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Spencer wakes up tied to a bed. His head is pounding and he's immediately brought back to Georgia and Henkel and the cabin. Panicked, he struggles against his bonds, shoulders aching with the effort.
"Ah, look who's awake."
Spencer's blood runs cold. George Dremper sits at the foot of the bed, watching him with a hungry smile. He caresses his ankle, piercing blue eyes as cold as ice running up and down the length of his body with sickening intent. Dremper, who is a serial rapist with a taste for brown-haired college boys, has him tied to a bed. He's never been more accutely aware of how young he looks than in this moment.
"Don't," he says, trying to jerk out of his grip. Dremper gets up, trailing his hand along his leg. Bile rises in his throat as the hand squeezes his thigh, then higher. He squeaks. This can't be happening.
"Look at you," Dremper coos, "Those agents practically sent you to me on a platter. I should really thank them, don't you think?" His shirt is untucked, that same hand creeping underneath to catalogue his skin. He squirms, trying futilely to get away. The mattress creaks as Dremper climbs on top of him. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes as his shirt is roughly ripped open.
"No, no please don't!" he babbles, panic setting in. His head snaps to the side as Dremper slaps him, dark spots dancing across his vision.
"Shut up whore!" he shouts, spittle dotting Spencer's face. "You outta be grateful."
"Stop," he pleads again as his fly is undone, "You don't have to do this."
"Oh sweetheart, I'm doing it because I like it," Dremper murmurs, mouthing at his jaw. Fingers dig into his hips hard enough to bruise and he sobs as Dremper grinds down. Grinning, Dremper laps up his tears. He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head, trying to hide in the crook of his arm. Roughly his chin is grabbed, forcing him to look up at the man on top of him. "Eyes stay open or I'll slit your throat and fuck that instead." The words are hissed and full of malice.
His entire body goes cold at those words as he's forced to look into the eyes of the man who's about to rape him. He can't breathe. The weight on his hips pins him to the bed and he can't breathe.
Hotch wants to put his fist through the wall. The unsub has Reid. A serial rapist has Reid. They've got no idea where he could've taken him and every second they waste is a second Reid doesn't have. He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. Gideon is still on mandatory sick leave after being shot on a case a few weeks ago and without him or Reid the team is floundering.
Morgan storms through the door, Emily on his heels. "Where is that son of a bitch?" he snarls.
Emily looks to him, eyes wide, "Is there any way to find out where he's going?"
"I'm tracking Reid's phone right now," Garcia says. She's typing furiously at her computer, trying to locate their youngest member. If anyone can find him, it's her. She did it in Georgia and she can do it again. Morgan leans over the back of her chair, tension lining his shoulders.
"You got this Penelope," Morgan says, squeezing her shoulder. No nicknames, he only uses her first name when things are really bad. Then one of the monitors pings and images flood the screens and it feels as though all the air has left the room.
It's Reid, naked and tied to a filthy bed. Ugly purple hickeys trail down his body and he's bleeding from the temple, eyes glassy and unfocused. The picture is captioned, "Thanks for the gift".
Garcia makes a high-pitched choked noise and Morgan swears angrily, slamming his hands down hard on the desk. "Fuck!" he shouts, voice breaking, "Goddammit, kid." He collapses to the floor, head in his hands.
"I think I'm gonna be sick," Emily says, choked.
"Oh god," JJ whispers tremuously, on the verge of tears, "Spence." She'd entered the room without any of them noticing and is staring at the screen with wide eyes. "Hotch, please tell me this isn't what I think it is." He wants to, god does he want to. Wants for it to all be some big mistake, for that not to be their Spencer exposed and brutalized by a sadistic killer, but the damning truth remains.
They're too late.
A second message comes through, a close-up of Reid's face with a knife under his chin and the caption, "He screams real pretty." Then an audio file plays.
"Don't," Reid's voice comes through sick with fear.
"Look at you," Dremper says, "Those agents practically sent you to me on a platter. I should really thank them, don't you think?" More whimpering, then the creak of a mattress.
They all stare at the computer, frozen.
"No, no please don't!" Reid babbles, voice pitched high and terrified. More creaking. Morgan's dark skin is sickly and ashen and it crosses Hotch's mind that this is probably triggering some terrible memories for him and that he should probably get him out of here but he can't move.
A meaty slap, then Dremper hisses, "Shut up whore! You outta be grateful."
"Stop, you don't have to do this." Morgan grabs for the trashcan and retches as the sound of the mattress creaking plays over the computer. Garcia is typing as fast as she can, shoulders shaking.
"Oh sweetheart, I'm doing it because I like it. Eyes stay open or I'll slit your throat and fuck that instead." Then the file ends and the only sound in the room is JJ's sobs as she clings to Emily.
Hotch barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits.
Cigarette smoke fills the dingy room as Spencer lies on the bed, head spinning. Dried tears are tacky on his cheeks as he tries not to think about what just happened to him. He knows he's going to remember every second of it for the rest of his life, cursed by his own mind to be haunted by what was taken from him. His entire body hurts and he wants to die.
He wants his team. Wants Gideon with his reassuring presence and fatherly demeanor. Want Hotch with his fond exasperation and bad sense of humor. Wants Morgan with his casual contact and good-natured teasing. Wants JJ with her warm laugh and her soft strength. Wants Emily with her calm, steady gaze and fleeting smiles. Wants Garcia with her flirting and technological brilliance. But they aren't here. They didn't come for him in time and he's going to have to live with that for the rest of his life.
"Your a pretty good fuck, baby," Dremper drawls lazily. He's lying next to him in bed in a sickening pantomime of intimacy. Their legs are touching and Dremper's head is resting against his outstretched arm and he wants to hurl. He knows what's about to happen next. The mutilation and then death that awaits him, but he can't quite find it in himself to care. He's floating up and away from his body, eyes slipping shut.
Fingernails dig into his side, bringing him back to reality. "Say thank you," Dremper snarls.
Throat thick and bitter, he croaks, "Excuse me?"
"Thank me for giving you the best fuck of your life, whore." Dremper's voice is filled with rage and in this moment Spencer is certain that death will be a mercy.
What did I ever do to deserve this? he wonders, fresh tears gathering in his eyes.
They have a location. Garcia tracked Reid's phone and they're heading to his location. She insisted that she come along, and Hotch couldn't bring himself to deny her.
"I need to be there for him," she'd said, makeup smeared and eyes shining but chin set stubbornly.
The team is quiet during the drive. Hotch drives like a man possessed, desperate to get there in time. He can't fail Reid anymore than he alread has. The van screeches to a halt in the lot outside the abandoned warehouse where Dremper has Reid. It's an entirely unassuming building, one you'd never look twice at if you didn't know the horrible things that were happening inside.
The van's barely stopped moving before they're all jumping out, guns at the ready, and sprinting towards the warehouse. Morgan kicks in the door, snarling, "FBI! Come out with your hands in the air!" Over Morgan's shoulder is a bag holding a some of Reid's clothes he grabbed from their shared room, and Hotch's heart squeezes.
Dremper runs out from the shadows, gun in hand and face contorted with rage, "Get the fuck off my property!"
Their weapons are trained on him in an instant. "Put the gun down," Hotch says around the white-hot ball of rage burning in his chest.
"Fuck you!" Dremper shouts, waving the gun around. A shot rings out, and he falls with a bullet in his head. After everything that's happened, it almost feels too easy. Hotch lowers his gun but doesn't holster it.
"Guys," Emily shouts from the bowels of the warehouse, voice shaking, "There's a basement. I think it's where he's keeping Reid." The team gravitates towards the sound of her voice, nerves frayed.
"Let's go," Hotch says. Morgan throws open the basement doors.
Spencer is still tied to the bed when he hears the gunshot. Dremper didn't bother to untie him, promising that by the time he came back all of "those damn pigs" would be dead. If he wasn't so messed up, he wouldn't have doubted that his fellow agents would win, but he's the furthest thing from in his right mind at the moment. He expects a hail of bullets, imagines his family team lying bloody on the floor. Instead, there's only one shot.
He hears a cacophony of footsteps heading down the basement stairs, patterns that he's memorized after years of spending almost everyday with his team. They're here. They came for him. They found him.
"Reid! Kid, you down here?" Morgan's voice rings out, raw and scratchy.
"Spence, it's us!" There's JJ.
It takes a minute for him to remember how to speak. "Over here," he croaks quietly. Then he clears his throat and says again, louder, "I'm here!"
There's more scrambling and then the figures of his team emerge from the darkness. "Spencer," Hotch says, oddly choked. He jolts at the use of his first name.
He watches as they take him in. He knows what he looks like, naked and chained to the bed, covered in marks. His cheeks burn with humiliation. He just wants to go home. JJ's eyes are shining with tears and Morgan looks wrecked. Emily seems vaguely ill, dark circles standing out against her olive skin. And Hotch, Hotch is showing more emotion than Spencer's ever seen out of him on a case. There is rage and grief burning like hot coals in his eyes.
"Help," he says, on the verge of breaking down. Morgan takes a step towards him and he flinches instinctually. His friend freezes, heartbreak in his eyes. "Sorry," he chokes out.
Emily exhales shakily, "You've got nothing to be sorry for," she says. Raising her hands and moving slowly, she starts moving towards the bed. "We're gonna get you out of here, okay? Morgan brought you some clothes."
He nods, a pathetic whine building in his throat. He wants out right now. Whatever Dremper drugged him with is starting to wear off and he's becoming more and more aware of the ache in his lower body and the disgusting feeling of dried fluids on his thighs. It's the middle of winter and the basement is freezing, so his hands and feet are numb from the cold. When Emily finally does reach the bed, he can't help but cringe back as her shadow falls over him. His breath quickens and suddenly it's Dremper leaning over him, ripping open his shirt and pulling off his pants and his hands are everywhere.
Someone is shouting, "-eid! Pretty boy, you're safe! You're safe, it's over!"
A soft voice says, "Spence, it's just us."
He blinks away tears, vision clearing, and sees JJ and Emily working on his cuffs. "Jayje? Emily?" he chokes out.
JJ nods, "Right here." Hesitantly, she starts tapping out the beat of Poker Face on his wrist. It's something she does when he gets overstimulated, a way of grounding him. "We've got you."
He nods, gaze clinging to her blue eyes like a lifeline as he tries to pretend he's back in Quantico doing physics magic or at home reading a book or watching Doctor Who with Garcia while on break or anywhere but this damn basement.
The cuffs clink and he's free. He slumps, shoulders aching, curling in on himself. He hugs his knees to his chest and squeezes himself into a tight ball. JJ's hand is on his back now, tapping Poker Face onto the skin of his shoulder blade. He sobs. "Don't look at me," he begs, "Please, just, just let me- I can't."
JJ's hand is gone and then someone is draping something soft and familiar over his shoulders. His favorite cardigan. "Let's get this on you," JJ says gently, "You can't be exposed like this, Spence. It's too cold." He sniffles, allowing himself to be maneuvered like a child. He rubs the nubby fabric between his fingers, grateful for the familiarity.
"Can you stand?" Hotch asks.
"I don't- It's- I think so," he stutters out, feeling drained and cottony. Shakily, like a newborn calf, he struggles to his feet. His legs almost give out but JJ is there to catch him, smelling of sweat and lavender laundry detergent. He chokes back a fresh wave of tears.
Emily is rumaging through the duffel bag. She pulls out a blanket. "Here," she says and hands it to JJ, who helps him wrap it around his waist. He should feel annoyed at being babied, but right now it's exactly what he needs.
"Thanks," he says, voice cracking.
"Anytime," she whispers into his hair. She and Emily basically frogmarch him up the steps and out of the basement, the rest of the team close on their heals. The scent of fresh blood is sharp in the air and he gags when he sees Dremper's corpse with a bullet hole in its forehead.
It's over. Dremper's dead.
So why doesn't he feel better?
They make it out of the warehouse and the sting of rain hits his face. It feels like a baptism, washing away the phantom hands that won't stop touching him. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, letting the cold water numb his face. He wants to be numb to all of it.
"Reid," a voice says.
"Hm?" he hums. He opens his eyes.
Hotch is watching him, dark eyes unfathomably sad, "We need to get you to the hospital." He nods, voice caught in his throat. He gets like this sometimes, whenever the world is too much. Gravel cuts into his bare feet as JJ and Emily help him across the abandoned lot towards an ambulance.
The lights are bright in the cloudy semi-darkness of the winter afternoon.
He wonders if he'll ever feel okay again.