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Chapter Text

Dr. Spencer Reid had been pouring over his lesson plans for hours, meticulously detailing each subject, and specifying anything that he planned to use in his exam papers. A headache had long since settled into his right temple, his bones aching. He had already spent a full day teaching at the FBI Academy, then had gone home to complete his lesson planning. He glanced up from the papers on his antique mahogany desk to the analogue clock that was gently bathed in the glow from the green and brass desk lamp above it. 21:43. He had been so engrossed in his work that he had missed his usual dose of medication. He decided that he would take his medication and drag himself to bed, as exhaustion settled heavily in his limbs.

Following the unexpected explosion at the Lynch residence in which Spencer had endured an intracranial haemorrhage, he found himself suffering with chronic headaches and seizures. Post traumatic epilepsy, the neurologist called it. He was forced to take a cocktail of non-narcotic pain relief and anticonvulsant medications. He understood what had snapped in Gideon's mind after his order to send six men into a warehouse in which Adrian Bale had detonated a bomb, resulting in the deaths of the six agents and a hostage. Spencer’s own order to breach at the Lynch property was almost parallel, with four SWAT agents killed by the blast. His own injuries led him to teaching and consulting full time instead of working as an active field agent.

Spencer sighed and settled back into his leather swivel chair, brushing his long, unkempt curls out of his face. He eyed the half-filled mug on his desk. A layer of skin had formed on the top of his cold coffee. He grimaced at the sight and pushed against his desk to rise to his feet. He yawned wide with exhaustion, one hand carrying his mug, and the other curled into fist, rubbing his weary eyes as he padded his way to the kitchen to prepare himself some chamomile tea. His mismatched socks slipped slightly against the laminate wood flooring. Spencer twisted the faucet and rinsed his mug before turning off the stream of water, and setting his mug down. He flicked on his kettle to boil the water, and grabbed a tea bag from the box at the back of the kitchen counter. He dropped the tea bag into the mug and gave another defeated sigh. The sleeves of his black button-up shirt had been rolled to his elbows, the tail untucked from his black dress slacks.

Spencer was startled by a loud, heavy thudding on his door that reminded him of the times they went to an UnSub's house. He peered over his shoulder, curls bouncing against his cheek, towards the door. The pounding was relentless. Spencer crept towards the door. His fingers instinctively reached to his hip for a weapon he rarely carried, and was safely tucked away in his gun safe. He opened the door slightly, the chain still latched in place, and stared through the gap at the two suited men standing on the opposite side. 

“Can I help you?” asked Spencer, scratching numbly at the thick layer of stubble across his chin. 

“Dr. Spencer Reid?” 

“Yeah. Who's asking?”

“Agents Matthews and Lawson. CIA.”

“Where are your credentials, agents?” One of the men turned away, rifling through the inner pocket of his jacket. Spencer furrowed his brows. Government agents were supposed to present their credentials straight away. He noticed the large spider web tattoo on the neck of the man who identified himself as Matthews. Alarm bells instantly rang in his head.

“Okay, I don't know who you are, but you clearly aren't CIA agents. I may teach, but I'm still a federal agent, so I know when someone is posing as an agent. You need to leave this property now.” Spencer managed to keep his voice from wavering, his shoulders pulled back, and his chin tilted up slightly. Matthews sneered at him, lips drawn back to reveal nicotine stained teeth. A Glock was pointed at Spencer’s chest.

“What are you going to do, bookworm?” Spencer narrowed his hazel eyes on the man.

“What do you want?” Spencer’s voice was low and dangerous, hands clenched into fists. 

“You, Dr. Reid.” Spencer attempted to shove the door shut, however Matthews jammed his booted foot between the door and the frame to stop it. Spencer continued to push fruitlessly against the door. Lawson barged his shoulder into the door, sending Spencer sprawling.

Spencer scrambled to his feet, making a beeline for his bedroom to get to his gun safe. He barely made it to the hallway when a heavy weight flew at him from behind, sending him crashing to the floor. He let out a winded huff when the air was knocked out of his lungs. 

“Stop fighting us,” hissed Lawson from his position on the doctor's back. Spencer swung his right elbow back, hoping to nail Lawson. Instead, his arm was caught and wrenched backwards. Spencer gritted his teeth and tried to twist his limb out of the man's iron grip to no avail. His left arm was yanked back, shoulder joints pulled painfully.

“GET THE FUCK OFF ME!!” bellowed Spencer, his face reddened with rage and breathlessness, as he struggled against Lawson's hold. Spencer arched his back to try and free himself. He hoped that someone would hear the screams from the usually quiet apartment. 

“Shut up, Dr. Reid,” barked Matthews, drawing a pair of sturdy handcuffs from his jacket pocket. Lawson held Spencer’s wrists together as his partner clicked them tightly in place. Spencer attempted to kick out, twisting his wrists against the cuffs. 

“GET OFF!! LET ME GO!!”

“Shut him up,” snapped Matthews. Lawson sat back slightly on Spencer’s hips and tugged a wadded up handkerchief out of his trouser pocket, and shoved it into the genius’ open maw. He clamped his palm over Spencer’s mouth to keep the handkerchief in place, fingers pressed tightly into his cheeks. 

Spencer squirmed in place, his shirt riding up his back, and his head writhing to escape the hand. The sound of duct tape tearing away from itself made Spencer increase his fighting tenfold. Lawson used his other hand to cup Spencer’s jaw, forcing his neck to curve backwards. Matthews crouched down and pressed the end of the tape to Spencer’s cheek. Lawson removed his hand from Spencer’s face. Matthews pasted the tape firmly and precisely over Spencer’s mouth, wrapping it tightly around the back of his head, and circled it once more for good measure. Spencer’s attempts to scream for help were muted, though it didn't stop him from trying. He tried to use his heels to kick Lawson, but failed when Matthews moved around and bound the doctor's ankles together tightly. Spencer tried to pull his legs apart. More tape was used to bind his legs below the knee and around his thighs. 

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Lawson as Spencer tried rolling side to side to buck him off. Matthews bound Spencer’s wrists over the handcuffs, then pulled his elbows together, wrapping the tape around them. His shoulders felt as though they were going to pop out of place. 

Spencer sagged in place, unable to break any of his bonds. He could only watch as the two men smashed his coffee table, tore books from the shelves, and ripped up his lesson plans. Lawson eyed the orange pill bottle on Spencer’s desk. He smirked and held it up, shaking the pills to attract Matthews’ attention.

“The good doctor is epileptic.” Spencer growled at them from where he was trussed up on the floor. He could already feel the tingling in the tips of his fingers, and coloured lights had begun to dance before his eyes. He moaned into the gag as he tried to wriggle onto his side. 

“Hey! Where do you think you're going?” asked Matthews. Spencer glared at him, clearly unable to answer. 

The seizure was already building quickly. It had been several weeks since his last tonic clonic. Spencer’s cheek began to twitch, pulling against the duct tape. His scleras became visible as his eyes rolled up into his head behind fluttering lids. Noisy breaths left his nose, and every muscle contracted. His hands clenched into tight fists, and his toes pointed down. His head tilted back, the duct tape over his mouth pulling tight against his skin. Matthews and Lawson watched in amusement, leaning back on Spencer’s sofa. 

“Do you think he'll piss himself?” asked Matthews, stuffing some chewing tobacco into his mouth. Lawson shrugged.

“Guess we'll find out.” Spencer’s left shoulder rotated uncomfortably. A guttural groan came from behind the gag as he began to convulse. With his limbs completely unable to move, Spencer rocked onto his back, trapping his bound hands behind him, and flopping in place like a fish out of water. The tightness of his restraints and the jerking muscles wrenched Spencer’s left shoulder out of its socket. His hips protested loudly from their twisted position. A purple blush appeared across Spencer’s cheeks from the pressure of his gag and his lack of oxygen. Blood began to seep from his nostrils with the rise in blood pressure.

“This is some good shit,” chuckled Lawson.

“I'd hoped it'd last longer,” murmured Matthews, watching as their prisoner's jerking slowed. They were even more disappointed when he hadn't been incontinent.

Once the seizure had subsided to periodic twitching, Matthews tugged a black cloth hood from his jacket pocket and pulled it down over Spencer’s limp head. It was easy then for Lawson to lift Spencer’s pliable form up from the ground into a bridal carry. They draped a tartan blanket over Spencer to hide his bonds, and tucked his head down under the blanket, leaving only his socked feet visible. They carried the genius down the four flights of stairs under the cover of darkness to their black BMW parked outside. Matthews popped open the trunk, allowing his partner to stuff Spencer inside in a foetal position with his forehead on his knees. The trunk slammed shut, and Lawson banged his palm against it. 

“Enjoy your nap, doctor. An old friend of yours is itching to see you again.” The car shifted as the men clambered into the front seats, Matthews in the driver's side. A small, muffled moan sounded from the trunk. They glanced at each other and chuckled. They knew that their prisoner hated the dark.

…

For all the journey hadn't been particularly long, Spencer had spent the entire time screaming into the void, and kicking his bound feet into the side of the trunk. When the trunk opened, allowing the cool night air to breathe over him, Spencer threw out his legs and twisted against the two men as they lifted him out.

“Quit your struggling! Jesus! For a scrawny little thing, you sure put up a fight,” snapped Matthews, wrapping his arms around Spencer’s thrashing torso. Realising the inevitable, his breaths coming thick and fast, Spencer relented too easily to being picked up in a fireman's hold, and carried into a long forgotten warehouse.  

Spencer groaned as he was dumped unceremoniously onto the cold concrete floor. He rolled onto his side to try and find a way upright. A pair of hands pushed him face down to the floor whilst another pair cut the tape from around his elbows and wrists. Spencer felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his head through the hood.

“We're going to release your wrists to reset your shoulder. If you fight, I'll blow your big, beautiful brains out. Understood?” sneered Matthews with his Glock to Spencer’s head. Spencer nodded shakily as the cuffs came undone. A foot nudged him onto his back. Spencer kept his trembling hands visible. Matthews knelt down on Spencer’s right arm to pin it in place. Lawson took Spencer’s left wrist into one hand, and his elbow into the other. He lifted it to a ninety degree angle and began to rotate it outwards. Spencer writhed in place and screamed with the agony in his shoulder. The muscles and tendons were tense, determined not to allow the joint to slip back into place. With one final twist, Spencer's ball joint clunked nauseatingly back into place. The doctor panted, sweat plastering his curls to his forehead. His recycled breaths were hot and stifling. Lawson patted Spencer patronisingly on the cheek over the hood. 

Spencer could only lie on the floor, desperately trying to regain his breath. His head spun with the pain that radiated throughout his entire arm. Matthews still had him pinned to the floor, and his shoulder throbbed far too much to try and fight back with it. He caught the sound of footsteps echoing around what he could only assume was a large room.

“Hey, Crowley. Look what we found,” gloated Matthews. 

“Why aren't his arms restrained?” came a voice that sounded familiar somehow.  

“So, our friend here is epileptic. We had him tied up nice and tight, and then he had a seizure. Flopped about like a big ol’ fish. Was quite funny. He dislocated his shoulder so Lawson just reset it.” 

“Hmmm. This might do nicely.” A large, heavy bundle was thrown at Lawson. “Put this on him instead, and make sure you fasten it properly. When you've done that, put him in the corner. It's already set up.” Spencer froze in place, his breaths from his nose stuttering. What? Wait…

Spencer barely had time to react when his left arm was wrenched up and a thick linen material was pulled over his hand. He couldn't extend his fingers. Matthews’ knee released from his right arm to force it into another linen cocoon. The sleeves brushed over his arms. No… Matthews pinned Spencer’s arms back down by his sides as he buttoned the collar of his shirt. The straitjacket was pulled over his shoulders. Realising what they were restraining him with, Spencer began to struggle, his curses muffled. Matthews ground down into his right wrist with his knee. The muzzle of the gun rested against the sharp angle of Spencer’s jaw. 

“Behave. It's either this, or I string you up from the ceiling.” Spencer stilled, allowing Matthews to sit him up. The straps at the back of the jacket were buckled tightly. The strap at the neck was pulled as tight as possible, crushing his shirt collar into his skin. Spencer coughed slightly. His arms were forced to cross over his chest, the straps pulled behind his back and fastened punishingly tightly. The strap on the front of the jacket was buckled around his forearms.

Spencer wriggled against the hands that gripped his armpits and began to drag him, toes scraping across the floor. He was placed on the ground with his bound legs out in front of him. He felt smooth, cold steel slink around his throat and close around his neck. It wasn't tight enough to cut off his breathing, but it was considerably uncomfortable. The attached chain was fixed to an eye hook in the wall by a short length with a heavy duty padlock. His socks were tugged off his feet, exposing his skin. The cold air made Spencer’s toes curl. Matthews and Lawson chuckled at the one duck print sock, and the other covered in spots. 

“Guess someone can't dress himself in the morning.” Spencer jerked towards the sound of their voices, only to be halted by the collar pressing into his trachea.

“Keep your eyes shut, doctor,” demanded Lawson as he tugged the hood off, ruffling Spencer’s dishevelled curls. As instructed, Spencer kept his eyes closed. A long strip of duct tape was torn from the roll and pressed down firmly over Spencer’s eyes. 

The tape over his mouth was roughly cut close to his ear, nicking his skin in the process, and then ripped away harshly. Some of his hair at the nape of his neck was plucked out, making him hiss through clenched teeth. Raw, red patches appeared on his cheeks and chin where the tape had pulled off his top layer of skin. Spencer spat the handkerchief out, unable to prevent the involuntary gasp when he was able to inhale properly, even if it was the dank air of wherever he was.

“Here. Water.” A plastic straw brushed against Spencer’s peeling, bleeding lips. The genius sipped cautiously. There was no bitter taste of drugs lacing the drink. 

“More. You're not dying of dehydration on me,” said Lawson. Spencer scoffed. 

“Look. I don't know who you work for, but trust me when I say that you'd be doing me a favour by killing me. I have a brain injury and epilepsy for fuck's sake.”

“Don't be a martyr, Dr. Reid. We have much to talk about.”

“Like what?” 

“The profile you recently gave to Metro PD.” 

“What about it?” 

“Well, let's just say that our boss isn't happy about it. One of ours was arrested because of your little profile.” Spencer snorted derisively.

“Maybe you shouldn't be career criminals then.” Spencer’s face snapped to the side as he was backhanded. His cheek instantly reddened. The chain around his neck clinked with the movement. He tasted iron as he ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. Spencer let out an unamused laugh from his nose, shaking his head. 

“Don't like hearing the truth, huh? I'm not going to change my mind.” The straw was pressed to his lips again. Spencer sucked on the straw but made no effort to swallow the contents in his mouth. 

“We'll see if you still feel the same when you meet Crowley.” Spencer had no idea where Lawson was, and he was disgusted by what he planned to do, but at that moment in time, he didn't care about his germophobic tendencies. 

Spencer spat out the blood-stained water that he had been storing in his mouth. He had clearly been successful in hitting his target by the surprised yelp that followed. 

“Dirty bastard!” Spencer smirked to himself, the split in his bottom lip widening, as he listened to the retreating footsteps. Another heavier set of steps approached- Matthews. Spencer’s jaw was tightly gripped at the hinges, forcing his mouth to drop open. Spencer writhed in place, determined to get free of his bonds. A rubber ball was stuffed into his mouth, sitting behind his front teeth and depressing his tongue. The leather straps were buckled tightly in the crook of his neck, pulling painfully against the corners of his mouth. A padlock was fed through the buckle and locked in place. Spencer tried to push the ball out with his tongue but it wouldn't budge.

“Good luck getting that out,” chuckled Matthews. “You should wear a gag more often. Shutting you up is a good look for you.” Spencer attempted to kick out with his feet, but ended up overbalancing. The lack of give in the chain on the collar prevented him from hitting the ground.

“Crowley's going to love you.” The steps moved away from him.

Suddenly, Spencer was very much alone. He was tied up, collared and leashed like an animal. His left arm felt numb and his feet were icy cold. Drool ran over his bottom lip and dripped from his chin. His head pounded. 

I'm royally fucked…

Chapter Text

Aaron Hotchner loved his job at the FBI… Until he didn't. He had lost his wife Haley to the Boston Reaper, a fact he never truly recovered from. Peter Lewis managed to break something in Aaron. So when Peter began stalking them, even to the point of following Jack to school, Aaron had finally reached his breaking point. He and Jack entered the witness protection program and relocated to Denver, Colorado. He had heard snippets from David Rossi about Spencer being charged with murder and drug possession with intent to supply, and being incarcerated for three months. Granted, he was relieved that Spencer was exonerated, but he had no idea of the mental turmoil that his former subordinate had endured, and how much it had truly changed him. Perhaps he wanted to bury his head in the sand, and remember Spencer as the young bookish agent that liked to perform magic tricks.

But then Aaron started to miss aspects of his time as a government agent. Jack was growing up fast, spending the majority of his time with friends or his Aunt Jessica. The CIA had reached out to Aaron, looking for someone to work in their Counter Intelligence team. He jumped at the chance. As a unit chief, he missed being able to get stuck in to the nitty gritty of undercover work. 

They had been looking into a crime ring for months, with charges ranging from assault and kidnapping, to homicide. Aaron proved to be an ideal candidate to pose as a hardened recruit transferred from another city. He slipped into the role with ease, and was welcomed with open arms. It could have been argued that Aaron fell in too deep with them, but he needed to prove himself as a worthy ally to get the information needed to find the head of the ring and bring them down. 

Aaron straightened his burgundy silk tie and pulled his leather gloves over his calloused hands. He was their enforcer. His black woolen coat hung to his mid thighs over his crisp black pinstripe suit. He had a layer of greying stubble over his jaw, and his classically dark hair was flecked with grey. He had been informed that a profile had been built and given to the Metropolitan Police Department in Washington DC that led to the arrest of the second in charge of the ring. The person responsible was getting too close, closer than the CIA had managed. Both the agency and the crime ring were determined to make the profiler disappear. Lawson and Matthews were sent to locate the profiler. Aaron's role was to make him disappear. Arthur Crowley's job.

…

Arthur rounded the corner of the warehouse, his shoulders squared. Matthews and Lawson had successfully found the responsible agent. Arthur was surprised to learn that he had put up one hell of a fight. He noticed Matthews kneeling on the floor, pinning a thin man down by his right arm. The man's head was covered, and his legs were tightly bound together. His shirt had lifted slightly, revealing his heaving stomach. 

“Why aren't his arms restrained?” asked Arthur, his brows furrowed and his dark eyes glinting dangerously.

“So, our friend here is epileptic. We had him tied up nice and tight, and then he had a seizure. Flopped about like a big ol’ fish. Was quite funny. He dislocated his shoulder so Lawson just reset it,” answered Matthews, seemingly giddy by his find. 

“Hmmm. This might do nicely.” Arthur moved over to a pile of crates off to the side. He retrieved a heavy bundle that he knew to be a straitjacket, and tossed it to Lawson. “Put this on him instead, and make sure you fasten it properly. When you've done that, put him in the corner. It's already set up.” Arthur eyed the corner of the room where a steel collar rested on top of a pile of chains, the floor splattered with dark brown patches. He tightened his hands into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking. He cast another glance at the prisoner on the floor before stalking away. There was something familiar about him, but Arthur couldn't quite put his finger on it. No. He was going to enjoy roughing up the man responsible for his second in command being arrested. 

…

Arthur took great pleasure in sauntering up to his prisoner, watching the young man tremble in place. The straitjacket was pulled tight around his thin frame. The collar circled the lithe neck just enough to be uncomfortable. There was a strip of silver heavy duty duct tape pasted over the captive’s eyes. His legs trembled with the tension of them being bound so tightly together. A silicone ball gag had been strapped into his mouth. Arthur curled his lip. Such methods of silencing someone were unappealing to him. He slipped his fingers into his steel knuckles and approached Spencer. He dragged him up onto his bound knees.

“So… You're the one that formed the profile?” Spencer's response was distorted by the ball in his mouth. 

Arthur coiled his hand into a fist, and smashed the knuckles against Spencer’s sharp cheekbone, splitting his skin and sending him teetering to the right. The captive raised himself back up, almost daring the older man. Arthur curved an eyebrow upwards. He couldn't help but feel that there was something eerily familiar about the trussed up man before him. Arthur threw his fist into Spencer's jaw. The crack was audible, the bones shifting to the right. Blood spilled from Spencer's mouth around the ball. He groaned, doubling up on himself. Blood dripped from his chin. Arthur reached down and unlocked the gag from the back of the man's head. Spencer spit out a large glob of blood on the floor. A large bruise had already begun to blossom across his jaw, and was swelling rapidly. 

“You're the profiler?” Spencer attempted to open his mouth to respond. His front teeth looked out of line.

“Y'h. Sh-o?” slurred the doctor. Arthur recognised the accent, though it was difficult to pinpoint. 

“There's a lot of people who want you to vanish, agent. Beg me to spare you.” Spencer’s attempt to smile was crooked. 

“Fuh- off…” Arthur gripped Spencer’s throat and pulled him in close. He smelled of old books, leather and coffee. He smelled familiar.

“Sounds like you're keen to disappear too.” 

“Mmhm.” Blood continued to drip from Spencer’s chin, crimson splotches all down the front of the straitjacket. 

Spencer spat into Arthur's face, speckling the older man's skin. Arthur smirked, tugging the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiping his face. 

“Well, you've got some balls, agent. By the time I'm done with you, they'll need dental records to identify you.” Spencer gave him another crooked smile.

“You' ‘e ‘oing ‘e a ‘a‘our.” Arthur scrunched up the handkerchief he had used to clean the blood from his face, and stuffed it into Spencer’s mouth. He snapped his fingers for Matthews to bring over the roll of duct tape. 

“Tape his mouth shut,” ordered Arthur. Matthews grinned, his meaty fingers already pulling some tape away from the roll. He tore off three long strips of tape and pressed them roughly down over Spencer’s lips, ensuring they were secured. Spencer released a hoarse cry as his broken jaw was nudged. Arthur considered the pitiful man for a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“Bring me a chair, Matthews.” 

Spencer grimaced at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. It was a sturdy wooden straight back chair, and was set down next to where Spencer knelt. Arthur leaned in close to Spencer’s ear.

“We're going to take this straitjacket off, and you're going to be put into this chair, and you're going to let us tie you up. Is that understood?” Arthur tapped Spencer’s swollen jaw, eliciting an involuntary squawk from his prisoner. “I said, is that understood?” Spencer nodded stiffly. The straps came undone at the front of the straitjacket, then the ones at the back were unbuckled. Spencer’s arms fell limply to his sides. He compliantly allowed them to loosen the chain on his collar slightly, and manipulate him into the chair. His left shoulder screamed at him as his arms were pulled around the back of the chair, and his wrists crossed. Matthews wound the tape tightly around Spencer’s thin wrists. The handcuffs were looped around a slat in the chair and fastened around the bound wrists to anchor them in place. 

The tape was cut from Spencer's legs. His hips protested loudly, but he had to take his opportunity. He swung his right leg out blindly to kick someone, anyone. The chain on the collar was yanked, forcing the steel into his trachea. 

“I warned you. For that, your first punishment will be worse,” snarled Arthur. Matthews pinned Spencer’s legs down, binding his ankles to the front legs of the chair in a simple chair tie. Spencer sagged as the chain in his collar was released slightly, breathing deeply through his nose. The pain ravaging his face was intense. Arthur took his time, unbuttoning Spencer’s shirt and pushing the fabric away from chest. His captive’s chest heaved, desperately trying to steady his breaths. Lawson wheeled over a metal trolley laden with equipment- an electrical current box, a tattooing machine, needles, and black ink. A pedal was set down on the floor and plugged into the box. Matthews grasped under Spencer’s chin, one hand on his forehead, and twisted his head back and to the side slightly. Spencer writhed in place, desperately trying to escape the hold. Arthur stepped back and watched in amusement as a man with long, straggly grey hair approached, a lit cigarette between his rotten teeth. He snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and got to work preparing his tattoo machine, then pouring ink into small pots. He grinned at the bared neck before him. 

“What am I tattooing on this pretty little neck?” asked the tattoo artist.

“The agent here flops about like a fish when he has a fit, Spike. How about a nice big koi fish?” answered Arthur. Spencer grunted in his gag and struggled harder. Matthews twisted harder on Spencer’s neck, almost snapping it. Spencer mewled with the pain from his overstretched muscles and tendons. 

Spike rubbed his hands together gleefully and grabbed his pen. He sketched out a design onto Spencer’s milky flesh, the head of the fish on his Adam's apple, and the tail sitting just behind his ear. 

“This is going to take a while, boys. You might want to knock him out and go for a beer or two,” suggested Spike, his voice raspy from years of smoking. Lawson grabbed an empty syringe and hypodermic needle from the bottom shelf of the trolley and screwed it on. He held up the vial of Midazolam and inspected the clear contents with a sinister smile on his face. He inserted the needle into the neck of the vial and drew back on the plunger to fill the syringe. Lawson took the opportunity to sink the needle into Spencer’s pulse point and force the medication into his bloodstream. Spencer’s veins instantly lit up. His head felt fuzzy. The buzzing from the machine was terrifying. Spencer was unable to prevent the trembling that descended down his limbs as the needle drew closer. Spike pulled the collar down slightly. 

The first line in his skin felt like a hundred fires and he let out a muffled scream. Just before the tidal wave of darkness swept him away.

…

When Arthur, Matthews, and Lawson returned some four hours later, Spike had completed a large black and grey koi fish that covered the side of Spencer’s neck. The surrounding skin was red, shining with the antibiotic ointment that Spike had applied. Spencer had started to come around, tears running down his cheeks from behind the tape blindfold. Each breath shuddered in his chest. Arthur admired the tattoo artist's handiwork. 

“Nicely done, Spike. You never lose your touch,” commented Arthur.

“Thanks. Anything else before I go?” answered Spike. 

“You enjoy a little scarification, don't you?” Spike chuckled. 

“You bet your ass, I do.”

“I want you to carve the word ‘damaged’ into his stomach. The boys tell me that he has a brain injury. Remind him of what he is.” Spike uncapped a sterile scalpel from the bottom shelf of the table and pressed the tip of the blade down to the sensitive skin over Spencer’s stomach. The doctor thrashed at the new wave of pain in his abdomen. Arthur grasped Spencer’s jaw, igniting the agony in his face.

“Behave.” 

As Arthur carved into Spencer’s flesh, Matthews took it upon himself to kneel behind the prisoner, and jam a pair of pliers around the nail on Spencer’s left pinky. He slowly, and painstakingly ripped the nail from the bed. Spencer seemed to still, his tongue clicking against his jagged teeth. After thirty seconds, Spencer sighed deeply as he returned to awareness. Matthews moved along to the next finger and peeled the nail out. 

By the time Spike had finished carving into Spencer’s stomach, his skin glistening with blood, Matthews had removed every nail from Spencer’s left hand. Spencer froze in place once again, his fingers twitching slightly, and his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. 

“Look who's checked out,” scoffed Matthews. Spencer sighed again as his awareness returned. 

“Are we boring you, agent?” hissed Lawson. Spencer cocked his head in confusion. Then it dawned on him that he'd had an absence seizure. In fact, he'd had two. He'd been without his medication for god only knows how long. They had seen him seizing. 

“How much do you bet we can get him to have a big one?” asked Matthews. 

“Twenty bucks says we can't,” responded Lawson. The pair shook hands over their wager. It was at that exact moment that Spencer’s awareness dipped out again.

Thirty four seconds later, Spencer coughed into his gag indicating that he was back. Arthur paced in front of the bound man, arms crossed over his chest, and brushing a gloved finger back and forth over the coarse stubble on his chin. His mouth widened into a smile. He knew just how to trigger a tonic clonic seizure. 

Chapter Text

Arthur slipped the taser from the inner pocket of his coat, and pressed the button on the side, relishing in the blue sparks that emitted from the prongs. He advanced on Spencer’s shaking form and grabbed his jaw again, eliciting a weak cry of pain. Arthur turned Spencer’s head to the left slightly, the newly tattooed skin pulling. He furrowed his brows on the pink scar on the right side of Spencer’s neck just above the crook of his shoulder. Interesting place for a scar… he mused. 

“This is going to be shocking,” murmured Arthur into Spencer's ear, hot breath misting his cheek. Spencer whimpered. Arthur shoved the taser into Spencer’s ribs and jabbed his thumb into the button. Every nerve lit up in Spencer’s body as he stiffened, his eyes squeezed shut behind the blindfold.

“Fifty dollars says he pisses himself this time!” announced Matthews. He and Lawson shook hands again. Spike lit up a new cigarette and leaned back against the wall.

“I gotta see this.” He slid his cell phone out of his pocket and started recording.

Tingling began in the tips of Spencer’s fingers and crawled up his arms. He knew a seizure was coming, he was just powerless to stop it. He was tied far too tightly to the chair. His pleas to his tormentors were muffled. He needed to get on the floor. He needed to… 

His head tipped back, curls brushing against the chain, and a rhythmic twitch starting in his cheek. He could make out the voices of the men jeering around him, though they were swirling as if they were under water. He was about to seize in front of his captors. He couldn't seize in front of these people. He couldn't…  

Spencer had no choice as his awareness faded out, his muscles locking into place. His limbs pulled against the tape that restrained him. He groaned deeply. He vibrated like a taut string. His head twisted around painfully. Spencer moaned softly into the tape as he began to convulse, limbs jerking violently. The chain clinked with each movement of his writhing head. Loud grunting sounds left his nose. A large wet patch blossomed across the front of his trousers. 

“Hah! Told you so! You owe me fifty bucks!” cheered Matthews. Lawson grumbled as he slammed the dollar bills into Matthews’ open palm. Blood oozed from Spencer’s nose and over his gag, dripping steadily from his chin, and down his chest. A purple blush formed over his cheeks, his breaths wet and strained. 

Five minutes seemed to crawl by, and Spencer’s seizure showed no sign of relenting. Arthur's brows knitted in concern. Matthews chewed slower on his tobacco, all amusement of the situation dissipating. 

“Uh, Crowley? Shouldn't he have stopped by now?” asked Matthews, stringy tobacco clinging to his teeth.

“Yeah. Lawson? Dose him with some Midazolam.” Lawson nodded in affirmation, drawing a small dose into the same syringe he had used earlier. He debated where to stick the seizing man with it. He had no option but to jab it into Spencer’s jerking right shoulder. Within thirty seconds, Spencer’s seizing slowed to sporadic twitches. Arthur clenched his jaw, his nostrils burning with the offensive odour of ammonia. 

“Clean him up. I'm going to take a shower. I'll see you all in the morning.” Arthur cast a final glance over the unconscious man. Something unsettling was pooling in his stomach and he couldn't pinpoint how or what it was. There was something eerily familiar about him. 

Arthur weaved through the corridors and up two flights of stairs until he reached the living quarters. They weren't much, but they were comfortable. His keys jangled as he took them from his pocket and unlocked his door. His own room was sparsely decorated. He couldn't have anything that would indicate his undercover status. Back in this room, he could be Aaron again. He shrugged his coat off and slung it over the back of the armchair. He unfastened the collar of his shirt, and loosened the knot in his tie. He made his way to the small dresser where there was a tray sporting a crystal liquor decanter and a glass tumbler. He poured himself a generous helping of brandy into the glass, and gulped it in one go. The alcohol burned as it descended his oesophagus. Aaron chewed his lip and poured himself another. This time, he dropped heavily onto the end of his tidily made bed with the glass in his hand, and stared blankly at the wall. 

…

Spencer stirred two hours later, his head fuzzy, and his ears ringing. The crotch of his trousers felt wet, and he could feel the dried blood around his nostrils and on his chin. As he attempted to lift his head, the collar brushed against the inflamed skin on his neck, making him hiss into the tape over his mouth. His jaw throbbed incessantly, and he could taste copper in his mouth. 

“Well, well, well. Look who's graced us with his presence! Little fishy!” jeered Lawson from the table he had set up nearby, and was playing poker with the others. 

“Thou shall have a fishy on a little dishy,” chimed Matthews in a sing-song voice. Spencer groaned, scrunching his face. Everything was so loud. The pain across his entire body was overstimulating. His knee bounced anxiously. 

“Little fishy stinks!” whined Matthews. Lawson nudged his comrade with his elbow.

“Crowley did say we have to clean him up.” Lawson came to his feet, and gathered the reel of hosepipe that had already been connected to a tap on the wall. Matthews knelt down at Spencer’s feet and began cutting through his trousers and belt until he was left in his sodden underwear. Matthews spotted the long raised white scar down Spencer’s knee. 

“Ooh, this must have hurt,” he said, prodding the scar with the tip of his nicotine stained finger. Spencer tried to jerk his knee away. 

“Move, Matthews.” 

Lawson flicked on the hosepipe, a jet of water gushing from the end. He aimed the stream of water at Spencer who writhed at the onslaught of icy cold water that made him instantly shiver, and let out a muffled yelp. Spike lumbered over with a large bucket filled with scalding hot water, and dumped it over Spencer’s torso. The doctor was unable to stop the piercing scream that tore from his throat. His skin instantly reddened, blisters forming on his collarbones and heaving ribs. 

“Gee, one minute it's too cold, the next it's too hot,” said Matthews as he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Hey, Spike? We should show the fishy here his flopping about!” Spike grinned, pulling out his cell phone, and bringing up the video. 

Matthews peeled the duct tape away from Spencer’s eyes. Spencer blinked rapidly, his vision blurred from spending so long blindfolded. His head was held in place by Lawson's hands as he was forced to watch himself seizing. He was mortified when he watched himself void his bladder. Tears brimmed his lower eyelids, breaking free, and trickling down his face, sliding easily over the duct tape that gagged him. 

“Aw, little fishy is crying!” Spencer wrenched his head out of Lawson's hands and glared dangerously at Matthews. He pulled at the tape around his wrists, the handcuffs scuffing against the wood. Matthews leaned in close, his finger poised ready to jab into the slightly oozing wounds on his captive’s stomach. He misjudged just how close he got. Spencer jerked his head forward, smashing it into Matthews’ forehead. The chain chinked against the hook on the wall. Spencer groaned at the blossoming pain in his head. It made the heavy set man stumble backwards, clutching his head in surprise. 

“Son of a bitch headbutted me!” If Spencer hadn't been gagged, he would have smirked victoriously. Lawson moved around in front of Spencer and slid his Glock out of his belt. He poised the muzzle against Spencer’s forehead. 

“You're gonna regret that,” snarled Lawson venomously. Spencer stared resolutely back at him in defiance. He curved an eyebrow questioningly. Matthews, fuelled with rage, stomped away to the crates, and returned with an iron mallet in his hands, his heavy steps thudding against the concrete. He lifted the mallet as though he was preparing to hit a baseball, then swung it around until it connected with Spencer’s right leg. The crack was deafening. Spencer felt the bones splinter and tear through his flesh. Blood tickled against his skin as it trickled from the wound. He couldn't look. He couldn't scream. His vision swirled, black spots dancing before his eyes. 

“Oof! Nice shot, Matthews!” cheered Spike. Spencer welcomed the darkness that quickly enveloped him. A new strip of duct tape was pulled from the roll and pressed down over Spencer’s closed eyes.

…

Aaron struggled to sleep. He tossed and turned, but found himself unable to keep the young man’s beaten form out of his mind. It was driving him crazy trying to work out how the man was familiar to him. Clearly Matthews and Lawson knew who he was. The CIA also knew. There had to be a reason why no one had told him. The man had been kept blindfolded. Perhaps the man would recognise him too?

Aaron glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. The bright red numbers broke through the darkness, indicating that it was two in the morning. Lawson and Matthews’ raucous drunken singing had faded out as the two separated into their own rooms, and likely passed out for the night. There was likely one other crony watching the prisoner downstairs. Using muscle memory alone, Aaron threw back the covers and sat himself up on the side of the bed. He reached over to the chair and grabbed the clothing that he had taken off. He didn't care that the first three buttons on his shirt were undone, or that he wasn't wearing his tie. He needed to know. 

Aaron crept along the pitch dark corridors, tracing his fingers along the walls to guide him. He couldn't let anyone know what he was doing. He took the stairs as quietly as possible, even slowing his breathing to ensure that he wasn't heard. As he reached the foot of the stairs, Aaron withdrew the Glock from his belt and screwed a silencer onto the muzzle. The ground floor was partially lit, allowing him to see Spencer easily. One of the other cronies was dozing off in a chair behind Spencer. Aaron aimed his gun at the man's head. A slight whipping sound could be heard as the trigger was pressed. The man crumpled in the chair, a neat hole in his forehead. 

Aaron turned to the prisoner and took stock of his injuries. The left side of his face was mottled in shades of black and purple, and was terribly distended. The tattoo on his neck was angry and inflamed. The carving on his stomach had begun to crust over with yellow scabs, a sure sign of infection. He had large, fluid filled blisters over his collarbones and ribs. There was a small burn to his lower right ribs. A jagged edge of broken bone had pierced through the skin of his lower right leg. The man was dressed only in a pair of black boxers and his open dress shirt. He was very clearly awake, his breaths stuttering as he listened. He was tense, hands clenched into fists behind the chair. 

Aaron's eyes fell upon the large scar on Spencer’s knee, and his stomach sank. He quickly scrambled to the doctor's neck, pulling the collar up slightly to get a better look at the scar. It was a surgical scar that wasn't particularly long, but it was wide. A female voice drifted into his mind. Alex Blake. 

“Hotch, he was incredibly lucky. Two millimeters to the right and it would have torn through his carotid artery.” Spencer writhed to try and escape his touch. Aaron knelt down and peered closely at the scar on the knee. It was also a surgical scar, though it was long. There were multiple smaller scars around it. Another voice came to mind. Jennifer Jareau.

“Patrick Meyers had lost his son and went after Dr. Barton for not saving him. Spencer jumped in front of Dr. Barton as Meyers fired. The bullet destroyed his kneecap.” 

That meant only one thing, and it made Aaron feel nauseous. He reached up and carefully peeled the tape away from Spencer’s eyes. The hazel pools that emerged were hazy with exhaustion and fear. He clearly recognised the cologne that Aaron was wearing as being Arthur's musky scent. Spencer trembled in place, unable to meet Aaron's eyes. Aaron's blood ran cold. 

“Spencer?” asked Aaron, stepping back slightly. Spencer’s eyes trailed up Aaron's legs and torso until they reached his face. Spencer’s brows creased in confusion. Then it dawned on the genius why the voice sounded familiar. His eyes darkened with anger. Betrayal was written into the young man’s features.

“You're the profiler?” Spencer’s eyes narrowed, and he pulled against his restraints. Aaron froze in horror. He had savagely tortured a man he once thought of as a son, and had permanently marred his skin with tattoos and new scars. 

“Shit. Spencer. I had no idea.” He reached out and pulled the tape off Spencer's lips . He tugged the blood sodden handkerchief out of Spencer’s swollen mouth. 

“H'tch? You' C'owley?” asked Spencer, his voice laced with despair and anger. His words were slurred and choppy with the swelling. 

“I'm so sorry, Spencer. I-” Aaron realised that he had no words. There was nothing he could do to fix this. 

Spencer snarled at Aaron, the restraints preventing him from throwing his weight forward, and lunging at the older man.

“‘uck ‘oo, H'tch! I trusted ‘oo!”

“Spencer, please. Keep your voice down.”

“No! ‘oo ‘astard! Stay the ‘uck a’ay!” Spencer thrashed, determined to break his bonds, eyes zoned in on Aaron's throat. 

“Sshh!!” hissed Aaron. “You're going to blow my cover!” 

“‘uck ‘our co'er!” Aaron glanced around desperately. Spencer only had eyes for the older man, and he trembled with unbridled rage. Aaron had to silence him before the others heard him. He grabbed the roll of duct tape and pulled some away. The sound of the tape cracking against itself was deafening. Aaron looked at Spencer pleadingly. 

“I'm sorry, Spencer. You've left me no choice. I can't let you blow my cover.” Aaron tore a long strip of tape from the roll and smoothed it down over Spencer’s swollen and bloody lips. Aaron pulled more tape away from the roll and guided it towards Spencer’s eyes. 

“I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me,” murmured Aaron as he pressed the tape down firmly over the doctor's eyes. Spencer jerked forward once more. 

With Spencer successfully gagged and blindfolded again, Aaron quickly drew up a dose of Midazolam, and jabbed the needle into the side of Spencer’s neck. Once the genius’ head fell limply, he uncuffed him from the chair, and severed the tape binding his ankles to the chair. He brought the battered legs together and wound the tape around his ankles. He unlocked the collar from around Spencer's thin neck. Aaron glanced around to make sure no one was around, and jammed his shoulder into Spencer’s midsection to lift him into a fireman's carry. He crept out of the warehouse to where his black Audi was parked in the deepest of shadows. He quietly popped the trunk and bundled Spencer into it. He gave a saddened sigh. 

"I'm so sorry, Reid." Aaron slammed the trunk shut, locking Spencer inside.

The street lamps flickered against Aaron's weary face as he drove. The orange glow highlighted the lines around his eyes. He was driving numbly, rain pounding hard against the windscreen. His wipers struggled to keep up. He caught sight of the well lit sign indicating that he'd reached Bethesda General Hospital. He parked up near the main entrance and pulled the collar of his coat up to offer a flimsy degree of protection from the downpour. He glanced around, ensuring no one was around, and opened the trunk. Spencer was still out cold. Aaron gathered the unconscious man up into a bridal carry and lifted him out of the car. A vacant wheelchair was left just outside of the revolving doors. Aaron kept his head down as he darted towards the wheelchair. He carefully deposited Spencer into the wheelchair, then gave him one last apologetic look before returning to the car. He briefly watched the blurred figures of hospital staff descended on the bound man, and threw the car into reverse. With well practised ease, Aaron peeled out of the hospital parking lot, Spencer’s form growing smaller in the rear view mirror. 

Chapter Text

A nurse pulled her hoodie around her waist to hide her pink scrubs tunic, unlit cigarette between her fingers. The breeze from the revolving doors ruffled the dark, tight curls that framed her face. As she neared the doors, she was horrified to see a bound, gagged, and blindfolded man sitting limply in a wheelchair. Her cigarette was stuffed into her hoodie pocket as she grasped the handles of the wheelchair, and guided the man inside. At the sight, more staff descended on the pair.

“I just found him outside like this!” gasped the nurse. 

“Let's get him straight into resus,” instructed the doctor. The wheelchair was briskly pushed through the double doors labelled ‘resuscitation- staff only’. 

The medics got to work cutting through the tape around Spencer’s wrists and ankles. The nurse who had found him gently peeled the tape off his eyes and mouth. With his limbs free, Spencer was lifted onto a gurney. His left arm fell over the side. 

“Jesus… What the hell happened to this guy?”

“No idea. We don't even know who he is.”

“Why don't we get the PD to take some prints? We're gonna need them anyway. He has ligature marks and signs of torture.”

“Get on it. Hello? Sir? Can you hear me?” Spencer didn't respond. “We need to reduce this open fracture, then get him to CT.”

…

Words blurred, fading in and out. Voices swirled as though under water. Lights pulsed behind closed eyelids. Spencer felt light, warm. It was almost as though he was weightless. A beeping pierced through the fog. Spencer moaned softly, his head rolling on his neck and his eyes flickering. 

“Dr. Reid? Can you hear me?” came a gentle female voice. Spencer let out a garbled moan. 

“Open eyes for me. You're in the hospital. You've been unconscious for two days.” Spencer managed to crack open his heavy eyes. “Well done. My name's Bex, and I'm going to be your nurse for the day.” 

Spencer felt wrong. He could feel the cool rush of oxygen into his nostrils from the nasal cannula that was tucked underneath and hooked around his ears. There was another thin tube that had been fed up his left nostril and was taped to his cheek and nose. His neck was itchy and his stomach throbbed. His left arm was encased in a blue cloth sling that wrapped around the back of his neck. Pain pulsated up and down his right leg. He could taste steel. Spencer looked around sluggishly, then down at his feet. Bex slipped the black browline spectacles from the table over the tops of Spencer’s ears so that they balanced on the bridge of his nose. 

With his vision clearer than it had been in days, Spencer analysed his injuries. A metal cage surrounded his right leg, held in place by long steel pins. A bandage covered the wound on his shin from where the bone pierced the skin. His leg was propped up on pillows. He had deep bruising around his ankles. His left shoulder was puffy and bruised. Gauze had been taped over the burst blisters on his chest. A large dressing was secured over his stomach, the centre pad blotchy with blood and pus. He could feel the gauze taped over his neck. Spencer attempted to open his mouth, only to find that his teeth were stuck as though he had been eating caramels. He lifted a shaky hand and traced his fingertips over the metal work attached to his teeth. Plates had been secured to his upper and lower gums. Wires had been tied around the plates to hold his mouth shut. Bex rested a gentle hand on Spencer's shoulder.

“Dr. Reid? Dr. Marsden would like to talk to you. Is that okay?” Spencer nodded wearily. Bex offered him a small smile and left the room.

Dr. Marsden was an imposing looking man with short dark hair and blue eyes that pierced the soul. Spencer froze, eyes fixed on the doctor, twisting the blankets in his fist. He bristled with fear and anger. 

“Dr. Reid? My name's Dr. Marsden, and I'm the chief of trauma here at Bethesda. You have been incredibly lucky. I don't believe in skirting around a subject, so I'm just going to get right to it. Starting at the head. You have a hairline fracture to your left zygomatic. You had a severe break through your mandible which required surgery to affix plates to your jaw. We had to complete a maxillo-mandibular fixation to aid with healing. The wires will stay in place for six weeks. Unfortunately you will require a liquid diet. We are currently feeding you via NG.

“You have second degree burns on your chest. Your left shoulder was dislocated and will need at least eight weeks to heal. You were tattooed and carved into, both of which became infected. We have you on a broad spectrum antibiotic. You had a severe compound fracture in your right tibia and fibula that required fixation to hold the bones together.” Spencer indicated with a wave of his hand that he wanted to write. Dr. Marsden handed him a notebook and pen. Spencer opened the book on his lap and began to scribble. 

How did you identify me?

I need you to contact Emily Prentiss at the BAU. 

I want to see the tattoo and carving.

Spencer tapped against the page with the pen to draw the doctor's attention.

“Given that you were tied up, blindfolded, and gagged when you arrived, we had no choice but to inform Metro PD. They obtained your fingerprints and ran them through CODIS. You instantly flagged up as a missing FBI agent. We already have and she's here.” Dr. Marsden’s features softened at the last sentence. 

“Are you sure you want to see that?” Spencer nodded resolutely, his eyes hardened.

Bex cautiously handed a mirror to Spencer, then peeled the dressing away from his tattooed neck. Spencer hissed as the gauze pulled against the raised ink lines where the pus and plasma had congealed. Admittedly, the tattoo itself was a work of art. The line work was crisp, and the shades of black fading into grey was impressive. The head of the koi fish rested next to his Adam's apple, and the tail ended just behind his ear. It floated on curled waves. As beautiful as it was to anyone else, Spencer hated it.

“Flopped about like a big ol’ fish. Was quite funny.

“Well, well, well. Look who's graced us with his presence! Little fishy!”

“Thou shall have a fishy on a little dishy,”

“Little fishy stinks!”

“We should show the fishy here his flopping about!”

Bex instantly noticed the tremble in Spencer’s hands. The mirror slipped from his long fingers and landed against his lap with a soft thud. His eyes were wide, fixed, and unblinking to the footboard of the bed. He was frozen in space and time. His breathing vividly increased, heart monitor beeping rapidly.

“Dr. Reid? Come back to us. You're safe. It's a flashback. What you're experiencing isn't real,” said Dr. Marsden, desperately trying to placate his patient. 

“Here let me try,” came a woman's voice from behind. Dr. Marsden glanced over his shoulder to see a middle-aged woman with long greying hair stood behind him. She was sharply dressed in business attire. She offered a hand to the doctor.

“SSA Emily Prentiss. I've pulled Spencer out of many panic attacks and flashbacks over the years. He has a degree of ASD, and germophobia, so touching is out of the question unless he permits it.” Emily seated herself in the chair beside the bed and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

“Spence? It's Emily. I know what you're experiencing right now is very real and very scary, but please believe me when I tell you that you're not where you think you are, and you're safe. If you can hear me, can I touch your hand?” Spencer nodded slightly, lucidity slowly returning to his eyes. He turned his right hand over and unfurled his fingers in a silent consent for her to touch him. 

Emily grasped his hand which he returned and squeezed slightly to ground himself. Emily’s gaze was drawn to the tattoo across her friend's neck. It was red and angry. It leaked straw yellow fluid down his pale skin, seeping under the collar of his hospital gown. It turned her stomach. Spencer didn't hate tattoos per se, it was just something that he had no interest in. He had clearly been forcibly tattooed with an extremely large image, and in a very visible area. He wouldn't be able to hide it, and the FBI had a strict policy against visible tattoos. It was highly likely that he would be dismissed from the Academy by no fault of his own. She noticed his swollen and bruised jaw. His lips had parted slightly, revealing the metal crossing his teeth. 

Spencer blinked back to awareness and turned his head to face Emily. The section chief felt nauseous at the bruising that covered her friend's face. His left arm was cradled to his torso. His wrists were mottled with bruising. She averted her gaze slightly to the bags of medication, relieved to see non-narcotic analgesia and antibiotics. Emily cleared her throat slightly.

“Spence? Who did this to you?” asked Emily softly. Spencer released her hand and reached for the pen and notebook.

Hotch. Emily frowned. 

“I don't understand, Spence. What do you mean Hotch did this?” She watched as Spencer hurriedly scrawled on the paper.

Undercover with a crime ring. I don't know who he works for, nor do I know where they kept me. I consulted on a case for Metro PD. My profile led to the arrest of Scott Fontaine. He was second in charge of the ring. Hotch broke my jaw. He ordered them to do this.

Spencer jabbed a finger at his tattoo. 

“Hotch wouldn't do that. He cares about you.” Spencer narrowed his eyes in disbelief, his brows knitting. 

He didn't recognise me! He ordered this! He gagged me and blindfolded me! Are you calling me a liar?! Emily felt like she had been punched in the gut.

“Not at all, Spence. I just think you're delirious from the infection and you're mixing Hotch up with someone else.” Spencer’s eyes burned with raging fury, then quickly became glazed. His right hand tapped rhythmically against his leg and he swallowed repetitively, his Adam's apple bobbing. 

“Spence?”

“He's having a partial complex seizure. He has had at least two or three of these a day for the past two days, even when unconscious. I think he's gearing up for a severe tonic clonic very soon. This is his second one of these today.” Spencer let out a long sigh and blinked several times as he returned to a hazy awareness. He glanced at Emily in confusion, then lay back into his pillows. He rubbed the blanket between his fingertips to soothe himself. Emily thought to herself for a moment. 

“What was Hotch's alias?” Spencer rolled his eyes to look at her. 

“Arthur Crowley,” mumbled Spencer through the wiring and his clenched teeth.  

…

Spencer had fallen asleep soon after Emily’s departure from his bedside, and a promise to look into the case. The other agencies wouldn't be forthcoming, but she knew the best hacker who could cut through digital red tape like butter.

It was the gentle click of a door closing that disturbed Spencer’s restful slumber. He blinked wearily. His spectacles had been folded and placed on his table. Daylight streaked his blanketed legs through the slats of the partially closed blinds at the window. Spencer lifted his right hand and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his fist. He noticed a tall dark-haired man standing at the foot of the bed. Spencer expertly unfurled his spectacles with one hand and slipped them on. His muscles tensed with rage at the sight of Aaron at his feet. His hand clenched the blankets, eyes glaring daggers at the former unit chief. 

“Hi, Spencer.” Aaron tried to offer Spencer a reassuring smile. 

“Stay the fuck away from me,” mumbled Spencer.

“I told you. I'm undercover. I had no idea that it was you they wanted. Even the CIA didn't tell me it was you who they wanted eliminated. I wouldn't have done any of those things if I had known,” reasoned Aaron. Spencer tilted his head slightly. 

“You fucking liar. You enjoyed what you saw. You loved breaking my jaw. You ordered them to tattoo and carve into me. I saw that look in your eyes. You loved it.”

“Please. You have to understand that I have to be believable to get what I need.” Spencer scoffed sarcastically, and turned his gaze away from Aaron. 

“Yeah, it was believable. I know sadism when I see it.”

“Spencer, that's not true. I would never-” Spencer glared at Aaron, his hazel eyes wide and frenzied. 

“DON'T FUCKING GASLIGHT ME, HOTCH!!” screeched Spencer through his clenched teeth. Aaron noticed people staring into the room at the young man's shouting. 

Aaron stepped up to the side of the bed where Spencer visibly tried to scramble away. The genius tore the sling off from around his neck and tossed it to the side. He reached for the bed rails for support. Aaron forced his large hand down over Spencer’s mouth, mashing the inside of his lips against the metal plates and wires. Spencer writhed to try and escape, his mews of pain muffled. He flapped his hand anxiously against the mattress. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” barked Emily, her Glock aimed on the man's back. Aaron slowly turned his head to look at Emily, and released his hold on Spencer’s mouth. Emily faltered for a moment, her dark eyes briefly softening at the sight of Aaron, the mask soon slipping back. She tucked her firearm back into the holster on her hip. The EKG let out a wailing alarm as Spencer’s heart rate soared. Spencer was screaming and clawing at his face, trying to remove the metal in his mouth. Tears soaked his cheeks. When his fingers couldn't seek purchase against the wiring and plates, Spencer began yanking at his hair. Dr. Marsden bustled into the room with Bex on his heels, both trying to calm their distraught patient.  

“Outside. Now,” snapped Emily, dangerously.

The pair stopped in the hallway just outside of Spencer’s room. Emily folded her arms tightly over her chest and glared at the older man standing before her. He looked much older than she remembered. He had always been smart and clean shaven. His salt and pepper hair was messy, and he clearly hadn't shaved in days. She glanced back through the window to see Dr. Marsden was preparing a syringe of medication whilst Bex attempted to soothe Spencer who was wailing and rocking in the bed.

“You had better start explaining,” growled Emily. 

“It's classified. I can't,” answered Aaron.

“Don't lie to me, Aaron. He told me that you're undercover in a crime ring. Does the name Arthur Crowley ring a bell?” Aaron bristled at the name. Emily averted her eyes back to Spencer’s room to see Bex and Dr. Marsden had buckled padded cuffs around Spencer’s wrists, then tied them to the bed frame. Spencer weakly pulled against the restraints, his tears still falling, as he attempted to smash the back of his head into the headboard. Dr. Marsden jabbed the needle into Spencer’s writhing shoulder. 

Emily stared up at Aaron, tapping her booted foot impatiently. Aaron sighed.

“I work for the CIA. They've been after the Fontaine family for several months. They're wanted on multiple counts of murder, kidnapping, assault, conspiracy. We needed to get to the head of the ring, so I was sent in as an enforcer. Unfortunately, an FBI agent developed a profile that led Metro to Scott Fontaine, the second in command. The CIA couldn't let an FBI agent make progress in a case that they couldn't. The Fontaines couldn't let one of their own be taken down. They found out it was Spencer who made the profile. Both parties ordered me to eliminate him. I swear, Emily, I had no idea it was Reid. When I realised, I brought him here.”

“Did you order those things to be done to him? How much of that did you do to him?” asked Emily, jabbing a finger at the sedated and restrained Spencer in the bed. 

“I ordered the tattoo and the carving. I forced the seizure and broke his jaw.” Aaron looked down at his feet shamefully. 

“Did you gag and blindfold him?” Aaron nodded, unable to meet her darkening gaze. “You know, he looked up to you. You knew about his fear of the dark. You knew about Hankel, and all the other issues he's been through. What you have no idea about, is just how much that man has been through since you left. He now lives with epilepsy and a traumatic brain injury from an UnSub. He can't be a field agent anymore so he teaches and consults. You have taken all of that away from him when you ordered them to tattoo him like that.” 

“Emily, I swear. I didn't know it was him. I didn't recognise him.”

“Bullshit. You'd know Reid from a mile away. You're in so deep that you can't see the exit. I don't know who you are anymore.”

“That's not true.” Aaron's voice grew desperate.

“Isn't it? You have willingly tortured a friend. Someone you once thought of as a son. Does the CIA know that's what you do? I have half a mind to arrest you.”

Emily made to walk away, but paused for a minute. She turned back and threw a fist straight into Aaron's face, his nose cracking as his head flung back, blood oozing from his nose. He gasped and cupped his nose to catch the blood pooling in his palm. Emily offered him an unamused laugh before shaking her head, and making her way back to Spencer.

Chapter Text

Four months later…

Spencer relished the feeling of the cool breeze through his long curls as he strolled through the nearby park. His forearm crutches clicked against the pavement with each step. The fixation cage remained around his leg, his bones taking longer to heal than expected. It forced him to wear wide leg trousers that looked like he belonged in the 1970s. 

He had allowed his hair to grow longer so that he could hide his scars. The curls brushed against the shoulders of his knee-length woollen coat. The collar of his coat was upturned, though it didn't sufficiently hide the koi fish on his neck. He despised it. He had destroyed all of the mirrors in his apartment in a fit of blind rage. He would numbly run his fingertips over the raised scars left over his stomach. He had slight numbness across his jaw from nerve damage caused by the fracture. Thankfully, the FBI had allowed him to continue with his teaching and consulting once he was fully healed, on the agreement that he had to wear a neckerchief when at work to hide the monstrosity that he had been branded with like cattle. 

Spencer took in a deep breath, the cool air tickling his lungs. The tip of his nose and his cheeks had a pink blush from the cold. The air was fresh, crisp golden leaves tumbling from the trees. He glanced around to find himself alone. It was how he preferred it. His ordeal had left him a hermit for the most part. Spencer settled himself down on a wooden bench overlooking the pond. He propped his crutches up against the bench and stretched his leg out. A group of youths passed by on their bicycles. They seemed to ogle Spencer for a minute, amused by the long-haired, bespectacled man on crutches, who had a large tattoo on his neck. 

“Nice ink, dork!” Spencer bristled with anger as the youths cycled away in a cloud of laughter. He pulled the collar further around his neck, and hunched his shoulders up to his ears. His hands tightened into fists. He pounded the side of his fist into his thigh. The pain from the pins being jostled grounded him.

“It doesn't look that bad, you know,” came a male voice to his left. Spencer averted his attention to the man that sat down beside him. Strands of hair drifted across Spencer’s face, clinging to his lashes under his spectacles. 

Aaron had seated himself next to Spencer on the bench. The doctor's jaw tensed and he stared back at the pond, watching the ducks instead. 

“What do you want, Hotch?” asked Spencer, his voice low and defeated. 

“Please, just hear me out. There's nothing I can say or do to change what's happened. No amount of apologies can fix this. What I did to you was inexcusable,” responded Aaron. Spencer snorted in derision. 

“You can say that again.” Spencer swept his hair back out of his face with a trembling palm. “You almost cost me my career. I've had to learn how to walk again because of your friends. I lost over forty pounds in weight because I had to try and survive on a liquid diet for two months. You know, because you broke my jaw into two parts.” Spencer’s tear-filled eyes turned back to Aaron. 

“I've tried to make peace with what happened. I trusted you, Hotch. You were a friend, father figure, and role model. You know what I've been through, yet you still willingly tortured me. I just hope it was worth it.”

“Yeah, we got him. The whole ring was taken down.” Spencer tucked his hair behind his ears and pulled his coat tighter around himself. 

“So, something positive came out of the whole thing, I suppose,” replied Spencer, looking far away again. Aaron gave a small chuckle.

“I guess so.” The pair sat in silence for a minute. Aaron noticed Spencer’s glazed stare and noticed that he kept swallowing, his fingers tapping against his elbow. 

After a minute, Spencer blinked, hazy at first, but his awareness returned quickly. He swallowed thickly. Aaron was watching him in concern. 

“Are you okay?” asked Aaron. 

“‘m fine. Partial complex seizure. You have no idea how fucking terrifying it is for me to have a seizure. My awareness goes, I can't breathe. A fit could kill me. You willingly triggered a tonic clonic seizure so your friends could place bets. It caused me to piss myself, Hotch. Do you have any idea how fucking mortifying that is? To top it off, they filmed the whole thing, then made me watch it. It's probably somewhere out there on the Internet. Do you know how much it scares me now to seize around anyone?” Spencer brushed a rogue tear away from his cheek.

“I'm sorry. I didn't know.” 

“No, you wouldn't. You were too blinded by your cover to see the damage you were doing.”

“Emily was considering arresting me. She should have.”

“I agree.” Spencer grimaced and nursed his aching leg. 

“She punched me. Broke my nose,” laughed Aaron. 

“You're lucky that's all she did. I don't think you realise how contained I am right now. Spending three months in prison unlocked a primal rage within me. An explosion left me with a traumatic brain injury that has screwed my emotional regulation even more. The shit you did to me… You have no idea how much it's taking every ounce of my self restraint not to kill you where you sit.”

“I understand that.” Spencer shook his head, hair falling back over his face. 

“No, you don't. The urges I have to literally take you out are as bad as the ones I had with Dilaudid. I can't forgive, and I can't forget.”

“I don't expect you to. You should get some help, though.” Spencer clicked his tongue against his teeth and huffed out a humourless chuckle. 

“I've been getting help. No thanks to you, I'm on a cocktail of antidepressants alongside the anticonvulsant medications, and non-narcotic pain relief. The only reason you are still breathing right now, is because of the therapy I've undergone to control my anger.” Spencer flicked back his sleeve to check the time on his stainless steel watch. “I have to go. I need to take my pills, and then I have things to do.” Aaron shrugged. 

“Sure. I can walk you back to your apartment?” offered Aaron. Spencer grabbed his crutches and used them to ease himself to his feet. 

“No, thank you. I'd, uh, appreciate it if you didn't try to contact me anymore. I'm exceptionally busy with other things.” Spencer slid his arms into the armbands of his crutches and grasped the handles. 

“Take care of yourself, Reid.” Spencer nodded and squinted in the direction of his apartment. 

“You too, Hotch.” Aaron watched as Spencer’s hunched form grew smaller and smaller as he moved further away. He sighed deeply, realising that he had lost a friend. To Spencer, he had lost a friend, confidant, father, and boss. 

They had lost each other, and themselves.