Title - Whittled - Part 2

Author - Kourion

Summary: For two months, Spencer Reid had been missing. And now he had been found. Abducted by a man called the Hunter Moon Killer. And like all of the HMK's victims, Reid had been brutalized. But unlike the others, he's the only one to have ever been found alive. / Reid-pain. HC/ Morgan-Reid friendship fic.

Please note: these chapters may be shorter than my average length chapters (typically, I prefer 5,000+ word chapters. In this case, since my net access is restricted to the library until my computer, I will try to post more frequently, even if the chapters themselves are shorter. In other words: I'll do my best :)).

My spell check, of course, is non-existant atm. All errors are my own.

I don't know if I've gotten 'Reid' at all here. Don't get me wrong: I love him to pieces, but he's so much cuter than I am and genuinely sweeter...whereas I usually get compared to a blond Lisbeth Salander or something. :/

Any personality 'differences'...well, just try to chalk them up to trauma on Reid's part, jaja?

Reid's POV

I'm not used to being rude.

But I'm also not used to feeling like this.

This combination of anger, loss, rage and everything else so tightly wound up in one, overreactive bundle.

Contradictory feelings. A sense of wanting to be alone, to have Morgan leave. To just...not have to worry what he's thinking about. What he's thinking of me. Of who I am now.

And then another very real, very present part of me wants him to stay. Maybe get a bite of supper, play a game of chess, or something. Not talk, no. But do relatively normal things. Things that we used to do together on the plane, or on our downtime.

But he's just watching me. Just studying me, observing me - and I hate it. It's making me irritable, and defensive.

I clear my throat.

"Thanks for helping with the clothes, Morgan."

Even his name sounds wrong when I say it now.

Everything sounds wrong when I say it now.

"No problem, kid," he mutters softly. Like he has to be nice to me. As if I'll break apart if he doesn't whisper-talk.

And I hate that too.

Whisper-talking.

Like I'm some abused...child, or something.

He tosses over one remnant sock in my direction. I catch it with uncharacteristic quickness, then wince as I feel something sting and tug like a cord-line through my wrist.

And that would be stitches, you idiot.

"Not a problem," Morgan adds a moment later, when I look down and away from him. I'm hoping he'll clue in soon. That I don't like him watching me. It makes my guts squirm. "It's not like you have that much stuff here. You sure you don't want me to go back to your place and get more of your stuff?"

I hesitate.

I don't really want too many of my possessions here.

It would feel like I'm moving in. As if they all expect me to be here for an extended period of time, now. And I don't like that prospect. It makes me feel - suddenly - hot and dizzy.

It brings back ancient fears of being locked away.

Like my mother.

"I don't know. Maybe that makes sense. Maybe," I agree, just a few beats too late. "I just don't want to get too comfortable here. I-"

I stop talking.

Before - before all this - I never realized how completely ridiculous I sounded most of the time. My voice, far too high pitched. Now I have that understanding, and the memories, too. Too many memories.

Screaming and pleading. And crying.

Giving in.

I hate my voice now. All the same, I wish I could just get on with everything and not have to speak at all.

Though selective mutism surely won't allow me to return to work anytime soon...

And I need to work.

I need to do something other than think about what happened.

"Spencer?"

I wish he'd stop doing that too. Calling me Spencer.

I was never "Spencer" to Morgan. I was Reid. Always Reid. Well, sometimes "kid" - but usually Reid. Never "Spencer."

But then someone hurts me - and suddenly I'm Spencer?

Only Henry gets to call me Spencer. And my mom.

Everything else seems out of place and disordered and wrong.

Just another reminder of what happened, and what's changed.

"Reid?"

"Fine. Yes. That would be good. Thank you."

Sometimes, now - I have to talk. If I don't, they get concerned. Even more concerned than they already are, and I can't have that at all. Not when I'm the cause of so much of it in the first place.

But I hate that my voice sounds even more shrill than it did before I was taken.

Even more high pitched.

Even more-

'Scream like a little girl, Agent! Scream for the cameras!'

And suddenly, there we have it: my body is no longer hot.

I now feel cold and prickly and drenched in sweat.

A curl of coldness wraps around my ears. Trails down my spine.

And then Morgan's hands are on my shoulders, trying to get me to sit down, except there IS nowhere to sit down because we're in the god damn laundry room and-

"Breathe, Reid. Come on, buddy."

'Buddy.'

Another dreaded one to add to the list. The list of names I don't want to be called.

"Kid?"

I realize that I'm sitting cross legged on the floor. I can't even recall if Morgan positioned me this way, or if I just did this myself in a daze.

I cup my head in my hands, and will myself not to cry in front of him. I don't even feel sad. But my body - my eyes - they want to cry.

Stop it.

Morgan re-places his hand lightly on my shoulder. I know he's trying to be supportive. I know he thinks - must think - that it helps. But it doesn't. It almost makes it worse. Because it makes everything seem that much more real. And I don't want to feel real at all.

I want to feel numb.

His fingers lazily drift back and forth over my shoulder blades, and I feel my intestines tighten up into a coil. Almost on instinct, I pull down my shirt, moreso. Not just over the cuts. Over my hands.

Even if I wanted to refrain from doing so, I wouldn't be able to...

"Please talk to me, Reid. We haven't really talked at all, and it's what you need. Trust me on this, kid."

"You don't need to be nice to me, Morgan. I'm fine," I pant. If I speak, maybe I won't cry. That's my hope right now. "I just got dizzy for a second."

Morgan doesn't say anything to that. Thank God.

I will the tremulous, gaping weepiness to depart.

And then a thunderclap of words:

"What have you eaten today, Reid?"

I still myself. Take in a breath.

Don't want to let it out again...

"Reid?"

I let the breath out. It rattles in my throat.

"I need to drink more water. I don't drink enough water. That's it. That's all."

"Reid," Morgan fixes me with a not-quite glare. "I didn't ask you that. I asked you what you've eaten today. What have you eaten?"

I wave him away dismissively.

"Soup, salad, - maybe some biscuits. Stuff. They bring me stuff, I eat it."

Like a good little psych ward patient.

My voice is bitter and I sound like a child. A petulant, snot-nosed child.

"Reid," and Morgan finally exhales.

Good.

I hope he gets angry. I hope he does. Anything but this niceness.

"I know you're down at least a couple more pounds. The only way that could happen is if you've cut back on your already inadequate diet, moreso. And I know you're on exercise restriction, so it-"

I feel anger flare up in my throat.

"That's none of your business. That's my business. They shouldn't have told you. I could get them-"

"Reid!," and Morgan looks almost alarmed. With me.

At worst, BEFORE, he looked exasperated.

Never alarmed.

But that was BEFORE and this is NOW.

"No one told me anything, Reid. They didn't need to. Your spine comes through your shirt. Your face is concave. And I know that no one here is going to go let you do anything physically strenuous in that state."

I want to kick at something, but that won't do any good. That will only delay my ability to get on with my life, and return to work. Morgan will confess all my little slip-ups to Hotch, and then they'll put something in my file and I'll be watched like a hawk for the next year.

But if I leave here AMA, it's going to become even worse-

"Reid, man. Listen. I'm not the enemy here."

I quell my age-old habit of running my hands through my hair. Wanting to straighten it out. It's a nervous tick, and one I've never quite been able to completely quell. That, along with fiddling with my watch. Spinning it around on my wrist.

Although I've made some progress on my most overt stims. Especially in the last few weeks.

Of course, these days, I also just end up ripping out the cuticles from my finger nails in the dark. If only to feel the pain swell, blot out the rotting in my gut. That almost-grief: the near-panic that I'll never be me again. Or, maybe even worse: that even if I could be the old me, once more - I wouldn't be happy with that anymore.

So now my fingertips burn, and when I look down I catch the slight ruby tint of dried blood.

I can feel a pulse drum in my head like a gong.

"Look, Reid. I hate this. You hate this even more, I'm sure. But I don't just want to up and leave. I know that's what you want right now, but I don't think it's healthy. You need to talk about this. If not to me, then to someone. You can't just keep it all inside. It'll eat you alive. Trust me."

My scabs itch.

I want to peal the healing away and let the itch die down, but I can't.

My wrists are wrapped in five sheaths of bleached-white gauze, topped with heavy duty nursing tape completing the whole look. If I pull the gauze apart, it's just going to be re-bandaged and I'll probably be lectured.

"So...you're just going to ignore me then? Is that the plan?"

"I'm not ignoring you, Morgan," I grind out. "I just refuse to talk about this with you."

His eyes turn serious. Like he's talking to one of the survivors from our cases.

"Reid. I get it. I do. But you have to know that I understand what you're going through. Maybe better than anyone else on the team. I want to help you, but you have to give me the chance."

Except he doesn't.

Understand, I mean.

Not really.

Because he was a kid when he was hurt.

A child.

And I was a man.

And an FBI agent.

And I relinquished.

And it was filmed.

and everyone saw. and everyone knows.

everything

"Get rid of the shame, Reid. Come on, trust me on this! Don't own this shame. Don't own it. Reject it. Don't let that monster make you feel like this about yourself. You're still you, Reid. You just need time to heal."

I bottlecap a choking in my throat. A sound like tires on pavement tries to escape, instead, and I realize dimmly that Morgan must have heard it, too.

Because I want to believe Morgan. So much.

But I don't.