Author's Note: After having to consult with my Menu Design group about our collaborative project, and finding out that those little *explicative* *explicative* *explicatives* haven't done anything resembling work in the six weeks since we've started this schebang, I was feeling . . . well, slightly murderous. And we all know that Reid gets the brunt of my psychotic pissed-off-ness these days.

I have another fic in mind, but don't want to start it yet; I need some cool-off time before I try to sit down with another project, for fear that all of my personal crap is going to interfere with what I want to be a good story. So, to any I've promised some Morgan-Reid stuff; IT IS COMING. I have an idea, and I've got the beginnings of a document on my computer; I'm just waiting for the rest to come naturally.

In the meantime, have this. Yet another "Revelations" thing, lots of angst to spare. This takes place right before Reid was sent through the cameras to his team, when he got attacked by Charles and subsequently had his seizure from shock and overdose. I still get the shivers watching that scene . . . Oh . . .

Warning: This writing exercise contains HUH-YUGE spoilers for Criminal Minds, Season 2, Episode 15. DUH. Also, there may be violence, illusions to violence, confirmed drug use, and thoughts of a darker adult nature. You've been warned.

Disclaimer: I grew into the very disturbed person I am with the help of this show; but, alas, Criminal Minds is not something I list under my assets. Many kudos to those lucky bastards who do have that right. *Sighs*

As always, review if you feel up to it, don't if you're down with it.

Enjoy, of course!

"If you're going through Hell, keep going." – Winston Churchill

When Reid was once more released from the brief, blank reprieve that being unconscious provided, the darkness around him was so empty and complete that the young genius wasn't even sure that he was awake, yet. He pinched his eyes shut, and shook his head doggedly for a moment, until the ringing in his ears had stopped. When his lids again parted, Spencer was relieved to find that a small bit of color was pricking at the seemingly endless emptiness before him. And more was coming in – as his eyes adjusted, the cabin around him became clearer, and he was able to recognize the things around him.

As he had every time he'd come to before, the first thing Reid looked at was the window – through which he could see the backdrop of midnight blue, and a few, lone stars pinpricking the sky.

Night, he thought loosely. Another night . . . Did this mean he had slept through another full day? Or was it just later in the evening of the same day that . . .?

Reid's entire face crumpled as he remembered. He had killed someone – two someones – because he had been scared and weak and –

No, Reid interrupted himself, his inner voice fierce. You didn't kill anyone. Charles and Raphael did. You were coerced –

I could have held out –

No you couldn't have, not when Tobias –

Tobias.

With the thought, the young doctor's entire body jolted, and his head shot up, immediately searching for the other man, for any sign of any threat in any place.

At first, the room seemed as empty and as desolate as before. And still stinking of burned fish. But as Reid's vision cleared, and he strained forward in his seat, he could finally see the slouched figure of Tobias Hankel and a set of computer screens, in the room just in front of him. The door was cracked open slightly, and when Reid leaned forward, he could see that his abductor was typing on one of the monitors. Spencer squinted, and was just able to make out the image on the screen.

Oh, God.

He was watching the murders – for what time, Reid had no idea. Their profile said that the sadistic side of the unsub would have to relive his crimes over and over again . . . And if that's what was going on now, it could only mean one thing.

Charles was present.

Reid felt his breath catch, felt himself starting to breathe in and out entirely too fast. His vision began to fog, and the blood was rushing to his head. He couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything, couldn't think, couldn't breathe –

Mumbled cursings from the form in the other room made Reid freeze, his insides crawling.

It wasn't the voice of Tobias's father he heard.

It was Tobias.

While that was hardly a better option to be faced with – not when he was restrained in a chair and slowly breaking down – it was a more preferable option, and Reid's tensed-up shoulders relaxed.

But the rest of him didn't. His heart was still beating wildly, his vision distorted and his hearing bouncing around in echoes; his body was feverish and soaring, but he was shivering, and cold sweat was running down his face.

Reid gulped, and tried to think of something simple, something pleasant, to distract him – he knew he had to calm himself. His body was reacting to his environment, was shutting down, and, if he wasn't careful, Spencer knew he could black out again. He shuddered at the thought, and tried to remember his team; Morgan, JJ, Emily, Garcia, Hotch, Gideon . . .

That message Gideon left.

Reid almost smiled at the memory, but his happiness was hollow, and the stretching of his lips seemed a Herculean task. Gideon had been trying to help, trying to reassure Reid that he would be okay, that they were, in fact, coming . . . But Reid simply didn't believe him.

No matter what the senior profiler thought, Spencer had gotten that couple killed. Tobias – or, his father – had done nothing more than threaten Reid, had yelled and gotten too close for comfort and had completely taken aback the young genius, and . . .

. . . and he'd caved.

Caved.

Reid hated himself in that moment; for being so stupid as to get kidnapped in the first place, for not being able to fight his was free or talk himself out now that he was here, and, most of all, for being so intimidated by unkind words and someone stepping into his littler personal-space bubble that he'd made a rash, unthinking decision, and now two people were dead. Two, instead of one.

Reid tried, even now, to rationalize, to reason with himself that even having one person murdered was hardly preferable – but it didn't matter. His mind was already replaying the scene, forcing him to watch an innocent set of people meet their doom, once more – just the first time of many, he was sure, that he would have to relive what he'd done.

Maybe not. The thought came unbidden, and Reid was reluctantly bitter to admit the possibility that, maybe, he wouldn't have to keep seeing that couple's blood sprayed across their living room for much longer – because he might not be alive much longer, and –

No. Reid took in a sharp breath, trying to orient himself, trying to focus.

They'll find me, he thought, hoping desperately. He'd left a clue, after all . . .

An extremely cryptic one, his mind snarled back at him. Even you would have a hard time trying to tie the word "poacher" to anything relating to Tobias, and then just whip out a location.

Reid knew that it was a faint hope, and a small message – a last resort, really – but he had to hold on to the idea that his team members were searching for him. That they wouldn't just give up.

Gideon had said as much in his video.

The thought of that immediately, consequentially, jetted Reid back into remembering the crime scene they had been investigating in the background when the older profiler had sent the message; the people that had been murdered, what he had done . . .

Spencer felt himself starting to panic, and he did his best to force the crushing waves of guilt and shame and sadness away. His body protested the sudden flood of intense emotions by reacting sickeningly further, and the young genius doubled over in pain, sure tat he was about to throw up.

What is wrong with me? He thought desperately, trying to hold in the nausea and steady his erratic breathing.

It was perfectly natural, under the circumstances, to be frightened, and feeling a little ill . . . but this was more than that, Spencer recognized. He truly felt . . . bad.

His blood was rushing through his veins so rapidly, giving Reid a sort of buzzing feeling, like he was floating in the air . . . at the same time, his bones ached, as though someone was slowly compacting them, crushing them inch by horrid inch.

He was sweaty, itchy, and cold. He simultaneously wanted to fall asleep, and jump up out of chair and run around. He couldn't close his eyes for more than a second, couldn't follow one train of thought long enough to complete an idea in his mind, and his heart felt like someone had wrapped a fits around it and was slowly squeezing, as if trying to make the organ burst.

Uncomfortable didn't even begin to describe how he was feeling; Reid was in agony, and only kept himself from whimpering – or anything louder – at the thought of Tobias; if the kinder personality was present, and he thought that Reid was in pain, he would surely try to shoot him up again.

And if Charles was present instead. . .

Biting his lips, Spencer forced himself to keep quiet, and, slowly, the nausea and achiness in his fiery limbs began to ebb away, and he felt like he could breathe again.

Slowly, so as not to arouse either the other man's attention or another flare-up from his own body, Reid opened his eyes, and scanned his figure, trying to assess any damage.

Nothing new from before, he thought, bitterly, as he took in the sight of his wrangled, exhausted frame. His foot was still bent wrong and coated with marks, but hurt no more than earlier, and at least it had stopped swelling . . . he could still feel the dried blood coating the left side of his face, but that, too, was nothing compared to what it had been yesterday . . . There was a faint itchiness emanating from the crook of his right arm, but that didn't surprise Spencer; Probably just those needle wounds, and –

Once again, Reid interrupted himself mid-thought. An idea had occurred to him, and he glanced down at his aching appendage, silently praying that he was wrong.

All three needle marks (and it still disturbed Reid greatly that he could not remember where one of those had come from) were swollen, a painfully obvious red color on his pale skin, and heat seemed to radiate from them, searing into his body.

A medical doctor Spencer Reid was not – but he didn't need to be, to do the math. He'd been dosed – he shuddered – three times, over the course of approximately 35-36 hours. If one figured that each injection had been enough to make him hallucinate – approximately two grams for myself, Reid reasoned – then that would mean he'd taken close to ten grams in less than two days, and . . .

. . . and I'm going to overdose.

The thought terrified Reid, and he could immediately feel his heart starting to race again, and frantically tried to force himself to calm down, breathing in slowly and deeply.

After a moment, his body, while still tense and pulsing with it, returned to a relative state of normality, and Reid was able to think clearly again.

So he'd had too much . . . Reid shook his head, frustrated still by his not knowing just what it was Tobias kept injecting him with. He could determine, by the way it kept knocking him unconscious, that it was some sort of a form of depressant; and, as it was in a needle . . . Heroin?

God, no, Reid pleaded, not caring for a moment that he was not a religious man, and that, even if he was, no God had been near this place in quite some time. All he could think about was how easily, how quickly and mercilessly, one could die if they were strung out on heroin. He prayed, begged, did everything short of getting on his knees and testifying, that that wasn't what Tobias kept shooting him up with.

Please . . .

After a few moments, Reid returned from his dark and muddled thoughts, trying to reason with himself. The fact was, no matter what Tobias was giving him, he knew he couldn't afford another dose. His body was already desperately trying to pump himself clean of the toxins, cooking them out with fever and trying to vomit out the rest . . . one more injection, Reid knew, and it could very well be too much for his heart.

He could die.

A seasoned FBI profiler, held hostage twice, only to meet his end at the hand of one-too-many times taking drugs, Reid thought bitterly, before forcibly reminding himself that he wasn't taking anything; Tobias was forcing them on him.

He was still innocent.

Wish I could convince Charles of that, Reid reflected for just a moment, before his thoughts turned back to his own doings. For how much longer would he be innocent – if he even still was? And, somehow, Reid doubted that, as he thought over everything that had happened – from all the way back to his mom and dad, to the way he had had to manipulate the dangerous people he hunted and occasionally came face-to-face with at work, even back to his lies to Tobias, and how he could save them both . . .

Reid snorted, disgusted with himself, and then shook his head violently, reaching up to rub his eyes, to change his thoughts, to wipe everything off . . .

Oh, right, he remembered, as his wrists strained and ached against their handcuffs.

He had to stop wallowing, had to remember who he was and where he was and what he was doing there – and, as his heart began racing again, Spencer realized that he especially had to remember his physical state at the moment – to calm down and think.

Reid still had no idea as to whether or not he would get out of this situation alive or not – and his hope was waning with each passing minute that he was still locked up in a cabin with a fanatical killer – but he knew that, whether or not the team had understood his clue and was coming, his best chance at survival now lay in stalling for as long as he could.

Reid winced, knowing that the longer he lived, the angrier Charles would become, the more likely he would suffer – more games of one-sided Russian Roulette, probably more beatings, and, as a result, more drugs – but being alive and in pain was preferable to death in any form; and Spencer Reid did not want to die.

It would be best to just keep quiet, he recognized, listening again for more sounds of movement from the room in front of him.

Talking had gotten him nowhere. Begging had gotten him nothing useful. Pleading, screaming, crying, plying, and even lying had done nothing to help his situation whatsoever.

So, Reid decided, I'll just stay silent. No more words, no more sounds, no more gestures –nothing. It might just be the best way to keep Tobias off-kilter until . . .

Well, until something.

The young doctor just stared at the ground then and for the next several hours, completely lost in a tangle of his own thoughts and hopes and fears, undesirous and unwilling to face what lay ahead of him; wanting, if just for a little while, to retreat into his own mind and ignore the horror that had become his reality.

But, like it or not, reality came knocking when he heard an angered "No!" from ahead of him, voiced by Charles.

Reid looked up just in time to see the frenzied alter ego slam a chair across the room in apparent fury, and his breathing quickened, insides running cold with fear.

Calm down, keep still, be quiet, he frantically reminded himself as Charles turned to face him, a maniacal glint in his eye. Don't be scared.

But Reid couldn't help it; he was scared, heart beating loudly and frantically and quaking as he sat there, waiting for whatever was next.

"They're trying to silence my message!"