A/N: Okay okay I've come to yet another compromise to the sexual abuse thing. I'm not going to do it because a lot of people are against it and I kind of don't want to lose readers because I make them feel uncomfortable. But! I am planning on writing a fic on my lj (which is posted on my FF profile) and it will be centered around that precisely. This way everyone wins. I'll also inform you in my author notes on if I've started it or not. I write some other CM fic on there if you wanna check it out btw. :) Anyway I'm sorry again for the long update! I'm thinking Reid will be found soon, but expect quite a few recovering/aftermath chapters. This story is sooo not close to finished yet. Enjoy! Oh and reviews are greatly appreciated. It sounds lame, but when I don't get them I don't feel like I'm doing a good job haha!
Flashing lights surrounded the area around Morgan and Hotch as they stood over a pool of blood. Neither one had spoken since they had gotten out of the vehicle they had arrived at the crime scene in. It was all too much – too overwhelming. The body had just been moved therefore the only thing left was the drying blood and bullet casing a few feet away. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Hotch had decided earlier in the evening that if he continued to get as hot headed as he had when they had first found everything out, that he wouldn't go about solving all of this right. He also had a debate on whether technically he was solving a case or saving his subordinate. It was a tough draw. The latter made him use less of his brain and more of his heart. Morgan on the other hand refused to hide away how angry he was. It wasn't unlike the experienced agent though, but it wasn't truly helpful either. Every moment it seemed as if he was going to punch a wall... or even a person if he had a good reason to. He was harmless though.
"Agent Hotchner?" asked a voice from behind the two men. They both turned on their heel, even though Hotch had been the only one requested.
"Yes?" he asked, voice monotonous; dry.
"We found this on the sidewalk – it might pertain to finding your agent. I don't know of any other reason it'd be around here and there was a small pool of blood just a couple of feet from it."
The detective handed Aaron the bagged evidence. Morgan definitely didn't allow the unit chief to have his privacy while examining the evidence, which normally might've irritated the man. This time it didn't really matter. Both eyes scrolled over the words Hill Top Motel. It was a tiny sticky note that was usually left on the dressers or night stands at hotels (and motels). Both agents felt a jerk of hope inside their chest. Hotch was the first to speak.
"Dust that for prints," he told the detective before turning to Derek, "Call Rossi and Prentiss. We're going to the Hill Top Motel."
While sprinting back to the SUV, Hotch couldn't help but admire how well Reid was at leaving clues while he was in dangerous situations.
The worst kind of sleep was a cold sleep, in Reid's opinion. In fact, when he was cold he could hardly ever reach the third, fourth and fifth cycles of sleeping because of the discomfort he was in. However, when he was knocked unconscious, the cold seemed to find him in his incoherent dreams. It seemed to surround him and frighten him. The dream was odd though, for he couldn't see a thing. He could only feel hands all over him – touching and invading. He had to be naked. It wasn't even in a sexually arousing way; more so just to dominate him. Then his breath left his lungs and he was dying. Scientifically speaking, you can never die in your dreams. If you jump off of a building, you always wake up before you fall. If you die in your dreams, you never wake up.
Gasping and coughing for air, Spencer's eyes shot open. His vision was extremely blurry, but he could see the outline of a body hovering over him. He didn't need two guesses to whom it was. His body felt groggy again, like his brain couldn't function like it usually did. In fact, comprehending the situation took far longer than it usually would have. The familiar feeling of narcotics invaded his body and it wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair how once again, he had no choice. He didn't want them – he didn't crave them. In fact, the idea of not being in control of his body disgusted him.
"Dr. Spencer Reid. Supervisory Special Agent at the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI." Reid blinked a few more times, attempting to sit up from his laying position. His wrists were bound in front of him, along with his feet. He realized he was wearing nothing more than his boxers. Kind of like his dream-. He blinked again, the scene becoming a little more clear. Rob continued, "You were addicted to Dilaudid. You worry about your mental health because of your mother. You hold three doctorates: Mathematics, Chemistry and Engineering. All by the age of twenty-one too! Two under-graduates in Psychology and Sociology." His eyes were so heavy, but he kept trying. Kept blinking, beginning to forcefully examine his surroundings. "You think you're going to be a Schizo, don't you, Spencer? Ah, you graduated high school when you were twelve. Cal Tech for college? How classy, kid. Tell me, what is a genius like you doing in the BAU? Profiling people. Hmm, I haven't been trained like you, but I think I could get you down. At least slightly. You're a misunderstood genius who obviously had some sort of trauma when you were younger that directed you in the way of the FBI. You've never been in love or even had a real girlfriend before. You are either truthfully socially awkward or you don't have time for love. Or perhaps you don't have the self-confidence. You had a fling once though, right? With Lila Archer... don't you think she's a bit out of your league? Why of course you do; this magazine is dated from 2006. You didn't even keep contact. You don't think you have any real friends and your job is your life. You had a drug problem, but you've been clean for quite a while now. Your one year chip is a beauty." Spencer managed to see passed Rob. The fabric from his own couch stared back at him. His eyes immediately shot to the left where his bookshelf stood high and packed. They shot to the right where his door was shut, all locks in place. They were in his own apartment. "It's funny how your driver's license has your address on it, isn't it? And how someone as smart as you would hide your spare key in such an easy spot?"
Spencer squirmed from his spot, but it seemed as if his body was acting against him. The pain he just realized was pooling in his stomach shot to something nasty and excruciating as soon as he kicked his tied legs. His throat felt so dry that he couldn't talk. He was completely and utterly shocked and confused at the situation.
"You know, Spencer, addicts shouldn't hold onto the things they are trying so hard not to use. Why on earth did you have this with a syringe in your medicine cabinet?"
Reid almost wanted to speak and explain, but this sick man did not deserve an explanation. It was the young genius' way of knowing he didn't need it anymore. By having it in blind sight every single morning and walking away from it was the most powerful and successful feeling. He didn't even want to use. He didn't need to. Rob knew nothing about Spencer. Nothing really. Before his thoughts could proceed, he felt a sharp kick in his stomach, causing him to let out a sort of wheeze. His lungs gave out for a few moments. That must have been why he felt like he was drowning on air in his sleep. The taste of blood hit his lips from the back of his throat. He was sure if he wasn't being medicated right now, he would be in a lot more pain than he felt. It didn't make him feel the slightest bit better.
Spencer Reid was not going to die, but he was going to wish for death before all of this was over.
"Son of a bitch!" Morgan bellowed, kicking at a patch of dirt and rock on the ground right outside the Hill Top Motel. Hotch nodded his head, completely agreeing with his subordinate's thoughts, but not feeling the need to say them aloud. Morgan began to shake his head to himself, utterly pissed off. Of course it would have been too obvious to go back to the motel. Too dangerous, but part of Morgan, a really big part, wanted the UnSub to be so stupid as to do so.
Rather than comment at all on the matter, Hotch found himself walking towards the VW van. It was parked a few yards away from where he stood, crime scene tape clearly marked around it. They would need to take it in soon, but everything needed to be gathered. Perhaps there were more clues – though he doubted it. It was as if a dog had eaten all of the potential bread crumbs Reid might've left for them. The underground casino hadn't gotten them to the concert venue. The double murder had gotten them to the concert venue and something told Hotch that if this had led them to nothing, Reid would have to genius his way out of this. That maybe they wouldn't be able to help, as much as they wanted to. Needed to.
"What have you found, Detective?" asked Hotch as he approached the crime scene tape. The older man cleared his throat and pointed at the vehicle.
"We've got blood. Lot's of it, but it's mostly really old. From earlier victims, I assume. All of the lava lamps are in there, but none of them are empty. I assume he either didn't use one on your agent or he disposed of it already-"
"He wouldn't dispose of it... he'd keep it as a reminder. There were no empty lamps at all?" Hotch mentally shuttered at the idea of Reid having been tortured with that. It just wasn't right or acceptable.
"Well, there were, but here's the weird thing... Rolled up inside of them was a picture of each of the victims. I'm assuming right before he killed them. There wasn't any of Agent Reid so I don't think we should assume he is dead."
Hotch suddenly did not like the words 'dead' and 'Agent Reid' in the same sentence. His brows furrowed, as if they were almost frowning.
"I have no doubt that he is alive still, Detective. The only thing I don't know is for how much longer. Is there any other evidence of him in there?"
"Well," the detective began, handing Hotch more bagged evidence. This time it was clothes. "Are these his clothes?"
Hotch took the bag and didn't need to look twice before nodding and giving it back to the detective.
"I need to meet up with my team to figure out what it is we're doing next."
"Stay awake, Spencer. Or should I call you Reid like your colleagues? They seem quite charming."
Reid was now sitting up, tied to his own kitchen chair where he, on numerous occasions, sat and ate dinner alone. The room seemed even colder than it had before.
"Is this what you were like at work after you got high? Honestly, I don't see how they dealt with you. You're not much of a help to me even. Wake up."
A low groan passed Spencer's lips as his half lidded eyes glared up at Rob.
"Perhaps if you hadn't of drugged me in the first place," he retorted, voice dry and scratchy. He couldn't remember the last time he had even been hydrated. The worst part was he was in his own home, where he knew there was water in the fridge just feet behind him and there was nothing he could do about it.
For his remark, he received a sharp slap against his profound cheekbone and then before he even expected it, a back handed slap the other way. A small whimper forced it's way through his tired throat. Spencer found it in himself to continue the small speech he had begun.
"Or were you not strong enough to keep me incapacitated without drugging me? Thought you wouldn't be able to handle me after I woke up? I'm assuming you were shocked at how strong I was really was. I would've been able to take you down in that parking lot if you hadn't of had my gun. You're just weak."
"Shut up!" Rob ordered, red fury rising in his cheeks. He quickly got out the syringe from his pocket, taunting it at the boy in front of him.
"Oh drug me some more. You do realize the more you do it, the less pain I feel. That's the point in burning your victims right? So you can see their pain. Hell, it probably gets you off. Then you document it somehow and relive torturing and killing innocent people just so you can finally get a rise out of-"
Before any more words could be said, Rob thrust the syringe into Reid's arm. He did not even put anything in it. Just continued to jab the needle into his forearm over and over again, little dots of blood rising to the surface with the more force he used each time. The agent's eyes slammed shut and it was more than difficult not to make the pained noises that so badly wanted to escape his throat. He didn't want to give the man in front of him a reason to like this. Once Rob realized that nothing was coming out of it, he threw the syringe across the room and walked straight to the other end of the kitchen. The wetness in Spencer's eyes was undeniable, but it couldn't be seen yet. His arm had a series of tiny marks that stung horribly.
When Rob returned, he held a knife in his hand. Reid really wasn't surprised, but he wasn't exactly excited for what came next either. Squeezing his eyes shut, he winced at the cold metal against his hand. Then it was gone and moments later, his wrists were no longer bound together. Soon all of the rope holding him to the chair had disappeared. Before Rob came back up from where he was squatting on the floor, he sliced the blade behind both of Reid's ankles, causing a loud whimper from a few feet above him.
"Run Spencer. I want you to run. Go on, get out! Run!"
The pain that now seared through his ankles caused his lack of judgment as he did as he was told to. He ran, oh he ran like hell. He didn't make it but five feet though before he collapsed onto the ground. The only thing he could feel was his body shaking from the cold and the pain, his elbows attempting to crawl him towards the door before him. Before he even made it to the mat in front of it, calloused hands took hold around his ankles, causing it to burn even more so than it had before. As his voice finally allowed him to scream, his legs were dropped and a foot soon kicked him in the face. Rob sunk to his knees, looking Spencer in his pained eyes and smirked. He smirked and through all the pain and discomfort Reid felt, he could not have been more angry at the fact that this man was on top of him and smirking. Then the real pain occurred. Right in his stomach, in between his ribs was the feeling of being invaded. His flesh was being invaded with the knife, the stab causing Spencer to lose his breath just as much as it had before. His eyes shot wide and he couldn't allow a muscle in his body to move. They wouldn't even spasm. His eyes fell shut moments later and all he could do was heave. Heave and hope someone would find him. Heave and hope that he didn't bleed out. Heave and hope that someone would find the need to come to his apartment. Heave and hope that it couldn't get much worse than this.
A/N: Just saying really quick the idea of his ankles being cut totally hurts my feet haha, but it was necessary. Don't hate me for torturing himmm. :( Also, with having gotten some confused reviews, I realize I haven't been very specific about the time line. Let me just point out that the team has been very slow at figuring everything out and there's been at least 12 hours inbetween the concert venue incident and arriving at Reid's home (obviously you cannot just walk to VA from TN) haha. Sorry for not clearing all of that up! Don't doubt me, it's all part of my master plan. :)