Obviously I do not own Criminal Minds or any of its affiliated characters.

Spencer Reid was tired.

Not tired of living itself, per say, but of living here. On earth. In a world full of tears and endings and rot.

The only thing that made it worthwhile was the blood. Ever since he was a little boy, the beauty of the strange liquid appealed to him in a way that nothing had before, or would again. Some things came close, such as the curve of a woman's legs, or the giggle of his godson Henry. Yet nothing matched the beauty of blood.

Even as a child, this fondness for blood disturbed Spencer Reid greatly. Everything he was allowed to read as a child showed the enjoyment of blood as something wrong, something evil. But it wasn't as if he wanted to hurt anyone, to cause suffering. He just wanted to admire its beauty.

Eventually, he was able to justify it as an appreciation for creation. If other people could admire the sun and the stars and the human form, surely her could appreciate the beauty of that which flowed through some of creation's most precious creatures?

And Spencer Reid was always careful; careful never to cause himself or another human to bleed if he could avoid it. Blood was far too precious for indulging the carnal pleasure he felt when he saw the liquid. He never shot an unsub if he could avoid it, never killed an animal, never cut himself. He wouldn't even eat a blue steak.

Spencer Reid had almost come to terms with his odd appreciation when he joined the BAU. Although afterwards he wouldn't admit it to himself, the fact that he would be exposed to blood, real, human blood had played a significant motivating factor in his decision to accept his position in the bureau. He could appreciate its beauty while helping to end the suffering and bring justice to an act so terrible it was almost impossible it could have revealed beauty in any form in the first place.

But over time, Spencer Reid grew more conflicted. He still loved the sight of blood, but seeing it spilled over cold limbs and thirsty ground gave him a feeling of absolute wrongness in the pit of his gut. Something so beautiful should never be ripped from the safety of its fleshy vessel and exposed to all the horrors of the world.

And yet so often, this heinous crime, this corruption of beauty and the remains of what was right, was committed. And time and time again, it was left unavenged. Certainly, a few monsters were convicted and shut away from all that was beautiful, left to moulder behind dead walls. But so many were let out again, brought back to a world of living beauty, and some were never taken from it in the first place. And Spencer Reid was tired of this injustice.

The first time he felt blood on his hands, really felt it, not a spot of blood or a trickle, but a steady, gushing flow, Spencer Reid realized he had never felt something as wonderful as he was feeling at that moment. Even through the drugstore latex gloves he wore he could feel its beauty. The words commonly used to describe blood- warm, sticky, crimson- didn't do justice to what he saw and felt. Certainly, it wasn't human blood, it was the blood of a monster, but for some strange, inexplicable reason, in his eyes the blood of the corrupted looked just like the blood of the innocent.

And there was so much of it. With the number of corpses Spencer Reid had seen slashed to pieces, it wasn't difficult (in fact it was frightfully easy) to know just where to cut the neck, arms and legs to cause the tainted blood to spill, to destroy the ones who would dare to mock blood's precious beauty.

Some people understood, or at least came as close to understanding as he believed was possible. So while some spat in disgust at the actions of a "serial killer", other defended him, standing behind him as he hunted the monsters.( He had thought that maybe JJ would understand, but she had to stand behind the camera and be the official voice of the FBI, so she couldn't really agree with him even if she wanted to.) After all, she still had to do her job, just as he had to do his.

So Spencer Reid nodded, and frowned, and drank copious amounts of coffee to remain awake while he completed a geographic profile which he knew would mean nothing. He watched as Hotch and Morgan, Prentiss and Rossi, JJ and Garcia ran after the scraps of nothing he had left behind. He watched as they puzzled and thought and withdrew, and he killed and killed and killed again.

However, somewhere in the back of his mind, Spencer Reid knew that even he, Avenger of Beauty, wouldn't be able to fool the team forever. He might have the mind of a genius, but he was one and they were six.

So in the end, it wasn't a surprise when his apartment was transformed into a hive of noise and controlled chaos. He knew it wasn't the apartment of a serial killer, of those monsters he tracked and slaughtered. He hadn't kept trophies, in fact, he hadn't changed the place a bit since the team came to his apartment the first time, when they were helping him recover from Maeve's death. Maeve, whose beautiful, beautiful blood should have remained in the jeweled casket which was her body, but was instead torn apart by the Queen of Monsters. No, it was the apartment of one who avenged and saved, not one who destroyed.

But still, it was no surprise to see Prentiss and JJ pointing their guns at him, unflinching. They might have been falling apart on the inside (after all, they didn't really understand), but they were too professional to let it out now, during the arrest.

It was no surprise that it was Morgan who confiscated his gun and credentials before exiting the room abruptly so he wouldn't lose control of his anger and confusion.

It was no surprise that Rossi was the one to take his hands from behind his head (more roughly than he had expected, granted) and cuff them behind his back.

And it was no surprise that Hotch was the one to say "Spencer Reid, you're under arrest."

And as he sat in the interrogation room, his hands constrained in front of him, his hair gently curling around his ears, his wide eyes a little bit older, a little more confident then when he had first entered the bureau, but still glowing with the conviction of the innocent, Spencer Reid knew that they were there. They were standing just outside of the room, hoping against hope that he would not say what he was about to say.

Prentiss would be maintaining her composure, breathing with her mouth partially open as the only obvious sign that something was disturbing her. Garcia's face would be crumpled and red as she sobbed openly, while JJ's whole form would stiffen and tremble as she fought against those same tears. Morgan would be clenching his fists, trying to control his raw emotion, while Rossi would watch, calm and composed, his face a mixture of a frown of worry and a frown of profound disappointment. Strauss would be there too, as cold as ever, simply to make sure that procedure was followed by the book.

And Spencer Reid knew, as he looked into Aaron Hotchner's dark, dark eyes, that although he had avenged and saved so much of the beauty that blood brought into the world, the blood of Spencer Reid would stop flowing sooner than nature intended, because he had killed them. And he was not sorry.