Title: Red Mist
By: nebula99
Permission to archive: Yes
Fandom(s): Criminal Minds
Genre (general, hetero or slash): slash
Pairing/Characters: Reid/OC, Reid/Hotch
Rating: FRAO/NC-17
*Warning*: Deals with domestic abuse and contains graphic scenes of violence – if that is going to trigger or disturb you, please don't read it.
Author's Note: Thank you to slashgirl for the beta and for lots of helpful suggestions and discussions. Spoilers for Season 3
Summary: "Poor little profiler - all alone and unarmed. Where's your boss now?"

***

"Whatever is begun in anger, ends in shame."
~ Benjamin Franklin

Spencer Reid was tired, exhausted even. He scrubbed at his eyes as he closed the door of his apartment, trying to ignore the pile of boxes that he had still to unpack. He sighed, figuring that he had lived without this stuff being in storage for so long now, another few days in boxes shouldn't matter. He'd moved in with such a rush that he'd only dealt with the urgent matters, not even getting his landline connected yet – but that could wait for another day. He hadn't needed to use it these past few weeks anyway.

The case they had just finished had been gruelling, both physically and emotionally. Everyone had worked almost until they had dropped because a monster was killing children and he had to be stopped. Luckily, this time they had won and Gregory Dale was facing a lifetime in a maximum security facility. However, the hunt had proved exacting and Reid was so tired he could almost vomit.

He unclipped his holster and placed his gun in his messenger bag, hanging it up next to the door as he always did. Then he checked the bolt was across the door and trudged into the bathroom, turning on the shower and undressing quickly, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.

The hot water felt good, washing away dirt that clung after three days immersed in an investigation of this kind. His skin felt clean and his brain felt slightly less dirty, which was as much as he could ask for. Reid dried himself briskly and, wrapping a towel around his waist, walked straight into his bedroom to pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt. The shower had taken the edge off his exhaustion, making him suddenly aware that he was hungry. Reid combed his damp hair off his face and started to walk across his tiny living room to the kitchen area to fix himself something to eat.

As he switched on the overhead light, a voice made him turn towards the couch. A voice that made him cold inside.

"Good evening Spencer," said the smiling man who was sitting there. "Long time, no see."

---------------------------------------------------------

Reid had been browsing in a chaotic second hand bookstore when he had bumped into Nicholas Hamilton. He greeted him with a warm smile. "Nick," he said, genuinely pleased to see him. "It's Spencer – do you remember me?"

The dark haired man beamed at him. "Of course I do," he replied. "You look a lot better – how are things?"

"Good," nodded Reid. "Three weeks and four days." He shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned.

"Nearly a month then - congratulations," said Nick, checking his watch. "Listen, do you want to grab a coffee?"

As Reid hesitated, Nick placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I'm not your counsellor anymore, so there's no professional boundaries to worry about. This is just coffee, between friends."

"Thanks," said Reid. "I'd like that."

Reid had met Nick at a needle exchange nearly a month previously and had spoken to him about his decision to withdraw from Dilaudid on his own. Nick had insisted that Reid come for at least one counselling session and had talked through the withdrawal process in detail with him, making sure that he understood just how difficult it might be. He had reassured Reid that he could call – any time of night or day – and had followed this up by being a lifeline at the most tough and painful moments.

Of course, while Reid had noticed how attractive Nick was, he hadn't allowed himself to think about him like that. Getting through the withdrawal had been his priority. Now, however, he was over the worst and ready to enjoy his life again.

Nick was easy to talk to and what's more, he was interested in Reid. The coffee turned into dinner and at the end of the evening, Nick had taken Reid's number and had called him as soon as he got home.

Reid was both flattered and a little overwhelmed, but Nick was good at putting him at his ease and what was more, he understood the aspect of Reid's life that he had kept hidden from everybody else. It was okay to talk about the drugs with Nick because he understood and his compassion with his constant assurances that Reid was beautiful and lovable were seductive. Nick made him feel good – about how he looked, how he acted and most importantly, he made him feel that he could stay clean. Nicholas Hamilton was the best thing that had happened to Spencer Reid in a very long time.

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Reid stared at the man in his apartment. This could not be happening. His mouth had gone dry and his fingers had curled automatically into fists. "You're not supposed to be here," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh yeah," replied the man, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. "Your restraining order. Guess you'd better call the cops then." He smirked. "Only it expired and you never got around to getting a permanent one. Why is that, Spencer? Didn't want to face me in court?"

"How did you find me?" said Reid hoarsely. He knew he should do something, call for help or run, but he couldn't move. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The man snickered. "You covered your tracks pretty well," he acknowledged. "It wasn't easy to hunt you down. Luckily, I like a challenge, so I hopped on a plane to Vegas and went to see Mommie Dearest."

Reid went pale. "You did what?" he gasped.

"Don't worry," said the man airily, waving his hand, "The Nutty Professor is quite safe. Still crazy but in one piece. We had a nice chat and she showed me your letters and I made a little note of the return address on the latest one. Then it was just a matter of asking that nice old lady downstairs for a spare key because I'd left mine at work." He shook his head. "Really Spencer, you should be more careful. I could have been anybody."

-----------------------------------------

From their first date, Reid and Nick's relationship had snowballed rapidly into something serious, something consuming. Nick told Reid that he loved him, that he loved spending time with him, that he loved having sex with him and Reid thought that he must have fallen for Nick. Whenever he  wasn't at work, he was with Nick and he was constantly amazed that his boyfriend wanted to spend so much time with him. Reid's previous experience of relationships was limited – he'd never got further than a few dates – but he knew enough to realise that this was pretty special.

For the first time in his life, Reid felt cared for and loved for who he was. Nick knew everything about him and he still loved him – which meant he must have a very generous heart. Reid knew he was lucky to have him.

After six whirlwind weeks, Reid moved in with Nick. His lease had expired and his landlord had doubled his rent and so Nick suggested he move in with him to save money while looking for another place. There wasn't much room for Reid's stuff, so he packed it up and put most of it in storage, taking only his clothes and a few books to Nick's apartment.

They had such good times together, just the two of them and the sex was amazing. Admittedly, Nick could be a little bit rough in bed sometimes and he hurt Reid on occasion, but he was so apologetic if Reid mentioned it that after a while he kept quiet. Nick wouldn't have meant to hurt him – he just got swept along with the passion. It wasn't as if it was anything serious.

He knew that he could stay clean while he had Nick. His boyfriend understood what he had been through, what a struggle it was to quit and he knew how fortunate he was to have someone like that in his life. No-one at work could have understood like he did. And nobody at work had ever told him that he was beautiful.

-----------------------------------

Reid tried to push down the panic rising in his throat. This was his home and this man had no right to be here. He had taken this apartment because it was cheap and available right away and the relief he had felt on locking the door behind him that first night was wonderful.

Nick had no right to come in here and spoil it. They were through.

Reid tried to think like an FBI Agent. He could get his gun and handcuffs from his bag, make an arrest and call for back up. As he took a step towards his messenger bag, Nick let out a derisory snort.

"Looking for these?" he asked, holding up Reid's Glock and his cell phone. "You're so predictable Spencer," he tutted. "Are you gonna call 911 now?"

Reid glanced towards the house phone but it was useless with no connection. "How long have you been here?" he asked, edging back towards the door.

"Long enough," smiled Nick. "I knew you'd put your gun in your bag and hang it up and I knew you'd leave your key in the door. That's the beauty of having lived with you for all those months."

Reid took another sideways step towards the door. "What do you want, Nick?" he asked. "It's over between us."

Nick stood up and turned Reid's gun over in his hand. "No," he said, "You don't get to decide that. I say when it's over and I say when you can leave. You can't run out on me one day when I'm at work, getting a lawyer to do your dirty work for you. That's just plain rude."

Reid gulped. He'd seen Nick in a rage plenty of times before, but this icy calmness was something new, something scary. "Nick," he said, holding out his palms, "Please put the gun down and we can talk."

Nick took a step closer to Reid, caressing the barrel of the Glock as he spoke. "Talk? Why would I want to talk to you, Spencer? You took out a restraining order against me! I've done nothing but love you and look after you and this is how you repay me?"

Reid stared at him. He was locked in his apartment with no way of getting out, trapped with the man he was still terrified of. His palms were sweating and he was trembling. Cursing his fear, he tried to act like a profiler. He needed to get Nick on his side – and get him out of the apartment.

"Okay," said Reid, speaking slowly and trying to keep the wobble out of his voice. "Why don't I put some different clothes on and we can go out? Let's go and have some dinner and we can talk about it."

"Oh sure," said Nick, lowering the gun and tucking it into his waistband. "Let's go out."

Reid's shoulders dropped and the relief flooded his face. He'd done it. Now all he needed was to find a way to call the police when they were outside. He tried to smile convincingly. "Great!" he said, turning towards the bedroom. "There's a lot of things to discuss."

In a flash, Nick had crossed the room and grabbed his arm in a tight hold. "Don't try that psychobabble bullshit with me, Spencer - remember I know what you do for a living? You can't talk your way out of this one."

Horrified, Reid looked at him with wide eyes. Nick's fingers were digging into his skin, squeezing tighter as Reid tried to pull his arm away. "Please Nick, don't," he whispered.

A cold smile spread across his ex's face and Reid felt his insides turn to ice water. He recognised that look.

-------------------------------------------

At first there had been random flashes of temper – Nick slamming his fist down on the counter or shouting. It always made Reid flinch but it didn't particularly worry him. He'd lived with a paranoid schizophrenic for years so Nick's sudden mood changes and volatility were nothing compared to Diana's behaviour. Reid reasoned that Nick was a passionate person – someone who loved him fiercely and so of course he lost his temper sometimes. It was no big deal.

And Nick was always so loving and so concerned; calling Reid everyday when the team were away, wanting to know when he'd be home, and checking that he was okay. It was nice having someone care that much.

Then, after the team had flown back from a case, they had all decided to go for a drink. Reid stayed for one and then caught the train home, surprised to see that Nick didn't rush to greet him as soon as he came through the door.

"You're late," snarled Nick, glaring at him. "Been with Hotch, have you?"

"I'm sorry," frowned Reid, puzzled by the response. "We just went for a drink after work."

"Spencer," said Nick sharply, "You're in recovery. You should have just come home – how am I supposed to keep you clean if you go out drinking with him?"

"I had one drink!" replied Reid with a laugh. "One drink isn't going to-"

He broke off as Nick grabbed hold of his arm and yanked him towards him. "Don't you dare laugh at me," snapped Nick.

"Ow," said Reid, trying to pull away from the painful grip. "Nick – you're hurting me."

"I'm hurting you, am I?" shouted Nick, pulling Reid hard so that the young man stumbled. "You don't come home late – do you understand?"

Reid staggered and tried again to pull his arm away. Nick was hurting him and he didn't understand what was going on. He stared at his lover, wondering what on earth he had done to make him so mad. "Nick, please let go of my-"

The punch to the stomach made him double over in pain and shock. Nick still had a hold of his arm and he hit him hard in the stomach and side several times before flinging Reid violently away from him.

Still bent over and clutching at his stomach, Reid fell to his knees, coughing and gasping for air. There were tears in his eyes and he was still trying to process what had just happened. When he looked up, he saw Nick standing over him, fists clenched and face contorted in fury. "Don't you
ever fucking dare laugh at me!" yelled Nick, before leaning down and slapping Reid hard around the back of his head.

Reid stayed kneeling on the floor, arms curled protectively around his stomach and his head bent forwards. He winced in pain and tried hard to bite back the tears that were threatening to fall. Nick had just hurt him and he had no real idea why.

He stayed on the floor for a while, too shocked and hurting too much to move anywhere. Nick had stormed out of the room and Reid wasn't too sure what to do. He couldn't believe what had just happened.

For what seemed like ages, Reid knelt on the cold tiled floor, crying quietly with shock and pain. Nobody had ever hit him like that; he'd never even been spanked as a child, partly because his mother didn't believe in it and partly because he was an incredibly well behaved little boy. He wondered what on earth had happened to make Nick so angry with him.

Sometime later, Nick came and sat next to him, sliding a warm arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. There were apologies and hugs and earnest assurances that he would never do anything like that again and Reid even apologised for being late. They cuddled on the kitchen floor until Nick helped Reid to his feet and led him gently to bed. Trying not to wince, Reid crawled gratefully into Nick's arms in bed, reassuring himself that Nick had only gotten mad because he loved him so much. And Nick had promised that he would never do anything like that again.

The next day, Reid came home from work to find the apartment full of the scent of fresh roses and home baking. Nick greeted him with a kiss and presented him with a gift of an Asimov first edition. Reid smiled and embraced his lover, ignoring the bruises and taking comfort in the knowledge that Nick still loved him.

Afterwards, he wondered why he had been so forgiving when every instinct in him should have been screaming at him to leave. But at the time, leaving didn't seem like an option. He was in love and being loved in return for the first time and he couldn't bear to jeopardise that. Nick cherished him and Nick was making sure he stayed clean and those were reasons enough to stay.

And besides, Nick had promised that it would never happen again.

------------------------------------

Reid hated that he was pleading with Nick already. He knew how this always played out and yet every time he still attempted to keep the peace – trying to appease him, agreeing with him, sometimes just plain begging him, but none of it had ever worked.

And now Nick was here, in the apartment he wasn't supposed to know about. Reid glanced towards the kitchen – if he could get out of this grip, he could make it. There were weapons in there and he could hold Nick off, get some help. He shifted his weight onto his back foot, ready to drop and twist out of Nick's hold – Morgan had always made this stuff look so easy.

Taking stock of his escape route, Reid took his eyes off Nick. The smack in the mouth with the butt of his gun made him wish that he hadn't.

------------------------------------

After that first incident, Nick was attentive, generous, gentle. They had some good times and the sex just got better. Reid still felt uncomfortable about what had happened, but he relied on Nick so much that he didn't mention it, for fear of sparking a fight. Nick was the one who was keeping him clean – he had been told that enough – and Nick was the only person who thought he was beautiful, sexy and lovable.

But then there was another fight, another baffling flare of temper at something Reid thought was trivial and another bout of violence. This too was followed by tears and apologies and protestations of love and so the cycle continued.

Reid quickly learned not to provoke Nick, not to disagree with him, not to be late home, not to put white sugar in his coffee, not to use the remote. He tried as hard as he could to keep things on an even keel, to keep the mood light and loving, to have days with his boyfriend that were fun and ended in bed, rather than days which terrified him and ended with tears. He had to keep Nick happy, it was the only way.

But despite all Reid's efforts, it wasn't enough. Some days he just couldn't do anything right. Coming back after a brutal case in LA, he wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep for an entire weekend. So when Nick stood behind him, massaging his shoulders and kissing the back of his neck, Reid smiled at him, tipping his head and resting his cheek on Nick's hand, murmuring, "That's nice, but I'm exhausted. I need to sleep."

There was a tightness in Nick's voice. "I'm running a bath - I thought we could take it together. I haven't seen you for three days."

Tentatively, Reid said, "I'm all yours tomorrow – but really, I'm no good to anybody tonight."

The pull on his hair made him gasp out loud. "Nick, what are you doing?" he asked, his head being yanked back.

In response, Nick punched him sharply in the small of his back, following up with another. "I want you to have a bath with me," said Nick icily, giving Reid's hair a sharp pull and then letting go abruptly.

Stunned and sore, Reid turned to Nick, confusion and betrayal in his eyes.

"We are having a bath together," snapped Nick. "You need to get undressed." Then he spun around and strode out of the room.

Moving slowly, wincing from the pain in his back, Reid took off his clothes. There was no point in arguing when Nick was in this kind of mood – he got his own way in the end, so he may as well just give in now and save himself the misery of a fight. He needed Nick and he needed him not to be mad at him.

In the bathroom, Reid took off his robe and climbed into the bath where Nick was already waiting for him. He settled in between Nick's legs and sat still with his head bowed.

Nick gently washed and conditioned Reid's hair and then pulled him firmly back so that he lay against Nick's chest. Nick stroked a finger down Reid's cheek. "I only get mad because I love you – you know that, right?" he said.

"Yeah, I know," muttered Reid, too tired and too unwilling to fight to give any other response.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax into Nick's embrace. He didn't want to look down at the old bruises speckling his torso, or at the proprietary hand Nick had placed on his thigh.

"You need me, Spencer," continued Nick in a soft voice. "Nobody else would love you like I do – nobody else would even look at you. I see the real Spencer – the rest of them have no idea."

Reid nodded, his eyes still closed. At first, these phrases used to sound so comforting – now they sounded like Nick owned him. But without Nick, he would be all alone and last time he'd been alone, he had wound up addicted to Dilaudid.

He felt Nick's hand slide across his thigh, taking hold of his cock, squeezing and massaging.

"We belong together, Spencer," murmured Nick, entwining his fingers in Reid's wet hair, "And you know you're no good without me."

Reid was silent and so Nick tugged a little on his hair. "You can't ever leave me," said, his voice a little louder.

"I won't," replied Reid automatically.

"Good," said Nick, pulling more sharply on Reid's hair. "Because if you ever do, I'll kill myself and it will be all your fault."

Reid's eyes snapped open. He stayed perfectly still, not daring to move as Nick let go of his cock and walked his fingers slowly up his chest to his nipple.

Reid pulled a face as Nick pinched his nipple sharply but he didn't cry out. "Do you understand me, Spencer?" purred Nick, "Because I don't think you want my blood on your pretty hands, do you?"

"I won't leave you," said Reid in a trembling voice.

"Good," replied Nick, pinching his nipple hard again. "That's good."

Afterwards, Nick fucked him face down on the bathroom floor. Nick barely bothered preparing him and it hurt like hell. When he'd finished, exited the room in silence, leaving Reid still lying in a pile of wet towels.

------------------------------------

Reid gasped and looked at Nick in horror. He brought his other hand to his mouth, touching his throbbing lip and then tensing at the sight of the bright red blood on his fingertips. All thoughts of escape dissolved as he found himself once again frozen with pain and fear.

He cried out as Nick grabbed a rough handful of his hair and pulled, making his feet scrabble to move with him. Nick had never hit him in the face before which meant that he had lost all of the restraint he had previously shown. And if Nick no longer had *any* control over what he was doing, then he could really hurt him.

------------------------------------

Nick was usually very careful. He made sure that the bruises wouldn't show – he never marked Reid's neck or his face. Instead he punched his chest, his stomach, his back. Sometimes he would hit him on the tops of his arms, or his legs, or slap the inside of his thighs, his backside. Reid covered up so nothing would show – long sleeves, long pants, watch worn over his sleeve in case the fabric rode up.

When he thought about how calculating this was, how easy Nick found it to control him, Reid felt sick inside. But he couldn't leave. He had nowhere to go and nobody else to love and take care of him.

And the bruises faded, taking the stinging and aching with them. Yes, it hurt like hell getting them, but there was no permanent damage done. The hair pulling could be excruciating, but nobody had ever died of a tender scalp.

When Reid started pissing blood, however, he knew he had to visit the Emergency Room.

The staff were very attentive, performing scans and reassuring him that the fall from a horse he had suffered did not seem to have caused any long term damage. He was prescribed painkillers and advised to rest.

Reid was sitting in a cubicle, waiting for his paperwork when the nurse who had examined him originally came back in. She smiled warmly and asked to look at Reid's abdomen again.

"You say that you fell from a horse?" asked the nurse.

"Uh, yeah," replied Reid. "I'm not much of a rider."

"You're lucky you didn't hurt your hands," said the nurse with a quizzical frown. She ran her hands lightly over the yellow bruising on Reid's chest and side.

"I guess I am," muttered Reid, turning his head away from her questioning gaze.

She finished examining him, and he pulled his shirt closed, fumbling with the buttons in his discomfort.

When his shirt was refastened, she put a leaflet into his hand. Reid glanced down at it: <i>What you can do if you are experiencing domestic violence</i>. He looked up at the nurse, open mouthed.

She took a breath and then spoke quickly, thrusting her hands in her pockets as she did so. "It looks to me like someone is hurting you. You've got older contusions and I can see the imprint of a fist in the marks on your back. Believe me when I tell you – he won't stop, not ever. You need to get out and find someplace safe to go because this isn't your fault and you don't deserve it."

Screwing up the leaflet and dropping it onto the bed, Reid stood up. He looked down at the floor as he spoke. "Thank you for your concern, but nobody is hurting me. I fell off a horse – I'm clumsy."

With that, he hurried out of the ER, and made his way quickly to a coffee shop. There he sat in the window seat for hours, processing what the nurse had said and thinking about what he was going to do.

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Reid gasped as Nick pulled hard on his hair, forcing his head upwards.

"Look in the mirror," hissed Nick. "Look at yourself."

Reid flinched at the reflection; he could see his own pale face, with dark circles under his eyes and blood trickling from his cut and swelling lip. Behind him was Nick – his handsome features twisted with fury.  What had happened to the sweet loving man he had met all those months ago?

"What do you see, Spencer? What are you, huh?"

"I don't know," whimpered Reid, wincing as Nick tightened the grip on his hair.

"Oh, you're a genius aren't you? IQ of 187, eidetic memory, three doctorates - yadda, yadda, yadda." Nick spat the words out. "But do you know what you really are? You're just another stupid junkie."

Reid bit back a yelp as Nick pulled sharply on his hair. "You're a dumb junkie who would still be begging for a fix if it wasn't for me dragging you out of it. You owe everything to me, you ungrateful bastard."

"I'm not a junkie," whispered Reid, trying to twist out of Nick's hold.

In response, Nick jerked his head backwards and then slammed his face into the glass. When Nick pulled his head back again, Reid could see his blood smeared on the mirror. His face crumpled in pain.

Just then Reid's cell phone started to ring and both of them froze.

Nick pulled it out of his pocket and smirked at the caller ID. "Hotch," he said, pressing the phone into Reid's hand, "Better answer it."

Reid stared at the phone in his hand, trying to focus and find the button to answer the call. It rang again and vibrated against his skin.

"Remember," said Nick softly, "If you say anything to him, I will shoot you in the balls and let you bleed to death. You'll be beyond saving by the time anyone gets in here."

Swallowing hard, Reid pressed answer and lifted the phone to his ear, feeling the cold metal of his gun pressing into his crotch. "Reid," he said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice.

"Reid – I've been looking at the files that the LAPD sent over to us and there are some details that I want to discuss with you. I know it's late, but I practically drive past your place – can I call in and drop them off? We could talk about them when you've had a look."

"Um, Hotch, this isn't a good time right now," said Reid, his voice wobbling. "I'm a bit busy."

"Reid – is everything okay?" asked Hotch, his voice low with concern.

"Yeah, I'm just, um, busy." He tried to keep his breathing under control, to keep his voice from rising with fear. Nick pressed the gun harder into the top of his thigh.

Hotch was persistent. "Tomorrow then?"

Reid thought quickly and then spoke, trying as hard as he could to sound casual. "You could try looking at the Karl Arnold files and maybe, um, Maggie Lowe. They might give you an idea of what you are looking for."

Hotch sounded puzzled. "Okay," he said, warily. "What are you getting at?"

Reid could feel his heart beating faster and hoping desperately that Nick wouldn't realise and that Hotch would understand, he added, "Ervin Robles - read that file as well. There won't be much time though."

"Reid?" asked Hotch.

"I have to go now. I'm busy," replied Reid quickly, ending the call and hoping that Hotch would connect the dots.

Nick snatched the phone out of his hand and turned it off. Then he dropped it onto the floor and stamped on it hard, smashing it into several pieces. Reid gulped. If Hotch didn't get it, he was screwed.

"Poor little profiler," purred Nick, dragging the gun up Reid's body. "All alone and unarmed. Where's your boss now?"

Reid looked at the man he thought he had been so in love with. "What do you want?" he asked, not daring to speak louder than a whisper.

"You," replied Nick with a vulpine grin. He slid the gun into his waistband and took hold of the tops of Reid's arms. "I want you to come home and stop being such a stupid little bastard." His voice took on a honeyed tone. "You know the only way a dumb junkie like you can stay clean is to be looked after by me. So I'm going to teach you a lesson and then you are going to thank me and come home. Okay?"

"But you don't need to teach me a lesson," replied Reid quickly, wondering if he could keep Nick talking long enough to get through to him. "Maybe we could just cuddle for a while and talk?"

Nick raised one eyebrow. "You took out a restraining order against me and now you want to snuggle and chat?"

Reid swallowed and looked at the floor for a moment, trying to demonstrate contrition. "I'm sorry about that," he said softly. "I just needed some space." He lifted his head and looked at Nick with wide eyes. "But I missed you. I'm sorry."

Nick brought one hand to caress Reid's cheek. "Do you remember what I said I would do if you left me?"

"Yes," nodded Reid. "I'm sorry." Slowly he moved his hand and placed it over Nick's, pressing his palm lightly against the back of the other man's hand. He turned his head slightly and kissed the outside of Nick's thumb.

Glancing at Nick's face, Reid saw it soften slightly. Feeling bolder, he lifted his hand off Nick's and moved it to the back of his neck. Then he pulled his ex a little closer and leaning forwards, he kissed him chastely on the lips.

Pulling back, he smiled at Nick and whispered again, "I'm sorry," before kissing him again, this time with parted lips.

He relaxed a little inside as Nick responded, returning the kiss and stroking the back of Reid's head. He raked his fingers through Reid's hair and his tongue slid into the young man's mouth. The grip on Reid's upper arm loosened a little and he took the opportunity to wrap that arm around Nick's back.

They kissed for a moment, holding each other, and Reid made tentative movements, rubbing Nick's back and pulling him closer. Nick was cupping his face with one hand and entwining his fingers in his hair with the other. For a moment, it felt like old times – good times.

Reid massaged the back of Nick's neck and ran his tongue along the inside of Nick's lip. He opened his mouth wider and pressed his crotch against Nick's, making bigger and bigger movements with his hand, caressing Nick's lower back now. He heard Nick moan slightly and tighten his grip in his hair. Nick was hard and his own cock was swelling, pushing out the fabric of his thin sweatpants.

Reid pulled at Nick's shirt, pulling it up and out of his pants. The kiss continued as Reid placed his hand on Nick's warm back, rubbing gently at his bare skin.  This was all so familiar and for a moment, Reid could almost forget the rest. But he kept his focus and slid his hand across Nick's back, moving closer and closer to the gun, stretching out long fingers, reaching and nearly –

Then his hand froze as Nick bit down on his tongue – hard. Instinctively Reid's head snapped back and at the same time, Nick's grip of his hair tightened, twisting so that Reid was looking up at him. He could taste blood and could see it at the edges of Nick's mouth. Panicking, he swung a fist and connected with soft tissue.

Nick grunted and grabbed Reid's wrist, pushing and forcing it behind his back. Trying to ignore the eye-watering pain from the hair pulling, Reid scrabbled with his free hand, still trying to reach the gun. He twisted in Nick's grip, knowing that if he could just reach a little further he could get it. Shifting his weight onto one leg, he kicked out, but Nick dodged it and then with a fluid movement, swept Reid's supporting leg from under him.

Gasping, Reid crashed to his knees, his free hand still flailing but making no contact with Nick's body. Nick pulled his head back and pushed the bent arm higher up his back, making him cry out with pain.

"You little fucker – you think you can screw your way out of this?" snarled Nick, his voice full of rage. "You wanna fight now, do you? Think you can take me?"

Reid grabbed at the hand in his hair, trying in vain to pull free. Realising that he couldn't, he clawed and scratched at Nick's arm, scraping his nails into the skin in a desperate attempt to fight back. He was not going to be a victim again.

Still struggling, Reid felt Nick pull him to his feet and drag him towards the corner of the room. He stumbled, having no choice but to move, reaching out with his free hand, trying to grab something, anything, but making contact with nothing.

Finding his voice, Reid yelled out, "Help me, please somebody. Help me!"

Nick's response was to let go of his arm and twist his body so that Reid was facing him, before swinging back his leg and kicking Reid sharply between the legs. "Shut up," he hissed. "They can't hear you anyway."

Reid's body tensed and then folded in two as the pain flooded his stomach and back. He groaned and brought his arms protectively around himself, feeling waves of nausea rising in his throat. Only the strong grip in his hair stopped him from rolling on the floor in a tight ball of misery.

Nick pulled him upright and Reid felt his body sag. The pain in his groin was spreading up his spine and he began to retch and cough, unable to focus on anything but how much it *fucking hurt*. He registered blows to his chest and stomach and punches and slaps to his face but the agony in his belly was so intense that he couldn't even move his hands to protect himself.

Reid squeezed his eyes tightly shut and moaned. He'd been hit there before, but never as hard as this. There was sparks and flashes of pain in his groin and his back and every blow from Nick sparked another rush of torturous sensation. He wanted to just drop to the floor and weep – that was a low blow, both literally and metaphorically. How could Nick have done that to him?

Suddenly the grip on his hair released and he fell onto his hands and knees. Dazed, he started to try to crawl away but then Nick was kicking him and he couldn't. Reid was making little whimpers of pain, having given up on trying to fight back. He stretched out a hand to attempt to pull himself away from the swinging foot and then let out a faint scream as Nick stamped down hard on his exposed arm and the bone cracked.

Still retching, Reid blinked and tried to shake his hair out of his eyes. He looked up and saw Nick squatting in front of him, clasping his gun in both hands.

"Please," whispered Reid. "Please don't do this." Hotch wasn't coming, nobody was coming and the only thing he had left was begging.

"I said I was going to teach you a lesson, Spencer," said Nick calmly, twisting his fist into Reid's t-shirt and pulling him over to the large heavy table in the corner. Reid let himself be dragged, his arm dangling uselessly by his side. His face felt wet – there was blood trickling down from his nose into his mouth and there were tears rolling from his eyes. Everywhere hurt and he felt so weak and useless.

Grunting with the effort, Nick hooked a hand under Reid's armpit and pulled him to stand, pressing his stomach against the sharp table edge. Reid swayed and grabbed hold of the table with his good hand. Once again Nick seized a handful of Reid's hair. "What are you?" he spat.

"A stupid junkie," croaked Reid, all the fight knocked out of him. "I'm sorry, Nick, please-"

In response, Nick slammed his head into the hard wood of the table before pulling him upright. "Too late for sorry," he said, letting go of Reid with a shove so that he slumped forwards onto the table.

The young man's vision began to blur as his head smacked into the shiny surface again. He was too tired to fight anymore. He let out a faint whine of pain as Nick once again forced his arm up behind his back but it was almost inaudible. He felt Nick grab hold of the waistband of his sweatpants and yank them down, but although his mouth moved to plead with him not to, no sound came out.

He closed his eyes, vaguely aware that Nick was still hitting him. From very far away there came banging and an enormous crashing sound that splintered the air. All of a sudden, Nick's weight was off him and Reid slithered to the floor.

----------------------------------------------

Hotch had tried to call Reid back after the line went dead but his phone went straight to voicemail. He sat in his car, both hands on the steering wheel, frowning as he thought about what Reid had said.

The young man had sounded oddly nervous and his comments had made no sense. The LAPD files were concerned with suspicious deaths in a number of nursing homes – the cases Reid had referenced were completely irrelevant.

Hotch thought back through the conversation; Karl Arnold, Maggie Lowe and Ervin Robles – two home invaders and a stalker. Then suddenly it all made sense - there could only be one reason that Reid had wanted him to be aware of those cases.

Lifting his cell, Hotch called for back up, giving the call handler Reid's address. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment before deciding that he couldn't wait for them to arrive.

Driving quickly, he soon covered the few blocks between the parking lot where he had called Reid and the young man's apartment. He parked up and jumped out of the car, running into the building and up the three flights of stairs.

Hotch skidded to a halt outside Reid's front door. He stood for a moment, hands on hips, listening. A frown developed on his face at the muffled sounds of soft tissue hitting hard surface. He decided not to bother knocking and walked backwards as far as he could. Then with fists raised, he ran at the door, kicking out hard at the lock. On the third attempt it worked and the door smashed open.

He stood for a moment, taking in the scene, seeing Reid half dressed and bleeding and being beaten by this stranger. He felt the anger well up inside him and with a roar he sprung at the man, wrenching him away from Reid.

The momentum carried them both across the room, spinning in a mass of shouts and flailing limbs. Hotch wound up with the man on top of him, one hand around his neck, searching for a hold, trying to squeeze.

He grabbed at the arms and jerked his hips, knocking the guy off balance. Hotch rolled to the left and then sharply to the right, successfully flipping the man over. Hotch then rapidly scrambled on top of him, pinning his arms to the ground with his knees. The face below him twisted into a sneer under Hotch's scrutiny.

And he saw it. The man let his clenched fist fall slowly open, showing off his treasure to Hotch; a twisted clump of Reid's hair.

The bastard had pulled his hair out by the* roots*.

And then Hotch stopped thinking and started hitting. He punched the man hard, relishing the grunt of surprise and pain he wrung from him. And then he kept on punching him. He wanted to obliterate this man – pound his fist into his face until his features blurred and dissolved into nothing. He felt his fist smack into the soft dampness over and over again, smashing into this monster repeatedly until there was nothing left. Jaw strong and eyes focussed on his target, Hotch kept on working to destroy him. He wasn't even yelping anymore, just exhaling dull groans.

Then Hotch heard a piercing sound, words making their way into his consciousness.

"Hotch, stop it. Hotch! HOTCH!"

There was a touch of hysteria, a raised voice, screaming. Pleading.

"Hotch – stop it. Stop it, stop. Please. *Please*."

The entreaty was what stopped him. Hotch froze, arm pulled back and fist clenched. The pleading tipped over from yelling to sobbing. "Please stop it, you're killing him."

He turned his head to see Reid, his face crumpled and bloody, wide-eyed with terror. And Hotch stopped.

He turned back to look at the man lying beneath his, his face a mass of sticky red blood. Hotch shuddered inwardly – he could have kept on hitting until the man was dead. His face reddening with shame, Hotch climbed off his prisoner, rolling him over and reaching for the cuffs on his belt. He had nearly killed this man in his righteous fury.

Then the back up arrived and the apartment filled with EMTs and cops. Hotch let the Washington PD take over with the intruder and stole a glance at Reid. The young man was struggling to pull up his sweatpants, his head bowed as he tried hard to cover himself. Reid looked up and their eyes met, then Hotch turned away, the memory of the fear in Reid's eyes making him too ashamed to keep looking at him. Reid had suffered enough – he didn't need Hotch to come in there and terrify him.

The EMTs were busy helping a faintly protesting Reid onto a stretcher and Hotch moved to the opposite corner of the room to speak to the lead detective. The man Hotch had pulled off Reid was being led away, shouting to all and sundry to take pictures so he could complain about police brutality.

"You beat on a Fed," snarled one of the officers. "So shut the hell up."

In the doorway, the man turned and called, "See you later, Spencer."

"Do you know him?" asked the cop who was standing next to Reid. The young man bowed his head and didn't reply.

"Oh yeah," smirked the man, blood still trickling down from his nose. "He's been keeping my bed warm for months. You are nothing without me, Spencer, nothing."

Fuming, Hotch turned his head as they led the man away. He could feel the anger coursing through him again and he needed to get it under control. The thought that this man might have done this - or worse – to Reid before was churning his stomach.

The EMTs wheeled Reid out of the apartment, but Hotch didn't go with them. He couldn't. He was too angry and too ashamed of himself for having lost control like that. He had a gun, he could easily have overpowered the guy and cuffed him, waiting for the back up to deal with him. Instead, he had seen what had been done to Reid and then he'd seen red; if Reid hadn't called out, if Reid hadn't begged him to stop – Hotch was sure he would have killed him.

And what was so unbearable, is that whatever this guy did to Reid, Hotch just made it worse. He had meant to come in and help him, but instead he had succeeded in frightening him, showing himself to be no different from the animal now in custody. He'd done it right to start with – listened to what Reid was really saying on the phone, worked it out, barged straight in instead of waiting for back up – and then he'd allowed the darkness within him to take precedence and had unleashed a torrent of violence.

Hotch exhaled slowly and reached for his cell phone. He made a quick call to Morgan, telling him that Reid had been attacked in his apartment and giving him details of the hospital. Then he turned to the lead detective to speak to him about giving a statement.

-------------------------------------

Reid had curled up instinctively as his body crumpled to the floor. He had no idea what was going on, but Nick had let go of him for the time being. When his attacker didn't return, he rolled over to see Hotch kneeling on top of Nick and punching him repeatedly.

Gasping with pain, he pushed himself up on his usable arm and shouted at Hotch to stop, his voice cracking as he did so. He had never seen Hotch lose it like that before – he wanted his friend to come to his senses. Hotch turned to him, leaving Nick lying on the floor, and then Reid had seen him look away from him in disgust.

As the emergency services had piled into his apartment, Reid became acutely aware of his sweatpants round his knees and tried to pull them up with one hand. He was exposed to everybody. He felt the burn of Hotch's gaze and once he had lifted his eyes, Hotch again turned away. His boss could obviously hardly bear to look at him like that. He was weak and worthless and Hotch had just witnessed his utter humiliation. Sickened at his own vulnerability and still in horrible pain, Reid could barely speak as the EMTs examined and treated him and then strapped him onto a stretcher for the journey outside.

He couldn't even answer when Nick shouted to him, just look down and wish he could disappear.

The staff were all very nice – the EMTs, the doctors and nurses in the ER, the cops who took his faltering statement. There was a difficult moment when a nurse had tried to give him a shot of morphine and he had been reduced to a panicky stammered refusal. Fortunately, she had understood and found him something else for the pain without him having to spell it out.

His fractured ulna was set in a cast and his wounds stitched before Reid was admitted for observation. He was grateful for the gentle care and particular for the kindness of the night staff, one of whom sat on his bed and held his hand in silence while he cried tears of humiliation and loneliness.

The next day, Morgan picked him up and took him home, having worked all morning with Emily and Garcia to clean up his apartment after the CSIs had finished. The building supervisor had fitted him a new door and as Reid walked hesitantly into his home, he was surprised to see that the boxes  had all been unpacked as well.

"You can rearrange all the books later, man," Morgan said, assuring him that they hadn't looked at anything that seemed remotely personal.

They shared take out, which Reid pushed around his plate until it went cold, and after Reid insisted for over an hour that he was okay, really, he was fine, Morgan finally, reluctantly, left.

Then Reid switched on the TV and watched the Discovery Channel until he finally fell asleep.

----------------------------------

One Week Later

The knock at his door was tentative, almost apologetic. Reid heaved himself off the couch and padded towards the door. He wasn't expecting anybody.

Nick was in custody, he knew that. It couldn't be him. Nevertheless, he took his gun out of his bag and held it firmly as he approached the peephole.

He sighed with relief on seeing a familiar face. Then he replaced the gun (not good to seem too paranoid in front of the boss) before sliding back the three bolts and turning the keys in both deadbolt locks. Morgan had spent some time installing extra features to the high grade security door before collecting Reid from the hospital.

When he opened the door and saw Hotch immaculate in his suit, Reid felt embarrassed in his scruffy pyjama pants and t-shirt. He found it difficult to manage buttons and zippers with one arm immobilised and had gone for the easiest option. It wasn't as if he was likely to be leaving the apartment anytime soon. He blushed as he invited Hotch to come in.

Hotch nodded and stepped smartly over the threshold, his eyes scanning the room, looking everywhere but the man standing in front of him. Reid turned and headed back to the couch, gesturing at the armchair for Hotch to sit down on. He guessed Hotch was still disappointed in him for having gotten himself into that situation. The others had all called, or made short visits, full of exhausting sympathy and chatter; from Hotch, there had been silence.

Hotch looked uncomfortable as he perched on the armchair. Reid pulled his feet up onto the couch and curled his arms across his chest, grimacing slightly at the protest from his battered ribs.

Clearing his throat, Hotch spoke, his voice even and emotionless. "I'm here to talk to you about your sick leave and planned return to work," he said, pulling out a file from his briefcase. "The doctor has signed you off for a month. How long will you be wearing the cast?"

"Five more weeks," replied Reid. "Then I have to have physiotherapy." He paused. "Can I come back to work with the cast still on?"

Hotch thought for a moment. "I don't see why not – you won't be allowed back in the field until you have passed a medical, but you can return on light duties." He ducked his head and wrote quickly on the form.

Reid watched Hotch writing, his heart heavy at his boss' obvious discomfort with him. So much for the crush that had so agitated Nick. If Hotch couldn't even be in the same room as him now, they had no chance.

Then Hotch looked up at him and his voice softened. "The Washington PD will be dealing with Nicholas Hamilton. It isn't a BAU case and nobody on the team will be asking you any questions about it, or looking at any files unless you want them to."

Reid nodded, relieved that his personal life wasn't going to be raked over by his colleagues.

"How are you doing?" continued Hotch, concern in his face.

Reid shrugged. "The cast is annoying but I can live with it. My ribs still hurt but there was no internal organ damage, so it could have been worse." He looked at Hotch with a rueful smile. "And as time goes by, my resemblance to the Elephant Man gets less. It's a shame that Halloween isn't coming up – I wouldn't even need a mask."

He bit his lip as he finished speaking. He was trying to avoid catching sight of his reflection as it still startled and horrified him. The swelling and bruising were starting to subside, but his face was still a mass of green and purple blotches. The two black eyes were particularly unpleasant to look at and he had hidden behind his hair whenever the visitors came, just so he could be spared their pity.

Hotch nodded, looking at him with such tenderness that Reid felt tears itching the back of his eyes. He clenched his fist in a bid to keep them from falling – Hotch had already seen him being pathetic and weak.

"Reid," asked Hotch gently, "Why didn't you tell anybody that Nick was beating you?"

Reid stared at Hotch, his lip wobbling. He picked at the sling he was wearing, trying hard to control himself. Then he spoke. "I didn't want anybody to know. You all saw me as a victim in Georgia – I didn't want to be in that position again." His voice cracked slightly but he carried on. "And I guess I was in denial – he kept promising he wouldn't do it again and I . . . I wanted to believe him."

"You're not a victim, Reid -" started Hotch.

"Did you know that on average, abused partners are usually assaulted at least 35 times before they seek help?" interrupted Reid. "I moved out after 26  - so I guess that puts me ahead, right?"

"Reid, please," said Hotch, reaching out to stop him.

"I never even thought it was domestic violence. I just told myself that Nick had a temper and that I provoked it. I thought it was because he loved me – he told me that he loved me. He would say he was sorry and I believed him. And he told me he'd kill himself if I left." Reid was talking rapidly,
barely pausing for breath. "I got a restraining order but it was temporary – I couldn't go to court and see him, so I let it expire. I thought once I'd got out I was safe." His voice caught but he carried on. "I didn't tell you because I knew you would all ask why I hadn't left him the first time it happened. I knew you would all think I was weak."

"You're not weak," assured Hotch, moving to sit next to him on the couch.

"But I am," choked Reid. "I needed him to keep me from doing stupid things. I needed him and I believed him when he said that he loved me. I let him do that to me and I didn't leave him because I didn't want to be on my own." He shuddered and then turned his face away as he fought the urge to cry. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Hotch placed a light hand on Reid's shoulder which was just enough. The others offered hugs, putting their arms around him and making him hyperventilate. Hotch knew how to comfort him and when he spoke, his voice was rich and warm, like dark roast coffee.  "Abusers don't punch you on a first date. You know the profiles, Reid, they charm you, they comfort you, they make you feel special and they wait until you are completely drawn in before the violence starts. There is no weakness in wanting to be loved."

Reid didn't turn round. "I should have got that restraining order made permanent."

"At the end of the day, a restraining order is a piece of paper. If Hamilton was prepared to hunt you down and break into your apartment, an order from a judge wouldn't have stopped him." Hotch gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "This isn't your fault."

Reid turned his head, his eyes shining and wet. "I didn't fight back, Hotch. I let him hurt me and I never hit him back."

"Don't ever blame yourself because you're not like him," smiled Hotch. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his face serious. He was quiet for a moment, inhaling a couple of times as if he was about to start but then deciding not to. The air hung heavy with his silence.

Finally Hotch spoke, in quiet measured tones. "My name wasn't always Hotchner - my biological father's name was Colton Marshall. He beat my mother and he beat me and he only stopped when we left – sneaking out in the middle of the night. I was eleven years old and Sean was just a baby."

Reid stared at Hotch. "I didn't know," he said quietly.

"I don't talk about it," replied Hotch, shaking his head. "I don't like to think about it, to be honest. Sean doesn't even remember, while my first memories are hiding under the kitchen table while my father beat my mother. And he didn't beat us because she was weak, or because I provoked him –  he beat us because he was a violent alcoholic who lashed out at everything. Mama's family had cut her off when she married him and we were only able to leave once we got my uncle to agree to take us in."

Hotch paused, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. "Colton Marshall died two months later – he drove his car into a ditch while drunk. Later on, my mother married Jared Hotchner and he adopted both of us boys. For years, she blamed herself for the violence and it nearly destroyed her – but it wasn't her fault. She did her best to protect me but he had shattered all her confidence and made it almost impossible for us to leave him."

Reid shuffled around so that he was facing Hotch. "I'm sorry," he said. "That must have been awful for you."

"I survived," replied Hotch grimly, "But I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that I know what it's like – to live with the fear, to hide the bruises, to feel ashamed that you aren't doing more to stop it."

Reid swallowed hard, his nails digging into his palm. "I thought you were disappointed in me," he whispered. "You didn't even look at me, or come with me to the hospital. I figured you thought I was pathetic."

"No!" replied Hotch, frowning in surprise. "I could never think that." He sighed. "I didn't come to the hospital because . . ." He stopped and looked down at his lap. "I was ashamed of having lost control like that. I could easily have beaten Hamilton to death because of what he'd done to you and  I was mortified that I had let myself do that. I frightened you and I frightened myself. I was acting like Colton Marshall's son and that is someone I never wanted to be."

"It's okay," said Reid softly, "I understand."

They sat in silence for a moment, until Hotch spoke. "I'm sorry I didn't come and see you earlier. I was having trouble coming to terms with how I acted with Hamilton, but that doesn't excuse it."

Reid sniffled. "It's okay," he replied. "I haven't really enjoyed having visitors. I know they mean well, but . . ." He waved his hand and shrugged. "They all sit there, trying not to stare at my face and talking about irrelevant crap. You're the only one who asked me straight out why I didn't report Nick."

Hotch looked apologetic. "I wanted to understand – I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not," replied Reid, his voice hitching again as he thought about the unasked questions that had hung in the air when the rest of his co-workers had visited. "I know they're all wondering why I let it go on so long, why I didn't ask for help. I hated being profiled by my friends after Georgia – I didn't want them sitting on my couch and making small talk while they profile the hell out of me again."

He pulled his legs up closer to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. It hurt his ribs to do that, but at least it made him feel safer. "I know you understand  . . . stuff. About me. And I'll always be grateful that you had enough faith to keep me on the team. I guess that's why I don't want you to be disappointed in me."

Reid knew he was being uncharacteristically candid – but Hotch had just opened up about his own dark secrets. Somehow they were putting cards on the table and it seemed right to be doing that.

"I'm not disappointed in you," replied Hotch, patting Reid's arm.

"Even though I turn out to be a lousy profiler?" asked Reid, with a bitter, mirthless laugh. "I find a guy who is interested in me and I'm so pathetically grateful that I can't even see he's an abuser?"

"You're not a lousy profiler," assured Hotch. "Anyone can fall for the wrong person – and he was right there at a time you needed someone. I don't know all the details – and you don't ever have to tell me – but I know enough to understand that whatever you did to get clean must have been hard work."

Reid nodded. He knew that Hotch knew something about his struggle with addiction and he would always be thankful for his Unit Chief's tacit support; Hotch could have reported or fired him and he hadn't. He pushed his hair off his face and winced as his fingers caught the tender bruised skin. "I look terrible," he grimaced.

Hotch shook his head. "You look sore, not terrible." He glanced at Reid's tangled and greasy hair. "Is there anything you need help with? It can be hard to manage showering with only one good arm."

Reid blushed and lowered his eyes. "I can't get my hair washed right," he sighed. "It's hard to keep the cast dry and it really hurts to reach up."

Hotch's voice was kindly. "Why don't I run you a bath and I can wash it for you?" he said. "A soak in the tub might help anyway and it's better to do that while there is somebody here."

"Okay," muttered Reid gratefully.

Hotch removed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves before heading into the bathroom. A short while later he called Reid through, stepping discretely into the living room while Reid got undressed.

Reid climbed carefully into the warm water, sliding his body under the mass of bubbles Hotch had so thoughtfully arranged. There was a neatly folded towel on the side of the tub and Reid rested his cast on it. "I'm in," he called, trying not to blush too hard as Hotch returned. His nakedness was pretty well hidden by the foam, but even so, he placed a washcloth strategically over his groin.

As Hotch knelt by the side of the bath, Reid watched him taking in the angry bruises littering his body. Something – pity? anger? – flickered across his face and then vanished, replaced by an expression of gentle concern.

"Put your head back and close your eyes," commanded Hotch and Reid obeyed. Then Hotch wet his hair before tenderly massaging his scalp as he worked in the shampoo.

Reid sat perfectly still as Hotch rinsed out the shampoo with cupfuls of warm water, being careful not to let it run down the young man's face. This was so gentle, so unlike the times Nick had touched his hair that he felt the tears well up again. He bit his lower lip to hold his emotions in  check and let Hotch comb conditioner through the tangled strands.

"Reid?" asked Hotch, "Are you okay? I'm not hurting you, am I?"

Eyes still tightly closed, Reid spoke quietly. "Yeah, I'm fine. You're very gentle." His voice hitched slightly. "He used to pull my hair. A lot."

"I'm sorry he hurt you like that," soothed Hotch as he expertly washed out the conditioner, before gently tipping Reid's head forwards.

"I should have cut my hair off," continued Reid. "I made it easy for him." He bowed his head, ashamed at how his vanity had exacerbated the situation.

Hotch picked up a sponge and began to gently wash the young man's back, frowning at the blotches of battered skin. "It wasn't your fault. It wouldn't have mattered how short you cut your hair, he still would've found a way to hurt you - if you'd shaved it off, he'd have found something else. You didn't deserve what happened to you – you know that."

Reid nodded, moving his head almost imperceptibly. "I know, I just . . ." His voice trailed off and he shrugged, hoping that Hotch would understand the rest without him having to articulate it.

Hotch got to his feet. "All done," he said with a smile. "And it's reassuring to know that I'm not the worst hair washer in the world."

"Why would you be?" frowned Reid, grateful for the change of subject.

"Well, according to Jack I am - at least that's what I translated the shrieking as," said Hotch, dryly. "I still make the worst mashed potato though." He turned towards the door. "Be careful getting out – call me if you need any help."

Reid nodded again and sat for a moment, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of security. The others had all been very kind, but Hotch had just done the most caring thing anyone had done for him for a very long time. Somehow, Hotch always knew what he needed.

Pressing down with his good arm, Reid tried to stand up. He had almost managed it when he slipped and landed back in the water, soaking the floor with a huge splash. "Fuck it," he whispered, his voice cracking in his frustration at his helplessness.

In an instant Hotch was in the bathroom, holding up a large towel. "Let me help you," he said calmly, "I promise not to look." He took Reid's other arm and steadied him as he stood up and climbed out of the tub. Then he wrapped the bath towel around him, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "It's okay, Reid," he said. "This will get a lot easier in time."

"I can't even get out of a goddamn bath!" Reid snapped as he pressed one hand against his eyes, his voice wavering, "I can't cook for myself, I can't do anything."

Coming to stand in front of him, Hotch gripped his shoulders gently. "You can eat take-out with one hand and as long as we're not away, how about I come over and be your personal hair-washer?"

Reid sighed and then nodded, looking at the floor. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm a little emotional right now."

"Who wouldn't be?" asked Hotch. "You've been through an awful experience."

Reid kept his eyes down. "I always fall for the wrong guy," he said, almost to himself. "If it's not a psycho, it's someone who's straight, or – " He paused and found himself looking up at Hotch. "Someone who's married."

 "I'm not married anymore," said Hotch quickly, before blinking and looking startled.

Reid stared at him, wondering why he had just admitted to his crush on Hotch and why Hotch had responded like that.

"I'm sorry," Hotch said, his face colouring. "That was inappropriate. Ignore me."

"Don't . . . don't you like me?" faltered Reid. He felt suddenly exposed, as though the towel had been ripped away and he was standing naked in front of Hotch.

Hotch sighed and pulled his hands away from Reid's shoulders to cup his face. "I do like you, Spencer, I have for a while," he said. "But you don't need that kind of pressure from me. I'm sorry."

Reid swallowed and then reached out, curling one hand around the back of Hotch's neck and pulling him closer. Then he kissed him.

At first Hotch didn't move. Reid felt the soft warmth of his lips and gently licked them before pushing his tongue between them. He closed his eyes and willed Hotch to respond.

And then he did, tentatively at first. Lips parted, he let Reid's tongue slide into his mouth, tilting his head to one side to allow the kiss to deepen. Sensing the approval, Reid stepped forwards, pressing his body against Hotch as he explored his open mouth with his tongue.

Hotch's hands remained on his face, holding him as they kissed. Their tongues swiped and rolled and Reid groaned at the back of his throat as the kiss grew in intensity. His dick was hard, tenting the bath towel Hotch had fastened round him, and this all felt so good. He'd fantasised about Hotch for over a year now and kissing him at last was better than he had ever imagined.

Suddenly Hotch pulled away and the two men stared at each other, flushed and panting. "I'm sorry Spencer, but this isn't the time," said Hotch, his voice unsteady. "It's too fast, we need to wait." He reached out to stroke a hand down Reid's cheek, but Reid took a step back, his eyes welling up again at the rejection.

"I thought you liked me," he said, plaintive. "I don't get it."

"I do like you – I like you a lot," said Hotch, trying to reassure him. "But you're vulnerable right now. I don't want to be your rebound guy, or take advantage of you in a way you might regret in the future." He moved closer, his arms open, and this time Reid let himself be embraced.

"It's not taking advantage of me if I want it," he grumbled.

"Yes it is," replied Hotch, caressing the back of Reid's head. "You might say you're thinking straight at the moment but you're not. You don't usually spend all your time on the verge of tears, do you?"

Reid shook his head and Hotch carried on. "You only just got that bastard out of your life and you need some time to deal with what's happened." He slid a finger under Reid's chin and tilted his face to look at him. "I'm not going anywhere but I think we need to take things slow. Let's get to know each other properly before jumping into bed."

Reid sighed and sniffled. He was tired and his head was spinning with thoughts about Hotch and how different he was to Nick. He grabbed hold of the towel but barely had the energy to use it.

Sensing this, Hotch moved him gently to that he was sitting on the closed toilet seat. "Are your clean pyjamas in a drawer?" he asked, getting a weary nod from Reid before hurrying to the bedroom.

Reid sat slumped until Hotch returned with his clothes and then looked up at him with a grateful smile. Hotch planted a chaste kiss on his lips and said, "I'm going to order some food. Pizza?"

"Please," nodded Reid. "I don't care about the toppings - except that anchovies are the food of the devil."

"You're in charge - no anchovies," smirked Hotch, picking up a hand towel and gently rubbing Reid's hair. "Do you need any help getting dressed?"

At Reid's shake of the head, Hotch moved to leave the bathroom, pausing in the doorway as Reid spoke.

"Thanks – for everything," he said quietly. "For understanding, for stopping him, for coming by today and helping me out and for, um, caring about me."

"Always," replied Hotch with a smile.


*The End*