life he had never met anyone quite like his Spence. Ordinarily he would have snapped that annoying neck weeks ago but there was something about Spence. Something childlike and vulnerable and so easy to tease and manipulate – something he needed to protect.

With his life.

The shadow moved. Finally he was going. Floyd let out a sigh and put the bottle of bleach on the floor next to him. He then got up and got in the empty tub – herbal substance still held in his other hand. At least if he got a nose bleed from it, it would give him something to clean.

He put a small mound of it on the back of his thumbnail and closed his eyes. "Thank you my sweet." He inhaled and almost immediately slid down the tub with a glazed look and a half smirk.

…………………….

Reid got up from the door. There was no point in trying to say sorry. Floyd was now in full snarky mood and nothing was going to pull him back for a while. His knee made a nasty crack as he stood and a sharp pain shot up his leg.

He had wanted to go to the comic store. He knew they had a new delivery in and really would have liked going down there for a poke around to see if there was anything interesting. Comics he managed to read slower. He forced himself to look at each picture and examine the artwork before moving to the next cell. It was something he had really found hard to do, but was now enjoying collecting and reading them.

He grabbed his messenger bag and got in the elevator which took him down to the ground level. It wasn't until he got there that he realised he was still in the sarong and didn't have anything on his feet. There was maybe something in the machines still in the basement laundry, so he punched the button again and carried on down.

It was hot and stuffy down here. The machines had been running nearly all day by the feel of it. The owners of the other apartments rarely seen except on laundry day. Some weird other dimension of reality. Slowly and now in more pain he walked to the machine they used. It was being used by someone else. Their things had been removed and dropped still wet to the floor and had since been trampled and messed up. They would all need washing again and there was nothing available to wear.

The comic store now forgotten he dropped his bag onto the bean bag and picked their things up. This happened often. He hadn't told Floyd – no point in making more trouble. Spencer stuffed the clothes in an empty washer and poured liquid detergent in the dispenser. Quick wash option. Press the 'on' button and then sit and wait. If he left someone would likely just take the stuff out again.

He flopped back onto the bean bag and pulled his knees up, rubbing the sore one with the tips of his fingers. His eyes kept wandering back to the messenger bag. Inside that bag was his pot of painkillers. He sucked in his bottom lip imagining them sitting in there. The neurologist had suggested he stopped using them – though you know it's not like it's a problem. It's not like an addiction. He didn't need them. It was just this damned pain.

When he looked down he saw he was holding the pot in his slightly shaking hands. It would stop the shaking. Wouldn't it? He rattled the pot. Just one to take the edge off the pain would be fine. That wouldn't be a problem.

Spencer looked down to see a little huddle of pills in the palm of his hand. Too many really – but today was a bad day. He had pissed off Floyd again; he had forgotten to get dressed properly. The laundry was messed up and his knee was hurting more than it had done in a long time. A bit of relief from this was permitted wasn't it?

He slid down into the bean bag and put the pills in his mouth. Swallow them – you shouldn't crunch. He could taste the bitterness of them as his teeth ground them into a paste in his mouth and the colours shot across his vision and the sounds in the laundry room drifted away and were replaced by something else.

For a while it was a nice something else but gradually it changed. Something was going wrong. He was wet.

Spencer tried to open his eyes but he was still in a drug induced fog. He could hear voices and he could feel the pain but he couldn't respond. Not even to curl up and protect himself. The words though – somewhat familiar, but coming from unfamiliar mouths.

"Faggot, bastard, pervert, queer-boy, filth, molester, monster, scum, freak, degenerate, deviant, weirdo, depraved animal."

With each word a kick to the stomach or groin.

"You stay away from my son. You keep away from my children."

And now some kicks in the face. Then nothing. Sweet nothing.

He woke up shaking and wet. The clothes he had tried to launder where in a pile next to him. There was blood down the front of his T-shirt from a split lip and nose bleed. Spencer had no idea how long he had been down here, but now he just wanted to go home and curl up on the bed. He stood on shaking legs. He had bitten his tongue, his head hurt, his eyes hurt, every muscle in his body hurt. He bent over and threw up on the wet laundry. When did his life become such a mess? Once he had been happy. His own place, surrounded by his books and then that had been all he wanted or needed. Now he spent his days getting high in the laundry or getting drunk up in the apartment with someone who to be honest terrified him.

Occasionally Aaron would come to visit, but always on Floyd's invite. It wasn't something he was permitted to request. That was fine, as Floyd would tell him he was still repairing. He held his bag by the handle and leaned on the back wall of the elevator and pressed the home button. The sudden movement made him want to be sick again. They had kicked hard. Harder than last time. Last time he had hidden it from Floyd. This time he wasn't so sure he could.

The elevator stopped and slowly he pulled the door open.

The hope was that Floyd was still in the bathroom.

Hope was lost instantly as he looked up and saw Floyd looking back at him.

"What the hell happened to you?"

A slow shake of the head but he didn't move from the back wall.

"Someone hurt you?"

"I h h had a f f f……."

"Maybe, but someone hurt you. You have a boot print on your face."

"Oh."

………………………

Floyd took Spencer around the shoulder and helped him to the bedroom.

"Let me see what they did?" He lifted Spencer's T-shirt to see the black bruises across his ribs and stomach. "They could have killed you Spence. I am going to sort this out. I won't let them keep doing this to you."

"No! n no. Its f f fine."

"Sleep."

He left the room slamming the door so hard Spencer thought it was going to split the wood. He went to the phone on the wall and punched in a familiar number.

……………………………..

"Hotch." He recognised Spencer's home number on his caller display.

"They got him again. I don't want to have to kill the bastards Hotch, but I'm not going to let them keep doing this. He tries to hide it. He thinks I don't know."

"What do you want me to do? I will come round now. It's only paperwork."

"No no don't. He's sleeping now – I am going to take him away for a week or so. I promised him hike up to the waterfall."

"Oh."

"I will keep him safe. You know I will."

"I know."

"So if you don't hear from us for a while – well we will be skinny dipping up in the lakes."

"A bit cold for skinny dipping isn't it?"

"I will slather him in animal fat first."

"Lovely image. Let me know when you are going, I want to be there."

"Sure. I just did. We are going."

Receiver down.

………………………..

A/N: worth continuing? Please R&R Thank you !!!