Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Six victims in less than four weeks? Why are we only being called in now?” Prentiss asked. She had the file laid out in front of her despite the images on the screen displaying the same information. She had rearranged the data to her preference, as had Reid, with their individual specialties dictating the pattern versus a more linear timeline.

Morgan paged through his own copy at a much more sedate pace and mused, “Is this guy escalating from something we don’t know about? Seems a bit extreme to hit this hard and this fast out of nowhere.”

Reid tilted his head and answered before anyone else got the chance to. “No evidence of prior attacks has been found, but Garcia is looking into any connections. The unsub is very precise in disposing of a victim once every four days,” he pointed out. He flipped a page from the file to the center of the table for the others to make note of, though Rossi and Hotch simply reviewed their own copies after verifying which page he found interesting. “The coroner places time of death mere hours before they were found, and four of the six had not yet been thought of as missing prior to discovery. Mix that with the escalating number of wounds on each and nearly identical placement of those wounds, and we are looking at someone quite organized.”

“Escalating violence as well?” Prentiss asked.

“Each victim has the same number of base wounds, including some gruesome puncture wounds to their palms, but there’s an addition of hash marks on their left thigh as well, one more with each subsequent victim,” J.J. explained. She then expanded to include, “It’s how we linked the first two to the last four. Their deaths were originally thought of as unrelated despite the similarity in other factors.”

Hotch glanced back at the screen with a frown. “The puncture wounds may indicate religious ideology, though nothing else speaks directly to that. What’s the likelihood that the times are far more precise than they first seem?” he asked.

“Given possible delays in discovery despite the semi-public settings? Extremely,” Reid confirmed. He had the file memorized by now and did not need to re-review before he added, “The coroner will have completed a more thorough examination of the most recent victims by the time we arrive, but his initial reports vary no more than two to four hours, which could account for potential travel time or simply waiting for an opening when no one is looking. That’s not even taking environmental factors into account.” He had, of course, done that part himself by reviewing the recorded temperatures on the days of discovery and the days prior and factored that against the coroner’s own measurements.

Prentiss shifted a few more pages around before she said, “But the times of discovery vary. Morning for some, evening for others. If this guy is so precise, why wouldn’t even those match?”

Morgan had a potential answer for that one. “It could be his own personal work schedule, or the schedule of someone he has close ties with so as not to be discovered.”

She nodded at that, as did the others. Hotch flipped his file closed to signal the end of the meeting. “Reid, work that into a potential geographical profile. You already mentioned travel times; those times may vary depending on when this guy is free if he has a variable employment schedule. Morgan, Prentiss, you will talk to the most recent victims’ families and we can work our way back from there. Rossi, hit the coroner’s office for updates and serve as another set of eyes. He may be good, but this is still a group of small towns in a small county we are talking about. Ask him about any deaths pre-dating these with similar factors or iconology. Garcia will look into any potential ties between the victims we may have missed other than locality as well as any hints of anything prior. J.J. and I will liaise with the local station and help Reid get set up. Wheels up in thirty.”

They all dispersed to gather what they needed to head out. What was unspoken was the reason for assigning the tasks this early versus discussing the details on the plane. It was already late in the day and they had just finished up a series of more local consultations and a short training seminar for new recruits to the bureau. With the flight and the subsequent drive to the town headlining the investigation roughly two hours away from the nearest airport, they might as well rest while they could, which meant while traveling.

Reid stayed awake for the first half of the flight, only giving into potential sleep when Hotch woke to chastise him and threaten to take his latest book away. Even for the second half, he mainly just dozed, rolling in and out of sleep with the slightest noise or turbulence. Nothing specific was keeping him awake, just the change of schedule and the tiniest of headaches beginning to form. He had worked through far worse in the past though, so he was not especially worried. Oddly, it wasn’t until he hit the back seat of the assigned SUV that he well and truly passed out, the soft rumble of the car on dark roads with little to stimulate his mind finally lulling him to sleep.

“I’m going to do it,” were the first words he heard when he awoke. The motion had stopped and the warmth of the sun hit his eyelids, so he assumed they had arrived.

“If you either dump water on him or make him fall out of his seat by opening the door, you have to deal with Hotch,” Emily argued back.

“He also has to deal with me because I will get him back, and he knows this,” Reid replied around a yawn. He gathered his satchel and exited before Morgan could pull whatever he had planned, leaving his go-bag in the back as they appeared to be outside of something decidedly not a hotel. The rising sun was already a little too bright considering the little sleep he had managed, but he had dealt with less previously, so it shouldn’t be a problem.

Morgan pretended to pout as he joined him on the sidewalk, but broke into a grin easily enough when he asked, “Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?”

“Yeah, I dreamt I worked with actual professionals that wouldn’t tie my shoelaces together,” he retorted because he could.

This time, Derek tried to look personally affronted. “And when was the last time anyone actually did something as childish as that?” he asked.

Reid continued to walk towards where Prentiss was headed, figuring she likely knew the way or at least could fake it well enough. “Two years, three months, seventeen days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes ago,” he rattled off as he caught up to his other teammate. Over his shoulder he added, “And it was you, so don’t act surprised.”

Prentiss was still cackling when they entered what turned out to be the local sheriff’s office. A very kind and very young deputy by the name of Milson escorted them back to his boss. Sheriff Waverton was a stout, well-built woman with short cropped graying brown hair who looked like she did not appreciate any shenanigans, at least not when actual important matters needed to be dealt with. The fact that her desk held a water gun and a set of magnetic darts with the matching board just across the room spoke to her behavior in less trying times.

“Hoping you caught some rest on that long flight over and are ready to hit the ground running,” she said without preamble after the introductions were made.

“Most of us did, though at least one may hit up your coffee supply to fully function,” Hotch replied on behalf of the team, at least three of which glanced to Reid with a knowing look.

Waverton grinned, fleeting, but there. “Fair enough. I’m not good until my fourth or fifth and I get my eight a night if I can help it,” she told him. “Everything is set up one room over. Contact info for the families and the current coroner’s report are in the folder on the table, though I understand you would prefer to talk to the doc in person. Milson grabbed the largest map he could from the gas station per your request, but we might have some older ones around here too if you need historical data. I’m assuming the one with racoon eyes needs the caffeine, and that’s on the far side of the office, though I can probably get a second one set up in the conference room itself it needed.”

“Might be dangerous having it so close to Reid,” Morgan teased.

She shook her head. “If it’ll stop these boys from turning up dead, I’ll have Milson run to the actual good shop two towns over for your fix,” she told him. “We’re a small, but tolerant community, and this does not exactly look good for our rainbow neighbors, if you know what I mean.”

“You believe the unsub, the assailant, is specifically targeting the homosexual community?” Rossi verified. “That is a possible tie-in to the religious aspect with the stigmata-like wounds.”

Waverton sighed, and it sounded pained. “I’m honestly not sure what to believe, but there is definitely the taint of it here. One of the victims was straight as per their family though we all know that is not always truthfully shared, either with them or with us. Two more were out bisexuals with one recently settling down with his partner. The final three were gay males, though only one was a bit more of the flamboyant type, the other two probably fearing the repercussions in a small town in the middle of nowhere, even if those towns appeared accepting.”

She walked them the short distance over to the other room but stayed just outside as, though it was the appropriate size for their office, everything was quite small in general and it would be a tight fit. The promised items seemed to be in place, just like she said, and Reid placed his satchel on one of the chairs to start to get to work.

“You good here, Pretty Boy?” Morgan asked as he got ready to leave towards his own assignment.

He nodded. “I’ll start the geographic profile and tag Garcia if I need anything more. I can start a preliminary evidence board if you want me to as well?” he confirmed.

“I can do that last part once we’ve checked in with the other sheriffs,” J.J. advised. Then, knowing him too well, she added, “If you’re not already done by the time we finish our conversations with their offices.”

He offered a rough gesture of thanks and dug in. Milson had provided more than a single map, including close ups of the specific towns and locations where the victims were found, which was much appreciated. He also brought in a fairly large cup of steaming coffee and a couple packets of sugar with a mock stoic, “Sheriff’s orders.”

Reid sipped on that and munched on the pastry J.J. shoved his way when she returned. Geographic profiles were about more than just the land formations and where the victims were found though, so he had Garcia verify not just where any of the victims worked, but any known volunteering or other group activities that might have crossed over. There was very little of the latter, with only two going to the same church and three having gone to the same elementary school but different colleges. For a small community within a small community, there was surprisingly little in common between the victims. That flagged as important as much as the few coincidences did, and he told Hotch that as well.

It was Rossi, freshly back from the coroner’s office with the new reports for him to review, that chimed in with, “Almost like it was planned.”

Hotch looked intrigued by that. “How so?”

“Careful, methodical, we know this already. There is a slight bit of victim of opportunity with Renolds chosen over his buddy Carhill even though they left the same club at the same time. Renolds stopped for gas and snacks on the way home, but if the unsub knows the victims’ schedules? Or at least usual, preferred schedules?” he prompted.

“He uses the days in between to study them,” Hotch nodded.

Reid cut in with a possible correction. “Or, he uses more than those days, planning in advance of that, and has a pool of possible next hits before he makes his final decision. He could have watched the club and had narrowed it to a handful of potential victims, but made his final decision based upon Renolds already being delayed and not immediately expected for return.”

“Where would he obtain his data?” J.J. asked. “Constantly physically watching that many people, he would stand out, wouldn’t he?”

Rossi nodded. “Which means he has access to some kind of fount of information on their personal lives.” He went on to explain the findings, which correlated with the previous ones and unfortunately included the lack of DNA evidence as it appeared he used not just a condom, but the kind with spermicide as well, potentially corrupting what little they may otherwise find. Sedatives were found in the victims’ bloodstreams in varying levels of breakdown associated with their individual body types, but either there were no injection points or the artful knifework destroyed them.

Reid took the opportunity provided by the reiteration of the ME’s other reports that he had already read to refill his coffee. He poured his cup in the little kitchenette, and then opened a few cupboards to try to find more than just the three packets of sugar remaining. Milson and another deputy with a badge that read Dremer sauntered over to grab some more for themselves.

“Whatcha need, Agent?” Dremer asked, reaching across him for the creamer.

Before Reid could correct him, or even answer, Milson did so for him, “This is Doctor Reid. Also FBI like the others, but way smarter than you or me. Is there anything I can get you, Doc?”

Morgan’s voice cut through with a laugh. “Pretty Boy here is probably looking for your sugar. How he consumes that much and not had a heart attack is a mystery even the FBI hasn’t solved yet.”

“Sugar will not give me a heart attack,” Reid easily fell into their usual banter. “Teammates sneaking up on me to try to scare the crap out of me are far more likely.” They continued after a brief thanks to the other two men, and walked back towards the conference room to rejoin the others and go over any other potential new findings or ideas on how to find the unsub.

“How many clubs are we talking about?” Prentiss asked from her seat at the small table. A seat formerly occupied by Reid and the twitch of her eyebrows told him she knew it.

“While clubs do often play a role in the queer experience, not all of the victims were taken from one or were even known to frequent any,” Reid pointed out. He scooted her file out of the way so that he could set his cup down with minimal damage, and then sat himself directly on the table beside her.

Dremer and Milson had hovered outside on the off chance they were needed, and the former stuck his head in to offer, “There’s four major known locations if you include two that are less clubs and more your Hicksville bar, more if you dig into underground operations, I’m sure.”

Hotch nodded in thanks before he asked, “Could you get us the names and locations of those you or your team know about? Even if the victims did not frequent one of those locations, they might have had contact with a place nearby enough for the unsub to assume that they also were patrons. Reid can compile the data and add it to the geographic profile.”

The deputy gave him a thumbs up. “Will do, sir, Doc,” he said before he left to do just that.

“Making friends already, Reid?” Prentiss teased.

“Kid’s got contacts everywhere. Everyone loves him. Like a stray puppy that needs a bath and maybe a pound of hamburger to survive the night on the streets,” Rossi joined in.

Spencer shook his head. “I have found that most people do not love me, or at least love to deal with me. If they liked me, they would do things like not steal my chairs or limit my coffee intake.”

J.J. got up from her own seat and pushed it towards him. “Take mine,” she offered. “I need to go check with the sheriff about potential press releases.”

The others disbursed to other tasks as well, leaving only Prentiss and Garcia chatting over the computer connection while Reid contemplated what he could be missing on his profile. Dremer returned with a printout of clubs, bars, and suspected underground party sites, as well as a couple of packets of sugar labeled with the name of the café Reid had seen across the street. “Not my personal stash, but Sally says she’s willing to share if you need any,” he said with a wink before he left again to sit at a desk not far from the door and immediately struck up a conversation about Sally and her horrible coffee with Milson. The office as a whole was small enough that everyone was pretty much on top of each other, but he appreciated the attempt to give the team some privacy as much as he did the additional sugar stash. They needed to work with the LEOs, but they also sometimes needed a break from them, and Waverton’s crew seemed to understand that, likely from living in each other’s pockets like any small town.

“See? Friends!” Emily enthused, to which Spencer just shook his head.

“Friends? Or friends?” Garcia chimed in from across the line. “Because no one can resist our 187.”

“If only he’d notice them not resisting, he’d be getting more action than Morgan,” Emily agreed.

Reid was already analyzing the new data, but knew he needed to say something to cut them off before they went too far as per usual. “I notice, but am not always interested, and neither is the other party,” he said absently as he flipped through to the next page. “Sexuality is not just a spectrum, but a multi-dimensional graphing of a multitude of variables, including time and circumstance as much as perceived and preferred genders as well as race, age, and socioeconomic factors, and the middle of a murder investigation is not the right location nor time to indulge in potential trysts or even friendly flirting.”

“Aw, sweetie, but you’ll take flirting from me, right?” Garcia’s voice piped up.

“Garcia, Hotch takes flirting from you. Rossi takes flirting from you. Strauss only rolled her eyes and did not write you up for it. I am fairly certain they assume it is your primary form of communication at this point,” he shot back easily enough.

“I can’t tell if that was intended as an insult or not, but am going to assume you love me as much as you love all your other little data points and revel in the warmth it brings me,” she replied, and he could not help the grin her antics created.

They continued to work well past a usual lunchtime. Food was offered, but his stomach roiled from the headache that had fully taken root hours prior just behind his eyes. He was tempted to switch out to his glasses, but knew it was more than his contacts setting him off, not to mention that the team as a whole would jump on the action as a reason for him to take a break. The lack of sleep on the plane was taking its toll, likely mixed with too much caffeine to combat that lack of sleep, and a truly frustrating profile. The incessant light through the blinds didn’t help either, but the others wanted the window open to allow fresh air into the tiny room, and that would be pointless if slats of cheap metal blocked the flow.

He finally gave in to everyone else’s urges to eat something to see if it would help at dinnertime. Even though he kept it to soup and some bread along with a great deal of water in case dehydration was adding to the annoyance in his head, the queasiness remained. The soup sloshed, and the bread sat in a heavy lump within that slosh and he wasn’t sure if it assisted at all.

Hotch called time and sent them all back to the hotel they would be staying at for the duration, listing room assignments and a specific request for Reid to avoid the little coffee pot destined to be on a counter somewhere to get some actual rest. The place was simple and quaint, but they each had their own rooms, which was a nice bonus. Aside from peace and quiet, or at least as much peace and quiet as a room facing a parking lot shared with what appeared to be the town’s primary fast-food restaurant could have, it meant he could turn on the fan to cover the sounds of his dry heaves and the heaves that became not quite so dry before he passed out for the night.

Morning was bright and painful and assured him that what was clearly a migraine was still going strong. He took some painkillers as his actual migraine meds tended to make him a little spacy and a lot tired, and prepared to load up on caffeine again to whittle away at the profile. J.J. and Prentiss had stopped at the ubiquitous Sally’s for donuts, but even just the sight of the greasy goodness threatened to send him over the top again. They set one in front of him anyway and he would randomly tear off a piece, only to set it back down while he turned to look at his maps and try to reason out a pattern. This meant that he had a napkin full of crumbs next to his empty-again coffee cup when J.J. poked him in the shoulder, perhaps sharper than necessary.

“Ouch!” he complained and rubbed at his grievous wound. Unfortunately, she had been successful in getting him to turn around to face her, which meant he got an eyeful of the sunlight through the blinds that he grimaced at before his mind caught up to the fact that he did so in a room full of trained profilers. Well, Prentiss and Hotch along with J.J. as Rossi and Morgan had left to review one of the sites again.

“How bad’s the head?” Prentiss asked knowingly. Hotch’s eyes narrowed with eerie focus as though sensing he was about to lie.

“Not great, but I can do my job,” he replied pointedly. If that job seemed to swim in and out of focus a bit more than usual, that was for him to know and the others to suspect.

“You’re shivering,” Hotch pointed out. It was warm enough in the small room that even he had folded his usual suitcoat across the back of a chair.

“But sweating,” J.J. added in.

He glared at her betrayal, no matter how well-meaning it may be. “And there is a serial rapist and killer out there with a timeline of either late tonight or first thing tomorrow that I would really like to help catch. There is a pattern here and I am so close to seeing it!”

There was a hand on his shoulder and he reluctantly admitted – to himself only – that he had not noticed Hotch approach while he scrubbed at his eyes. “How long does your migraine medication take to kick in? The real stuff, at a full dosage, not any half-measures you might try?” his boss requested. He tried to stall and deflect, maybe find a way to only partially answer, but received a stoic yet concerned, “I need you on your game for this, which you are not. You are not helping anyone by suffering.”

He made a face, but relented with, “One to two hours minimum, though sometimes longer and sometimes a second dose is required.”

Hotch nodded as though he suspected as much. That was explained when he said, “Similar to what Jessica has then. I assume rest in cool, dark locations also assists?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but simply pressed on to order, “Go back to the hotel, take a full dose and take a break. Blinds shut, air conditioning on if needed. We will check in on you in a few hours. If you are noticeably improved, you can return to look at the profile with fresh eyes. If you still feel like the crap you currently look like, you take the second dose.”

He wanted to fight back, to protest, to do something other than look like he was pouting. A wince of a glance at the other man, and he knew absolutely none of those things would work. “Two hours,” he said instead.

“Three and we verify any update you send,” came the counter that was more of a directive.

He nodded despite the way it upped the agony in his skull, and reluctantly moved to grab his satchel. J.J. already had it in her hands, and he petulantly accepted it from her. “I’ll walk him back,” she offered.

Hotch glanced at his watch and shook his head. “We have a meeting with the county sheriffs to update them as to tonight’s plan in fifteen.”

“I can manage the whole three blocks back on my own,” Reid protested. He dug out a pair of sunglasses as if the accentuate his point.

“I can do it,” Emily raised her hand.

Of course, that was when an extremely green deputy with a mop of red-blond hair poked his head in and very nervously said, “Ma’ams? Sirs? I have a very irate Ms. Garcia on the line. Something about trying to get through to your remote connection but it appears there is an interruption?”

Reid raised his eyebrows, assuming the irate part was an understatement, especially if she had not been able to contact them on their cells to notify them either. “Change of plans?” he guessed.

“Yes, but not for you,” Hotch replied. He turned to Prentiss and said, “Talk to Garcia and see what’s going on. J.J. and I will deal with the sheriffs after trying a landline to update Morgan and Rossi in case the effect is localized. Reid, go back to the hotel and take your damned meds. Call the main line for here from the landline when you get there if your cell is still out.”

The deputy – who made Reid feel old in comparison – offered, “I can escort Mr., er, Agent Reid, if you require it? No offense, sir, but you look like my little sister when she gets a migraine. She’s run straight into walls before and once almost into traffic.”

Hotch’s lips twitched but he nodded. “Thank you, Deputy… Arlen. And it is Dr. Reid.”

The young deputy apologized profusely but was interrupted by Emily who asked, “Where are Milson and Dremer? Shouldn’t they be on by now?”

Arlen shook his head. “We work rotating shifts to cover such a large area with such a small force. Mike, er, Deputy Dremer should be on by four and Rick Milson should be here by eight. I think Sheriff Waverton wanted a more trained crew on to assist you if needed tonight, but I can call them in if you need them earlier,” he explained.

“Aw, no friends for 187,” Emily sighed dramatically. He glared at her, but she ignored it to say, “Get some rest and we’ll see you in a bit? And Arlen? Try not to let the good doctor walk into traffic.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” he said with far more seriousness than was strictly warranted.

The young man walked Reid back to the hotel, nearly bouncing with restrained energy. “I never thought we would have the actual FBI visit our parts,” he admitted. “I’m trying not to be too excited given the circumstances, or talk too much given your head, but, if you feel better and things are not all kittywampus tomorrow, would you be up for some questions about what you do?”

Reid smiled despite himself and despite the way the young man even opened the door to the lobby of the hotel for him. “That would be fine, so long as we have time within the investigation,” he assured him.

The man enthused his thanks followed by a verification of, “Are you sure you don’t need an escort all the way to your room? Make sure you find the right one?”

“I can find it just fine, but thank you for the offer,” he assured him.

They said their goodbyes and Reid trudged up to the room in question, finally letting some of the façade break. He keyed open the door and left the lights off save for the one from the mostly closed bathroom. His satchel was placed on the table next to the bed and he turned to look for his go-bag with the precious medication within, only to seriously regret both placing his weapon in his bag and not allowing Arlen to accompany him as there was the distinct presence of another beside him.

“I finally get you alone,” a voice breathed across the back of his neck.

Reid shoved an elbow backwards into what he hoped was the other man’s solar plexus and was met with a grunt and some creative profanity before something solid and heavy collided with his temple. The pain in his skull exploded upon impact, and he had the feeling consciousness was about to be beyond his capability as he felt the ground rush up to meet him.

His head still pulsated in agony when he tried to open his eyes what he sensed was at least fifty minutes later. They resisted the action, but his body as a whole seemed to want to resist listening to his requests, so that was fair. There was a squeeze of a weight on top of him, but a breeze of air against the overheated skin of his arms and chest. Arms that were outstretched and weighted with something that might have been tape against the sheets. A head that rested on a pillow of all things.

“There you are…” the voice from before said almost proudly. “I was beginning to worry you were oddly sensitive and I overdosed you.”

That didn’t make sense though as the man had pistol-whipped him, or at least smacked him with something solid. There were no drugs involved unless… Unless they had been consumed and/or administered previously. Like in the packets of sugar he added to his coffee over the past two days, or the coffee itself. He glared up at the source of the voice, tried to determine if it was familiar or not, and forced his eyes to focus on a masked face of an adult male, balaclava disguising most of his features aside from being a Caucasian male. He tried to ask him what he thought he was doing, only to find no sound could get past what appeared to be more duct tape over his lips.

“Nuh-uh,” the man said, tapping the sticky mass. “As much as I would love to hear that beautiful voice of yours, we are in far too public of a place with very thin walls instead of any of my preferred locations. This will have to do though, because we have such limited time.”

Reid’s sluggish mind made the connections easily enough. The man was the unsub. The man must have watched, observed him over the course of only a day and a half to choose him as the next target. He would have determined where they were staying, possibly even overheard precise room numbers the night before if he did not have an alternative means of gathering the intel.

The sluggishness came to an abrupt halt as his body jerked with a newfound pain. Right hand, and then left. Thin metal spikes, awls maybe though they could have been especially narrow tent spikes, driven deep until the flat handle-like portion rested against his palms, one by one, pinning him to the mattress with far more efficiency than the simple tape that had already begun to loosen.

“Muffled, but good enough,” the man said, a knife now in hand. He slowly stroked the flat of it down Reid’s cheek, either in consolation or warning, knowing it was damned near impossible to flinch away.

The man returned his attention to his current task. He used the blade to flick off the remaining buttons of Reid’s dress shirt, and then spread the fabric wide to reveal the skin below. He then finished his slices down each arm to the cuff with careful precision as though he didn’t have a care in the world despite his own stated timeline. Spencer flinched each time the metal brushed his skin, and each flinch radiated a pain from his palms up through his forearms that made his head feel dull in comparison.

“Oh, is the pretty boy stuck? That’s what your ‘friend’ called you, right? Pretty?” the unsub asked. He sneered now, disgust dripping from his words as he said, “They let you trounce around, and with the FBI no less! Abominations right out in the open! You won’t be so pretty when I’m done with you!”

Reid responded by trying to buck the other man off of himself, but was met with the sharp tip of the knife against his exposed breastbone. The man tapped it against him a few times before he dug it deeper, the bite of the blade cool against the wash of warmth as it split the skin and let the blood flow. He lazily began to draw a line, idle yet precise. Reid closed his eyes, already picturing exactly what the patterns would be, having seen them in photographs pinned to the board beside his maps.

A slap against his cheek forced him to open them again. “You will watch. You will watch me while I give you exactly what your depraved heart craves, right before I send you to the hell you deserve,” he was warned.

And so Reid did exactly that. He maintained eye contact as he counted the minutes that passed by, having glimpsed at the clock in the room and hoping that it was accurate and not reset while he had been unconscious. Even when his assailant looked away to concentrate on destroying his trousers the way he had his shirt, he watched. Mainly in case the man glanced upwards at an inopportune moment so that he knew to stop trying to press against the pins that held him in place despite the agony the slightest jostle caused. He tried not to think about the possible muscle and tendon damage he was incurring – and had already incurred – and instead concentrated on the fact his choice was to eventually cope with that damage or to not cope at all should his assailant finish his task and mark him as victim number seven.

When all of Reid’s clothing save for the mismatched socks on his feet lay in shambles around him, his attacker leaned back with an appraising eye. His weight still prevented Reid from kicking or rolling or really doing much of anything, but also served to keep him from moving on to the next part of his plan, at least for a time. At least until he began to slowly slide back, palming himself through his pants. The knife dragged along with him, sternum to ribs to hip to thigh.

Left thigh.

Reid knew what was coming next. While it answered the question of whether the marks were made pre- or post-assault, difficult to determine as the victims were clearly still alive until the final strangulation, it was knowledge Reid would have been fine with speculating, or learning through a thorough report and not by experiencing it firsthand. He was almost there though, and just needed to hold out for a little bit longer.

The blade moved in a flash. Not to mark him as a victim, as a number, but to his right thigh instead. The metal dug deep into his flesh and he wanted to scream, tried to scream, could not scream because of the damned tape over his mouth. Sound came, but not enough, and it only seemed to egg the unsub on, entice and entrance him that much more. But that was fine, that was okay, because he was so focused on the careful spiral he was creating that he didn’t notice that the sheer adrenaline was enough for Reid to finally rip his left hand free. He immediately clutched a fist around the handle of the awl as much as he could manage and struck the other man across the face, across the nose, across anything he could reach. When it startled him backwards, he added his feet and legs, feeling the fresh wounds tear and battling past that to try to force the other man off of him.

But then the weight was back and hands were on him again, forcing his own recently freed one down and back with superior force and leverage. There was the agony as the metal shifted slightly, and then again as it was driven against the mattress to pin him once more. He twisted it and Reid swore he felt the grind against his bones. The roll of duct tape appeared and long lengths were applied to his hand and forearm, tight against any skin not already slick with sweat and blood.

“Try to get out of that, you little fuck!” his assailant sneered. He punched Reid in the face once in frustration and then again in triumph when he saw how little he could move, how little he could breathe as his body tried to suck air in, tried to scream and was stopped by the damned tape.

Reid watched – and felt – everything in a haze as hands dragged across his skin, fingers dug into wounds and pulled them wider, as blood smeared in violence and violation. Tears streamed down his face, joined with the snot from his nose to matt in his hair. His body vibrated with rage and pain and humiliation as bloodied hands wiped themselves on the sheets beside him, sheets already staining with growing pools of red, and the unsub reached for his own belt.

And then he stopped.

Reid’s ears rung and he thought it was just the pounding in his own head timed to the rushed beat of his heart until he heard an extra hollowness to it. Until he heard something truly terrifying.

“You feeling any better, Spence? Garcia thinks we got the phones fixed but you weren’t answering yours. We’re not at the three-hour mark yet, but I figured I would check how you’re doing. Can I come in?” J.J. called through the cheap wood.

He gasped as much as he was able and tried his very best to scream, to warn, to get her to run. There were hands on his throat immediately, limiting even the pitiful little noise he had been able to produce, squeezing, tightening, blocking the trickle of precious air that managed to worm its way through his clogged nose.

“Spence? Hotch gave me the spare keycard. I hope your decent because I’m coming in!”

“Don’t you dare make a sound or I will gut her after I make her watch what I do to you,” the unsub warned in a growl of a whisper as he slid off of him and dragged the knife to bring with him. Not that he could. The utter blackness at the edge of his consciousness swam upwards, closer, promising oblivion, promising an end to the pain. But it also promised a fate he would not wish on his friend. Because there was no way J.J. was just going to walk away and there was no way the unsub was just going to let her go, with or without Reid playing any role in their encounter.

As soon as his legs were free, he kicked and thrashed and used up every last modicum of energy he had left to make noise, to warn her, to do something. He could barely move, body likely going into shock, but he tried his damnedest anyway.

The bed rocked enough to bump the side table, enough to knock his satchel to the floor. The ringing in his ears grew louder as his strength left him and he hoped it was enough, hoped his warning had been heard.

There was a beep as the lock was keyed, a thud as the door swung fully open, a shout of identification and a scream of anguish. It was the echo of a gunshot that made eyes that were drifting closed shoot open and he forced his head to the side to find J.J. sprawled against the doorjamb, the knife that had so recently been embedded in him buried deep within what looked to be her shoulder instead. There was another shot and he knew it came from her weapon even as he watched her fully collapse to the floor.

She fumbled in her pocket one-handed and pulled her cell free. “Hotch?” she verified in a harsh gasp of a breath. Her eyes met his even in the dark, the backlight of the hallway blinding yet he knew when she looked right at him. “Agent down. We… we need medical. Unsub headed for the East stairwell. I winged him, but didn’t get a good look at him. He had a mask… a hat pulled down.” She grunted but mentioned nothing of her own wounds when she said, “I’m staying with Spence. Get that medical as soon as you can?”

He could hear Hotch through the line, muffled and tinny and pissed. He could hear a demand for answers and a promise that help was on its way. He could see J.J. try to push herself to her feet, give up, and crawl towards him agonizingly slowly, gun a thump against the carpet with each unsteady movement, accentuating her pleas for him to be okay, that she was there and was not going to leave. He wanted to respond but the tape was in the way. He assumed she understood that he at least made an attempt and the sound was enough to calm her slightly. He watched instead as she tried to stand, failed, and braced her back against the bed, arms against her now raised knees as she aimed her weapon at the door and swore, “I will shoot the bastard if he tries to come back.”

He wanted to thank her, to reassure her, to say anything she might actually understand instead of muffled nothingness.

Instead, he curled into as tight of a ball as he could manage with his hands still pinned and sobbed. He didn’t even have the energy to try to free himself. His fingers and arms refused to obey his commands and he couldn’t pry the awls free, couldn’t reach to peel the tape off of his mouth to ease the strain of his hyperventilating. He just laid there and wondered if he would at least be granted the dignity of passing out before the others had to see him in this state.

Somewhere between mere seconds and an eternity passed before he heard the shout of his team leader as he promised, “J.J., it’s us! Don’t shoot!” It was followed by another voice, pained and heavy as it muttered a string of profanity and promises that help was on the way, that Morgan and Prentiss had gone after the unsub, that she could stand down.

He assumed she let them in but had no idea if she fully stood down. She mumbled that she was fine, that they should check on him instead. Even he could tell that she was lying, but he did appreciate the way Rossi dragged a sheet over his shivering form and Hotch immediately yanked the tape free from his mouth to finally let him take a wheeze of a nearly full breath. Or not so full as the air burned as it rasped against his abused throat.

“Thirty-five to forty-year-old Caucasian male. Approximately 5’10” and maybe 190 to 200 pounds. Brown eyes. Religious bigotry confirmed.” That’s what he wanted to say. Instead, he managed a squeak and a whistle and his eyes widened in panic as he realized what was about to happen.

“His airway is swelling!” Hotch shouted. “Where are those medics?”

Rossi reappeared at the edge of his line of sight and he felt the cold drip of water on his torso before he felt the heavy wet towel placed gently around his throat. “Ice would be better, but this was closer,” the older man told him, assuming he would understand. Rossi then turned to Hotch and said, “I hate to be the one who says it but, if Jareau interrupted him, he might have gotten sloppy, left evidence behind like DNA or the condom.”

Reid wanted to tell him that there was no condom, not yet, but didn’t have it in him to get into the full discourse. Instead, he concentrated on the most important part of the other man’s words. “Jay…” he managed.

“I’m right here, Spence,” she promised from where she remained on the floor beside him. “Knife hit just below my collar bone, airway is clear and he didn’t hit my lungs or heart.”

He wanted to check on her, wanted to see for himself if she was okay, but the slightest movement took too much energy and rewarded him with too much pain. “H-hands?” he tried, arms aching from where they had been held in place for far too long.

“Kinda afraid to remove those things, kiddo,” Rossi admitted.

“Let the medics do it,” Hotch told him. “They might be able to limit the damage.” He was pressing compresses to the worst of the wounds, eyes shining with something that looked like but couldn’t possibly be tears from the usually stoic man. Because of this, and because words and even breathing were becoming increasingly difficult, Reid resisted the urge to tell him he had already freed one of them once. He had paid a price for the action, true, but so had the unsub.

There was a rush of noise and the pressures against him shifted and he had the feeling that at least two weapons were aimed towards the door. He said at least because he did not put it past J.J. to reach for hers again if she had even ever put it down. It was the medical team though, his own team immediately pushed back. Jargon was tossed over his head, new stings and pulls surrounded him, and his vision finally, thankfully, faded fully to black.

He awoke to the sound of a relatively steady beeping atop an annoying hiss. Cold thin tubes pressed against and into him, light and rough fabrics felt like sandpaper against his skin, and the antiseptic smell was cloying to his remaining senses. There was a fog in his brain that spoke of painkillers, but an ache to everything else that assured him they had not given him anything overly potent.

He pried open his eyes and immediately slammed them shut against the resulting stimuli. He heard a muffled groan and knew it had to have come from him, mainly because his throat severely protested the action.

“I think he’s waking up!” a voice called.

A hand cupped his face. Warm. Callused. Familiar. Something not to fear. He blinked his eyes open to find the blurry visage of Morgan hovering just beside him. “Come on, Pretty Boy, you can do it!” his friend urged with a smile that did nothing to cover the worry evident to his tone.

“Jay?” he whispered, and swallowed against the pain it caused. He wasn’t sure which hurt worse: the attempt at speaking or the attempt to assuage that attempt.

“Shh,” Morgan urged. “I know this is going to be damned near impossible, but you have to try not to talk. You have some serious damage to your throat and only rest and time will help get it back to something that will let you ramble your usual genius nonsense at us again.”

“I’ve got some water you can try,” Emily told him from his other side. “No promises it will go down or won’t end up on that stylish gown of yours.”

The water was too cold and she had not been incorrect about more ending up dripping down his chin than down his gullet, but he took what he could anyway. He tried to ask about J.J. again, and had a finger pressed against his lips to remind him not to speak. He tried to reach for a pen, to form his fingers into his usually passable sign language, to do something to get out his request, only to discover the true state of his hands.

Both were heavily bandaged and splinted, and random swaths of white reached from his wrists to his forearms and disappeared under the too-thin gown. He remembered the knife scraping across the skin, the way it dug and drew in ways only its wielder knew the meanings of. He shivered with the memory, and an extra blanket was laid across him as though that would block out the worst of it.

Rossi tucked it around him gently, his dark eyes betraying the knowledge that more than just the temperature caused his reaction. “Damn near a hundred and fifty stitches,” he announced as he adjusted the IV line that led to the crook of Reid’s elbow. “Asked them if they wanted to add more to give you a nice even number, or at least something from that Fibonacci sequence you love so much.”

“Most were on your thigh, torso, and hands. Your arms will scab but the scars should be light if they show at all,” Hotch told him from his station at the end of the bed. “Aside from the puncture wounds, you have two broken metacarpals on your left hand and one on your right. They should heal fine, but you will need braces for a while, and they don’t want to give you those until they know the risk of infection from the puncture wounds is reduced and the current swelling goes down significantly.”

“You also have one hell of a shiner and it’s damned near a miracle your skull and hyoid aren’t fractured with as much bruising as you have on your neck and the side of your head,” Rossi supplied. He must have known that, while this knowledge was important, there was a piece of information that Reid needed sooner rather than later lest his recovery suffer. “Jareau is one room over but is fighting to be released or at least allowed to join you here. The knife took a chip out of her collarbone, and she lost some blood, but she’s alive and kicking and is expected to make a full recovery. I think she’s more pissed she only winged the unsub versus taking him out completely.”

He let out a slow breath, the tension in his body releasing a fraction at the news. There was so much he wanted to ask, so many questions he needed answers to, but the moment he opened his mouth to ask, he had four people reminding him not to speak and yet another finger across his lips to drive the point home. He frowned and tried to gesture to indicate what he needed, but the weight of his own body resisted the action as well as flared the pain into something burning and bright.

Hotch seemed to understand. “You have questions, and so do we. I will try to keep things to yes or no until we find another way to communicate. Some of what we need to know and some of what I need to share with you will not be a comfortable discussion. I am sending the others out of the room and they can file their complaints later. This is the call I am making as unit chief.”

Derek was immediately up in arms and protested, “Hotch!”

“Or they could bitch now,” Rossi amended the timeline. He then took the younger agent by the arm, a motion all knew he could easily shrug off, and said, “Come on, Morgan, you don’t need to be here for this. Let’s get an update from Waverton and her crew; something actually productive that won’t add to our nightmares.”

“I’ll go stay with J.J.,” Emily offered. She tucked a strand of hair behind Reid’s ear and he had to give her credit for the way she looked at him less with pity and more with resolve.

Hotch waited until they left and he had closed the door behind them before he began his update. It had been over twenty-four hours since Reid was attacked and they had no leads though, to be fair, none of them had wanted to leave the hospital during that time. Both Reid and Jareau’s rooms were under watch by agents brought in from the nearest office, with additional agents from across the state volunteering to assist in the investigation as required. Even the operating room where they had stitched him up and completed the initial repairs of his hands had been guarded. No narcotics were given per his usual request, though they could and would change that and deal with the fallout later if required.

As for treatment, Reid would be in the hospital for several days at the very least, for a combination of observation, giving the team time to hopefully catch the unsub, and to possibly avoid him having to go back to the same hotel where he was attacked. Both a doctor and a physical therapist would be coming in to check on his hands to assess what level of therapy would be required to return them to full functionality, if possible. As for his throat and head, concussion protocols were in effect, and he was on a liquid diet – including only clear liquids for the first day, until he could be graduated up to something more substantial. Hotch didn’t even look up at his pleading eyes when he said that coffee was not on the approved list and most definitely not considered a clear liquid.

It was when Hotch looked away and swallowed heavily that Reid knew that even he was not comfortable with what he was about to say. “They completed a preliminary sexual assault kit while you were under, but we do need to confirm a few pieces of information,” he began. “It does not need to be right now. Whenever you are ready,” he was quick to amend the pronouncement.

Reid frowned and shook his head.

Hotch misinterpreted the action and assured him, “I know this is uncomfortable and you can complete that part with someone other than me if you prefer. I am telling you right now, as your supervisor, that I am ordering mandatory counseling sessions. I am also telling you, as your friend, that I am here for you, whatever you need. To talk, to not talk, to get a ride to a meeting that I am not supposed to know about…”

Spencer shook his head again, and Hotch gave him a look of sympathy, opened his mouth as though to say denial was expected but he needed to move past it if he wanted any progress, or possibly just if they were going to make any progress on the case. So, Reid did precisely what they told him not to and verbally confirmed, “No sex.”

A worried look passed over Hotch’s features. “I know you don’t want to admit this, and it is entirely possible that even your impeccable memory was impacted by the drugs you were given as well as the head injury, but…”

Spencer cut him off with another, “No sex. Not like that.” It hurt, both the speaking and the memories that even those few words dredged up, but he needed to make that part clear. He did not want sympathy for something he did not go through. He did not want the looks, the poorly hidden sorrow, the too gentle of voices from people already handling him with kid gloves due to his injuries.

The dark brow across from him furrowed, whether in contemplation or annoyance, he could not tell. Hotch steadied himself as always though, and managed to say, “This is traumatic, I understand that. But the evidence supports that an assault occurred. We are after a sexual sadist that rapes and kills his victims and, as much as you want to deny this, you are now one of his victims, just the only one we know of who has survived. There was blood in and around… Your blood. The sheets were soaked with it. I saw it myself when we… No sperm or ejaculate found, but we know he uses condoms.”

“No hash marks. No number seven. Fingers only,” Reid insisted. It hurt, and sent him into a coughing fit that hurt even worse, and his supervisor chided him for speaking but could do it again because he requested, “Paper? Keyboard?”

Hotch took away the cup of water he had been helping with and offered a look of sympathy when he said, “You can’t type with your hands like that. Or, if you could, it would take forever to hunt and peck the letters but you would likely try anyway. Let’s stick to yes or no with gestures and you not further damaging your throat. With that in mind, I am confirming that the unsub used his hands only? His… he did not make what you deem full sexual contact?”

Reid nodded.

“You are aware that this contact still constitutes assault, correct?” Hotch asked drily.

Yes, he was, but he was trying to very hard to ignore that part. No hash marks. No seven gashes against his thigh to mark him as a victim. If the unsub did not complete his ritual, Reid could convince himself that it didn’t count. That, while what happened to him was horrible, it wasn’t as horrible as it could have been.

He then risked pissing his boss off again by trying to speak to explain this reasoning. He was cut off before he could actually say anything, so he made his point by tapping the two forefingers and two thumbs that were not actually currently splinted against the blankets. Hotch glanced down and, for a moment, Reid feared he would think it was nervous fidgeting. Thankfully, he was the boss for a reason and he near immediately twisted his lips into what could have passed as a smile to say, “You are intent on proving that you are way smarter than the rest of us, aren’t you? Let me get you something to tap that out with and find someone better than I am at Morse Code at that speed.”

He opened the door and requested a laptop or tablet after a quick glance at his phone and seeing the minimal size of the keyboard there. He did use his phone though, but it was to call Garcia and ask if she could find or create a program to translate Morse into standard text. “Morgan or Rossi could probably translate live, but this way we will have a transcript in his own words,” she easily agreed. It was followed by, “My dear 187, please do not verbally acknowledge this, but know that I will do everything in my power to help track this rat bastard down and I am going to make you all the cookies as soon as you can eat anything solid and there will be so many Doctor Who marathons. So very many.”

He smiled despite himself and Hotch relayed the sentiment. The keyboard was set in front of him far sooner than he thought it would be, Derek at his side to steady it and live read for the others. He tried to type out full words, but Hotch wasn’t wrong when he said that was a slow and painful process. They eventually kept it simple and he used only dashes and dots and spaces, fingers from each hand poised over the keys, carefully positioned and propped into place. He recounted what he knew and what he suspected and calls were made to verify if any of the sugar packets he had been gifted with remained in the station for testing.

The keyboard shook in Derek’s grip when he described what happened when he woke up, enough so that Rossi threatened to take over. The taunting, the being pinned to the mattress in a very literal manner, the inherent violence in the removal of his clothing and the application of the wounds. Derek smiled with pride when Spencer mentioned beating the man with his own torture device, but it was Hotch who confirmed that this may mean the unsub had visible wounds as well as gave reason for why Reid’s left hand was worse off than his right.

“Let me guess, he retaliated?” Rossi asked. The older man’s face looked pained, like he both wanted to leave to give the kid privacy but also wanted to be there for him. Reid had told them that he was fine with them hearing – or in this case reading – it all first hand, especially if it helped with the profile and capture, but he was now seeing the toll it took on them as well as himself. They were trained profilers, yes, but it was always so much harder when it was someone they knew on a personal level.

He described what happened next as best as he could, fighting through his own mind’s desire to suppress the memories as well as the sheer confusion from pain and drugs and injuries and everything else. It was important though. Every detail was important. If he could stop the same thing from happening to another, if he could remember enough to analyze the circumstances to know what he could have done better…

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Morgan cut him off as though reading that mind. He reached to take his hand and settled for gripping his non-injured wrist instead. “You fought back. You survived. That is a far better outcome than the alternative.”

Spencer again tried to clarify what did and did not occur, but this time it was Rossi who put a hand out to stop him. “This is going to be hard to hear, and you are clearly trying to deny it even now, but you will need to come to this realization if you are going to work through this. He violated you. With his weapons and his hands and everything else. He may not have achieved sexual intercourse with you, but he violated you nonetheless. Think about what you would say to a victim because, like it or not, that is what you are right now. And you have every right to feel something about that, or feel nothing at all. Sooner or later, it’s going to hit. And we will be here for you. Whether you want us to be or not.”

He was right in that Reid did not want to hear it. He did not want to think about it. Some part of him acknowledged the words, but he didn’t believe them. He was attacked. He was assaulted. He was injured, but he survived. He refused to say that one extra word, even to himself, and he knew it was ridiculous, even as he knew it was likely the only way he was holding on.

He changed the topic and they let him. The case was more important. Well, it was more important in his own opinion because he made it so, and they wanted to catch the unsub before he could do what he did to him to another person, and possibly take out a little bit of vengeance if given the chance. He started a debate on whether the treatment of the hands truly indicated a religious leaning as he originally believed, or if the unsub thought of the victims as specimens and pinned them into place like science experiments. It would help them gain better insight as to his mental state, help profile what may be the trigger to his actions, and may well help find some clue in the prior evidence to assist in the unsub’s capture.

“If a specimen, it could mean this guy’s a scientist of some sort. Even a teacher maybe?” Morgan offered. “Alternatively, he could just be a sadist that thought up a way to keep his victims in place while dehumanizing them. Anyone who went through ninth grade biology knows how to pin down a frog and he could have extrapolated from that.”

He let them review and debate what he had written, knowing he had truncated words and sentences but that it had sped the process along and that he could clarify later if need be. He pretended not to notice the looks that were passed between the three men, or the two women when J.J. and Emily joined them. He tried to ignore them, concentrated instead on J.J. being alive and not completely well but at his side and trying to achieve what may have been one of the world’s most awkward hugs between her sling and bandages and his splints and wraps. Her sobs brought out his own and the others let them just have a moment and hold each other while they slunk off towards the edges of the room to give them space.

“I’m so sorry, Spence,” she sniffed when she eventually pulled back. “I should have walked you back. I should have insisted that kid of a cop brought you all the way to your room. I should have made the shot, or freed you when I got there, or…”

He gestured to Morgan, who gave him the laptop back. He tried to convince her that it was not her fault and that he didn’t blame her. He couldn’t because she literally had nothing to do with the attack. She started in again on how she left him pinned down instead of trying to help, and it took Hotch and Prentiss to talk her down from that. Hotch to point out even he did the same until the medics came to safely free him, and Prentiss to remind her of her own wound and how she made the call, got help, and covered them both until that help arrived. He could tell J.J. was not completely convinced, but she was at least calmed enough to be talked into taking a break to try to rest again.

He dozed for a bit after that, but woke when Waverton stopped by to give them updates. Well, give Hotch and the others updates as she hovered near the door but did not enter. She could have shared with the other agents and assumed it would be relayed to the team, just like she could have sent one of her deputies to do the relaying, but she was definitely more of a hands-on type of leader, and he respected that, even if she thought he was still asleep and talked about him nearly in front of him.

“He looks like my kid, about the same age and everything. Brings out the mother side of me that my crew denies I have,” she said. “And, before you ask, sperm-donor of a dad is out of the picture because I’m a sheriff and he’s a deadbeat, so Michael was raised right and good like your boy here appears to be.”

“This boy as you called him, pretty much raised himself,” Rossi told her, and Reid could hear almost a hint of pride to his tone. He was also clearly speaking loud enough for Reid himself to hear, which meant he knew he was awake. “The kid is also way too smart for his own good for doing so. Never had anyone hold him back, even if that means he never had anyone around to show him the good stuff in life too.”

“Now I just want Joann to knit him a blanket and wrap him up in it,” Waverton admitted.

“Go for a sweater vest; he has an unholy love of those,” Rossi replied, and Reid mentally rolled his eyes at the continuing argument even now between he and Rossi as to what constituted work appropriate clothing. He felt that a man who had alternatively come to work in both a tux and mud-stained hunting gear should have little to say on the matter while Dave disagreed.

He was not allowed to assist in the investigation beyond his report. Well, not officially. Morgan and Prentiss kept him up to date so long as Hotch was not around, J.J. chided them to let him get some rest, and Rossi pretended to ignore it all while pacing and ranting and shooting ideas off walls in ways that Reid knew were to distract him as well as keep him informed.

He was never left alone.

Not just the other agents guarding him, but a member of his team was nearby at all times, including when he graduated to Jell-o and choked on the cherry coolness before downing it anyway. This was embarrassing when he needed to do such things as use the restroom or have one of the nurses check and clean the wound on his thigh. The others were minor in comparison and seemed to be healing nicely, but the spiral was nasty and torn and they were actively fighting an infection, explained when he remembered the man placing his bare fingers within it just because he could. Unfortunately, there was not enough skin or tissue left behind from his actions – at least that was not contaminated after the doctors patched him up – to run against VICAP for a possible match, which meant replaying that particular memory did nothing but serve to remind him of yet another way he was violated.

Garcia personally reviewed all of the security feeds from in and around the building. The unsub still wore his mask in them all, at least until he disappeared because there was not a lot of cameras in such a small town. She watched footage for a good hour before and after the attack anyway on the off chance that someone matching the man appeared, but had no luck. It was almost as though he knew precisely where the few cameras were and how to avoid them. The most she could confirm was a matching description to the one Reid had of rough height, weight, and age.

Prentiss dragged Morgan back to the hotel itself. Not to sleep or anything like that, but the review the path the man would have taken from Reid’s room to the stairwell and beyond. Hotch was on rotation at the time, and took the call. Reid only heard him say “Good job,” and “Send it to the lab,” but the man elaborated when he saw he was being watched. “The room and the hallway were fairly contaminated with your blood, and that of J.J., but there is no reason for either of you to leave a spatter against the wall near the stairway. Carpet, yes, as you both were taken to the ambulances, but she wants this one, tiny as it is, to be run in case it isn’t either of yours.”

Which meant there was hope. Kind of. If the blood was not his and if the blood was not J.J.’s there was a chance it was the unsub’s due to the wound obtained when J.J. fired upon him. It could also just be a random guest of the hotel with a papercut, but they were ignoring that for now. They could run it and see if there was a hit to them or a third party, and also if that third party had a record. If nothing else, they would be able to tie someone to being there and being injured enough to leave something behind. Not ideal, but better than nothing.

His team were not the only visitors, though all were carefully vetted including the nurses and doctors by his overprotective teammates. Aside from the assisting agents peeking in on him in an oddly friendly way, Milson and Arlen stopped by as well. Milson was horrified that something had happened at all, and Arlen was convinced that he should have somehow known and at least come with to clear the room given that Reid had been less than one hundred percent at the time. Derek muttered something about wondering if Arlen would have even known how to complete such a task, but stopped when it was obvious that the kid was beating himself up about it. Waverton dropped off a blanket that was a thousand times softer and warmer than what the hospital had gifted him with, but insisted it was from the mysterious Joann as she could hit a bullseye but never could figure out a set of knitting needles.

It took him until nearly the end of the third day of his being conscious to realize someone was missing. Not that he knew him well, but he didn’t really know any of the locals that well and the few he had interacted with had checked in on him and J.J. All had offered promises that they were still tracking leads and that the unsub may currently be in the wind, but they were determined to find him. Emily and Derek had tried not to point out they had completed another cycle in the unsub’s timeline in such an obvious way that Reid immediately caught on to what they avoided telling him: unless something drastically changed, there could be another victim by morning. It made him scour his mind for anything he may have missed, which made him overanalyze the slightest details, which made him make the connection.

He still was not supposed to talk – and it still felt like he gargled glass when he did so anyway – but he knew it was faster to speak instead of try to get their attention in any other way. He refused the stronger meds on offer, not willing to risk his sobriety despite Hotch’s assurances that they could work through that once he was healed, which meant his waking hours were extremely uncomfortable and his rest was fitful and short. His braces had been switched out for something a little less bulky that covered his palms and immobilized only the final two fingers on each hand, but it was still a pain to type, and he meant that literally. He did not even attempt the keyboard when he asked, “Where’s Dremer?”

Morgan paused in his argument over some obscure fact in which Reid knew both he and Prentiss were both incorrect about to raise an eyebrow in his direction. “The guy from the station? The one who flirted with you?”

Reid rolled his eyes because, of course, that’s what Morgan would remember about him. It was Prentiss who answered though. “The second deputy we met, right? I asked when he didn’t show up that night. The first one, Milson, said he was in a car accident on the way into work and banged his head. Hit and run that might have been the unsub given the timing and the description given from an admittedly concussed Dremer. His face was all sliced up from the glass, some bruising but nothing broken, and his car hit a ditch from the impact. Mandatory leave.”

Something pinged as off to Reid about that. He went to speak but the laptop was set out before him with a pointed look instead. “Check on him,” he painfully typed.

“Because the unsub is going after anyone he thinks is queer, the timeline is up, and this guy publicly flirted with you?” Emily confirmed, but he shook his head.

Derek grabbed the laptop back and scrolled to check on something before he corrected it to, “Because he disappeared with supposed injuries right after you and J.J. nailed the unsub, hasn’t been seen since, and fits your description of a thirty-five to forty-year-old Caucasian male that’s approximately 5’10” and maybe 190 to 200 pounds with brown eyes – son of a bitch!”

There was a lot of action after that, and Spencer was sure it was very much dramatic save for the part he participated in none of it. He was locked down to his little hospital room with an armed J.J. at his side and agents at the door that stopped even the nurses and was only regaled with tales after the fact of the capture and rant of a confession. Well, that, and the little footage Garcia was able to obtain and sneak to him for what she called “closure reasons.” Morgan did make a point of showing him Dremer’s mugshot, complete with broken nose and a scrape along his face that matched the blood samples that were not just Reid’s or J.J.’s own from the hotel. Those had pinged on VICAP, which led them to check other sites where his DNA was found but written off as an officer who had been on the scene. Derek also proudly showed J.J. where her shot had landed across the man’s bicep, earning her kudos from other agents from managing the shot with a literal knife in her.

Another three days and Dremer was behind bars, a sporadic history of men assaulted but left alive discovered in a neighboring county, and Reid’s wounds were healed enough to finally be discharged from the hospital even if he was in for weeks of downtime and rehab. He made a point of visiting Waverton and Milson back at the station before he was to begin the uncomfortable car ride to the eventual plane ride. The gouges in his thigh meant it hurt to walk, but crutches were not an option given the state of his hands. The hospital wanted him to use a wheelchair, but he was also supposed to try to move on a regular basis and he knew he had a long ride with minimal breaks ahead of him and used that to his advantage to win his argument.

He meant only to say goodbye, but somehow ended up being gifted with not one, but two decorative bags from the good sheriff. The first held the blanket from the hospital that she insisted he keep. “It will keep your extremely skinny self warm, and maybe give you at least one positive memory of our little town,” she told him.

He opened the second bag and burst out laughing, then had to accept water to soothe his throat from the action. Within was a sweater vest, clearly made just for him as it was the correct size and even matched the colors of the shirt and tie he had worn upon his arrival. “That fast?” he whispered-asked.

Waverton simply beamed. “My Joann is a wiz when it comes to that knitting,” she confirmed. “And don’t you dare thank me! Or better yet, do so by not saying another word because it hurts to listen to you, child!” she admonished when he tried anyway.

“If you can get this kid to actually not talk, or to actually listen to his doctors’ medical advice, for more than a few hours at a time? I think we have a job for you in the bureau if you’re that persuasive,” Rossi jokingly told her.

She shook her head good naturedly. “I have had enough excitement in my tiny town to last me quite some time. If this is what you deal with on a regular basis, voluntarily even, I will readily pass.”

“Smart lady,” Rossi agreed easily enough.

J.J. was gifted with a pillow that she was to use to rest her arm on, or her gun on if she wanted to make a point, and the team finally said their goodbyes and began the trek to the airstrip. J.J. rode up front with Morgan because she still had problems letting Reid out of her sight, and Prentiss switched to ride with Hotch and Rossi to allow Reid to stretch out his bad leg as much as he could across the back seat. The hours were not the most comfortable in his life but, given the few days prior, he knew it could be far worse.

They arrived at the plane and he was not surprised to find the couch had been left clear for his use. If that had not been clue enough for him, Prentiss took the gifted blanket and laid it out for him as well. Also going with the subtle route, Hotch placed a water bottle and one of his pain pills down in front of him. It was tempting, especially since he had burned through the last of the prior dose during the ride and it was nearly time for another anyway. To sway his argument, Hotch also held up a bag from the café that had been across from the sheriff’s office that held what appeared to be a pastry and possibly only his seventh semi-solid meal since the attack. He took both offerings and everyone deemed it a win.

Or almost win considering he saw Rossi looking up different types of mobility and communication aids and overheard both he and Morgan arguing over who would house Reid during his recovery as neither thought he should be alone. Not that they asked him for his opinion on the matter. Not that he had a valid argument against the limitations of being able to call for help portion of the debate. Also, both of their residences had limited staircases, or at least rooms available without the need to do a set of steps, versus even just the entryway to his apartment building. They also had incredibly comfortable couches across from incredibly large screens to display Garcia’s promised marathon of science fiction goodness.

And, if he woke up in the middle of the night, breaths coming in harsh rasps against his still too sensitive throat, his hosts never mentioned it. Instead, he found a glass of cool water on a bedside table with a lamp on bright enough to show him just what room he was in and that it was as far from a budget hotel as possible. Of course, propped up against that lamp would be a card for a victims’ outreach group or one for a discrete approved counselor because his friends understood him and knew what he needed, perhaps even better than he did himself.