Title: Painting Shadows
By: Sarie Venea
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG-13
Warning: WiP
Note: I normally don't write anything but science fiction, namely Stargate, but I fell in love with this show over the summer and wanted to give Reid some attention. I am, apparantly, genetically incapable of humor or anything other than whump and angst, really, so this is what came out.
Summary: Reid is taken from them, then found again. The journey afterwards is often the hardest part.

***

Chapter 1

Paint.

It was paint that finally found him.

The unsub wrapped his victims in plastic sheeting. Drop sheeting for indoor painting jobs. Common denominator. Duct tape to restrain them, around their hands and feet and mouth. The tape around their eyes was always loosened. Not by the blood that filled the bottom of the shroud, but by a salty fluid. Tears.

The heat sensor lit up the truck in three places. Drivers seat, a person. The engine, pipes and wires continuing in the undercarriage. And the back seat. A body. Prone, still, the flaming colors cooled to yellows and oranges.

"Target vehicle is in range, requesting confirmation."

"Unsub is in the front seat, looks like victim in the back. Do not disable vehicle, I repeat, our man is in the backseat, unit five cut him off at the next road, but do not approach. Do not approach."

Tires shrieked as the SUVs cornered the man, swerving and ending up on a manicured lawn. He was trapped, flinging himself from the vehicle, hands in the air.

The team descended, Hotchner reaching the unsub first, slamming his face into the hood of the car and wrenching his wrists back, the handcuffs entirely too tight.

Morgan was the one to get to the suburban first. His hand wasn't steady. He opened the door.

"Reid! Talk to me man!" Morgan fumbled at the plastic, his hands slipping over the duct tape. He peeled it off, praying desperately that they were in time. Ripping into the plastic, he could see splashes of red through the cloudy white. Red. Red meant blood.

"Reid! Spencer! Come on come on come on-" He yanked and the plastic tore through, a glimpse of brown hair, white skin, more blood. It trickled onto the ground, onto his shoes.

"Get him out of there!" Gideon's voice was in his ear. Morgan slid his arms under the plastic-wrapped body and lifted, the head rolling toward the ground, the plastic pulling and twisting. Gideon let the lower body fall into his arms, following as Morgan gently knelt, lowering to the ground. Derek peeled the sheet away from his face. Tape was grey and dull, streaked with blood and dirt, across his mouth, his eyes.

"Reid! Reid, it's Morgan. I gotcha, okay? You're alright," he spoke firmly, scraping his fingers under the tape and pulling it off Reid's eyes, slowly, forcing his hands to stop shaking, to go slow. Reid's face was white, skeletal, the bones around his eyes bruised and scraped. His eyes were open, unfocused. Derek kept talking, words over words, pulling the tape off his mouth. He wasn't breathing.

"Get those medics over here!"

Gideon tore the plastic off his lower body, gently peeling the duct tape away from his wrists. He found the wounds just as they were on the other victims. Knife, striping and cutting, bleeding him dry. He glanced up. Elle was shouting into her cell, Hotch passing the struggling suspect to another agent.

"Look at me, take a breath, Reid, just breathe!" Morgan wrapped his hand under Reid's neck, lifting and tilting. "Breathe, man, breathe!" His skin was cold, slick with sweat, blood. A pulse was there but small, fluttering. Suddenly Reid's chest heaved and he sucked in air. It came out in a cry, a pain-filled, terrified sound that tore into his ears.

"We're here, Reid, we've gotcha, it's alright, it's alright…" Morgan pushed the sticking hair away from his eyes, moving his head so that he was in Reid's line of sight.

His wrists came free and his eyes clicked onto Morgan's face at the same instant, his hands splaying against the air and his back arching against the restraints that were no longer there. Morgan grabbed the erratically swinging arms and pulled him close, holding them against his body as his own arms wrapped around the struggling form. He lifted and bent at the same moment, muffling the continued cries in his shirt and resting his cheek against his sweat-soaked hair. Reid slowly stopped struggling, every muscle going limp except his hands, which twisted in Morgan's shirt, snaking around his neck, clinging like the aloof Dr. Spencer Reid never had. Pain and fear tore out of his throat, tears coming forward in the eyes around him as Morgan held and rocked, his hands moving in circles, comfort, reassurance, Gideon holding the medics back with a hand as he pressed against the deepest wound visible, Elle clutching Hotch's sleeve as they both struggled with the emotions bubbling and flooding their bodies.

Adrenaline ebbed away and shock set in, unconsciousness, Reid sagging in Morgan's hold and the medics rushed forward, pushing them away, white bandages staining red and masks of air and wires to a heartbeat that didn't stop.

The red-streaked plastic was left on the ground, the duct tape sliced apart and littering the ground. The ambulance doors closed, Morgan's hand never leaving Reid's shoulder, climbing in next to him.

Air was sucked away and the crime scene would not process itself but Elle took one look at the streaks and pools of blood on the plastic and ran to the gutter, heaving, crying, shaking.

***

Chapter 2

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.

***