Paint Shadows

Sarie Venea

A/N-Thanks for reviewing! There are three chapters total, one more after this, though I am unhappy with the end and make no promises as to when it will be up. Don't worry, I wouldn't leave Reid in such a spot! Enjoy!

Morgan was outside the door, a damp scrub top replacing blood soaked shirt. His head was back against the wall, the week etched in a display of weariness on his face. His gun still rested on his hip, the holster flipped open, his hand hovering over it. Hotch doubted he was aware of the action. He reached down and clipped the top closed, pushing Morgan’s hand away. The rest of the team approached, gathering at the glass window, Elle unable to stand still, her smile of relief nervous. Gideon just stared.

Reid was limp, white, like a waxen doll in a bed too wide. Every thin bone was accentuated and bruised; it was hard to tell where his skin met bandages. Hotch’s eyes met Gideon’s and they went in, leaving Elle to talk the dark-eyed agent down from the platform of intense energy that had him strung out, shaking with tension. Gideon crossed to the bed, his eyes taking in everything, the green numbers that told of the fight to keep breathing on his own, the limp hand. Thick blankets covered him, but he still looked unbelievably small.

Gideon ran his hand slowly down the cold arm, gently, gently lifting the fragile hand. Hotch was beside him. Cuts ran across Reid’s fingers, his palm, his wrists. Tiny stitches, band-aids.

“Defensive wounds.”

“He fought. Of course he fought.”

“No drugs, he didn’t go willingly.”

Blood still matted here and there in his hair, under his fingernails, morbid stripes of color. Tape residue around his wrists. Hotch gently lifted the end of the blankets. Reid’s feet were tucked lifelessly against each other, grey adhesive still clinging to his ankles. Cuts and scrapes littered the soles.

“His feet are cut. Broken glass was all over the floor in the cabin room.”

“We need the fragments to make a comparison. The tape pieces they cut off his hands and feet. Fingernail scrapings. His clothes, what’s left.” This was Reid they were discussing, taking evidence from, one of their own, their youngest, their fragile little boy who spoke about murder with a clinical tone, but understood the world in ways they couldn’t imagine. His mind was frightening in its depth, but innocence and naivety were written in the very core of his soul.

“Rape kit.”

Hotch stared at Gideon, his face a rubber mask of pain. Gideon was watching Reid’s face, his gaze cold and harder than steel, his hands opening and flexing by his side.

“Every victim so far has been a woman. Until Reid. Every victim was raped before they were placed in the plastic.”

“I cannot release information that detailed to you at this time. Come back later and we will have a report to give you.”

They turned to the source of the quietly rigid voice, a small woman with sharp features and soft hair stood in the door, a thick chart in one hand and a white coat stained with the length of the day.

“Actually, I am Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, and not only do I have Dr. Reid’s power of attorney, I am the emergency contact registered with his place of work and the lead in the investigation which resulted in the damage you see here.” Hotch gestured shortly, watching as the closed-off, emotionless features gave away every inch of surprise and defiance that the doctor registered internally.

“Where does he work?”

“He is a member of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, stationed at Quantico.”

She consulted her chart, tapping a pen against her thigh as she read.

“Can we speak privately?” She glanced at Gideon, a flicker of irises that both agents caught and interpreted.

“Special Agent Samuel Gideon is a member of Dr. Reid’s team and part of the investigation. He needs to hear the extent of the injuries.”

She silently blew air through her teeth, her gaze lingering this time. Without acknowledgement of this statement, she crossed to the bed and spoke in a soft, quick manner, her eyes and hands hovering over the still form.

“He is stable, status serious but no longer critical at this time. Extensive deep bruising to internal organs; there are several areas being monitored for internal hemorrhaging or infection. There were over twenty separate lacerations, presumably knife-inflicted. Four broken ribs, a cracked collarbone; one hip joint was hyper-extended and several ligaments torn. The worst wound was a laceration across his abdomen, extending down into his side and clipping an artery near his stomach.”

She lifted his hand, much as Gideon had done, turning it over carefully. “We found defensive wounds and restraint injuries on both arms and his left wrist was broken in a spiral pattern, indicative of struggle. There were also glass fragments and duct tape residue on his feet. We kept everything we could find; I am assuming you want it for the case?”

Hotch nodded.

“Was he sexually assaulted?” The question was a whisper, uncharacteristic for the usually glowering agent. Gideon’s eyes met hers, open, honest. Her head started shaking before he finished speaking. Her gaze dropped to Reid’s skeletal face, the skin taut across her lips. He had his answer before she spoke and relief poured through him.

“No. There is no evidence of a rape, only extensive abuse and mistreatment.”

“Only.” It was derisive, but she didn’t blame him.

“Special Agent Hotchner?” A light voice spoke from the door, they turned to see a slim girl with a forensics emblazoned jacket holding a silver case and a thick manila envelope. “I need to examine Agent Reid for physical evidence and document his injuries.” She was professional, quiet, the perfect one to send in times like this. But Gideon reacted as if he’d been slapped. He crossed to the door, yanking it open.

“Morgan. She’s not touching him.”

Derek detached himself from the wall, without a word he and Elle came in, taking the kit and camera. Elle touched Reid’s face, his hands, scraping under his fingernails, combing dust and dirt from his hair, swabs against open wounds and sticky grey film. Morgan gently lifted the gown, the sheet, the blanket, a click and a flash signaling each photograph of the agony. The doctor helped, lifting bandages and showing each wound in turn, efficient, gentle, and Reid didn’t move.

It was a violation, an intrusion, and they hated every minute of it. Elle bit her lips; Morgan’s face was set in stone. The CSI took the tiny yellow envelopes and camera to a lab of cold metal and white counters, examining and processing, hunting a man they’d already found.

They were clustered in the room, Morgan returning to his guard at the door, his eyes on each breath. Hotch and Elle were close, the mother in her wanting to comfort, to touch and hold, the father in him wanting to care and keep him safe. Gideon thought in the corner, watching, waiting, no one sleeping.

He was protecting himself, before he woke, shifting slowly, curling on his side, tucking his arms underneath and covering his head. Elle caught his hand, the others getting food, rest, coffee.

“We found you, Reid. You’re safe. We’re here.” Whispers wrapped around him, voices that terrified him with their proximity, a hand touching his, panic, oh god get away from me don’t touch me you bastard!

“Reid! Reid, calm down! Spencer, open your eyes and look at me!” He twisted away from her, her words in his ear, touching him, grounding him, trying to pull him back to the present. His eyes opened, wide, terrified, unfocused. He didn’t see her. The demons were swarming in thick clouds, and it would be many, many dark nights and long days before they left him alone.