Summary: Reid had a feeling he was concussed—none of his thoughts were making any sense, all of them overlapping and trailing off half-through. One thought was persistent, however: Emily.
Prompt: 037. The hand of fate for 500themes
Note: There won't be any torture in this fic; it's mostly dealing with the aftermath, which is why this starts where it does. Timeline-wise, we're pretending season six doesn't exist. The prologue is a bit disjointed, but it'll make more sense next chapter. So um. Yes. *stops talking*
Spencer Reid's head felt like it was on fire. He had been on fire before—a lifetime ago at Randall Garner's house. This hurt more, and it wasn't even a real fire. Reid had a feeling he was concussed—none of his thoughts were making any sense, all of them overlapping and trailing off half-through. One thought was persistent, however: Emily.
They'd been taken. He had no idea how long they'd been in this basement—without windows, he had no way of tracking the passage of time, and he wasn't sure how long they'd been unconscious before he'd woken up initially. Emily hadn't known either—she'd only woken up a few minutes before he had. That was so long ago—it had to have been days.
He tried to call out her name, but couldn't seem to remember how to open his mouth. He'd heard her shouting earlier—over the sound of fists hitting his face—but now… There was a dark, huddled form across the room, and he refused to believe that was her, lying so unnaturally still.
There was a crash somewhere above them, hurried footsteps rushing across the floor. Reid recognized Morgan's muffled voice and nearly sagged with relief before remembering that he was chained, and that putting more weight on his arms could pop them out of socket. The door to the basement crashed open and within moments, Hotch, Morgan, and Rossi were there.
Morgan holstered his gun and wasted no time working off the handcuffs. Reid's arms fell, numb and heavy, and his knees buckled. Morgan caught him, one arm around his back. "I gotcha, Pretty Boy," Morgan said, worry plain on his face. "We've got medics coming in, kid; you're going to be fine."
Morgan eased him into a sitting position on the floor, drawing a hiss of pain as one of his wounds tore. Morgan crouched next to him, not seeming to know where to start. There were so many things that Reid wanted to ask. How did you find us? How long has it been? Did you find Emily? Did you find him? But he couldn't talk, couldn't make a sound other than a slur. The concern on Morgan's face deepened. He said something, turning to shout at Hotch, who was kneeling next to the prone form on the floor, but Reid couldn't make out the words.
It was like he was experiencing life from beneath the ocean. Voices echoed, colors muted. He was losing consciousness, maybe for the last time. Where did that thought come from? Morgan clutched Reid's shoulder like a lifeline, and it hurt like hell, but Morgan couldn't have known about the bruises there, couldn't have known…
The world was fading, and Reid couldn't get past the idea that if he succumbed to the blackness, he would never wake up. It was possible—he'd sustained a serious head injury, and head injuries were complicated. They also had side effects that he didn't want to begin to entertain.
All the stubborn will and force of thought in him couldn't keep him awake for much longer than it took to think the words blood loss or brain damage, however. The blackness swallowed him whole.