Red Angel

Disclaimer: I do not own criminal minds or any of the characters; I also do not own the song "Over my Head" by the Fray

Warnings: angsty…very angsty – mention of suicide; Reid-centric

Spoilers: none…I don't think. This takes place sometime after Elle leaves the BAU

A/N: This is my first actual serious fic (and my first criminal minds fic) I love the show. If there are any mistakes…which there probably are, I'm sorry; my grammer is terrible. I have a hard time capturing characters that aren't mine, so sorry if they're a little occ…or a lot occ. It probably is over dramatized, but that's kind of the way it fell onto the page, so…

This is mostly just filler angst…they don't have a case or anything; it's about Reid because Reid is my favorite character. So…Please comment if I got my fact about Reid wrong or something like that, thanks!

Chapter one:

It started with a simple conversation. A conversation not meant for his ears, but heard by them just the same. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop; he just found himself doing so when he heard his name.

No. It hadn't started then, that was just the moment he had dreaded and played over in his head and in his dreams. No. It started long before his joining the BAU, back when he lived in Las Vegas, back when his mom became sick, when bullies delighted in tormenting him, when his father walked out without looking back. It started when he joined the BAU, when he researched the place he would be working, when he started looking up to Agent Jason Gideon. It started with the good-natured teasing, bringing back memories of the real teasing he endured everyday at school. It started when they had finished working on a case when the victims were children. It started when the nightmares had started.

Special Agent Dr. Reid stood beside a closed brown door, letters spelling out "Agent Aaron Hotchner" in black. He held his breath as he leaned as close as he dared to the door, ear inches from the smooth wood.

"Reid." The word was said in the unmistakable voice of Jason Gideon. "You mean Reid."

His blood turned cold, icy, clogging his veins and constricting his breathing.

A deep sigh, like the next words were hard to say. "maybe he doesn't belong here, Jason."

Another heavy sigh. "You're thinking what I've been thinking, Aaron."

It hurt to breathe. Reid whirled away, shock splayed across his thin face. His soft brown eyes widened with betrayal, deepening the wounds his own thoughts constantly inflicted on him. They…they don't want me here. Realization his him in the form of a sharp pain in his gut and his spindry fingers tightened their grip around the folder in his hands. He took a deep breath to keep the tears at bay. This was not the first betrayal he had experienced; and he had know the first one wouldn't be his last. He was realistic in that regard.

He stepped away from the door in a stunned daze, desperately blocking his thoughts from too long ago; from the time when he was younger, shorter, but very much the same. I should be used to this. He reminded himself.

Reid had never been comfortable at the BAU. He had found the semblance of a friend in Morgan, who never seemed to know when enough was too much and teased the resident genius endlessly. He used to talk to Elle, though was still much to extroverted for his comfort level; and then she had left, leaving a hole in their makeshift family. He had taken JJ to a Redskins game because Gideon had set it up, but that had ended in disaster thanks to his socially awkward nature. He didn't know the new girl all the well, only her name, and was generally uncomfortable in talking to people he didn't know. Garcia…well, to be honest, Garcia had the tendency to scare him with her hyperness, though he admired her ability to be optimistic and cheery considering the job they did. Hotch he had been intimidated by, but he had always sought his boss' approval. To hear how he had failed, or worse, how he didn't belong hurt like he hadn't known in years.

And Gideon…Gideon he had always admired, always looked up to. Something about the older man instilled in Reid a sense of confidence, of calmness; he was sometimes the only person Reid felt he could truly trust. Hearing his disproval was the worst pain Reid had ever experienced.

Taking a few gulps of air, he reined his emotions in and placed a mask of indifference on his face. This time when he reached the door, he knocked without the slightest delay.

"Come in." Hotch's voice rang out.

Reid opened the door and stepped inside. "JJ asked me to give you this file." He offered a manilla folder to Hotch.

Hotch took it and placed it on a stack of folders still waiting to be finished. "Thanks Reid."

Reid gave the two men a small, halfhearted smile before turning and walking out the door.

Gideon watched him go, unable to chase away the sudden feeling in his gut that something was wrong, and it frustrated him that he couldn't figure out what it was. He had a feeling it had a lot to do with the sadness he had seen lurking behind the young genus's eyes. He made a note to himself to watch Reid more closely for a while.

Reid opened the door to his apartment with a tired motion, allowing his exhaustion to permeate the air around him. Slamming the door shut, he flicked on the radio and flung himself onto the couch after throwing his bag in the corner. The day had been harder to get through than usual; besides his normal self-doubts, he know had Gideon's and Hotch's to worry about. He allowed his face to sink into the pillow and his brown hair to tickle his nose, his glasses pressed hard against his face; he had forgotten his contacts today. His chest hurt; it ached. Like something heavy was compressing his heart. A pained expression claimed his face, twisting his mouth until a wince escaped his clenched teeth.

I should have known they didn't want me there; the signs were obvious. What kind of profiler am I if I couldn't even see the signs? He sighed into the pillow. That's probably it. I'm not a good profiler. I should have known. I was stupid to think I could fit in.

Unbidden, memories of high school, of bullies, of the hateful words and beatings he had to endure, of the day he came home and his mother didn't recognize him, how in her fear she struck him, how he forgave her because she didn't know what she was doing, how his father left after his mother got sick, how he looked at Spencer coldly and told him he would never be anyone, how he would always be worthless. Spencer hated himself for that; for proving his father right, for never visiting his mom, for even trying to be someone when he knew it was useless. He hated himself for trying to be worth something when he knew he would always be worthless.

He allowed himself to lie on the couch, glasses cutting into his face, relishing in the pain he felt; it distracted him from the ache.

Do I want to leave? Should I leave before Hotch asks me to? No, I can't. I have to stay and help as long as I can. The people out there, the victims, they deserve help. I'll leave when I have to, but until then, I can't back out on helping. I'm the one who doesn't deserve help, who deserves all this pain.

He vaguely glanced at the radio he had turned on out of habit as the lyrics to a song by the Fray drifted from the small speakers.

"I never knew
I never knew that everything was falling through
That everyone I knew was waiting on a queue
To turn and run when all I needed was the truth
But that's how it's got to be
It's coming down to nothing more than apathy
I'd rather run the other way than stay and see
The smoke and who's still standing when it clears

He pushed himself from the couch, frowning as his glasses settled comfortable back on his nose, allowing the ache in his gut to grow; allowing the pain in his heart to increase.


Everyone knows I'm in
Over my head
Over my head…"

Reid's thin fingers pressed the off button with a grace he wished he didn't have. It hurt worse than he wanted to admit. He was graceful even in pain; and he wished he could let it all out, allow his body to rack with sobs, allow the tears to pour down his cheeks, allow himself to appear as weak as they believed him to be. But he couldn't. Years of self-preservation made it impossible to cry, to appear weak on purpose. He needed release. He needed to feel the pain. He needed…

He stared aimlessly at the kitchen, his eyes falling on a knife he had left there this morning. And he knew how to get what he needed. Walking towards the kitchen with purposeful steps, he paused for a moment at the end of the couch to shrug his jacket off and sling it over the back of the couch. Reaching the counter, he placed his fingers carefully, delicately across the edge of the knife.

Allowing his slender fingers to dance around the handle caused his breath to catch; he had never before noticed how beautiful the silver knife was. Rolling up his sleeve, he grabbed the knife. His resolve hung on the edge, and he hoped it would hurt, begged it to hurt, pleaded with it to distract him from all the memories flooding his brain. The tip dug into his flesh with precision and purpose and he hissed a bit at the pain. A crimson line flowed across his wrist. It was entrancing, the blood sliding from the wound; addicting, exhilarating, relieving. He had his release. And for the first time since he had left Hotch's office, he allowed himself to smile.