Painting Shadows

Sarie Venea

A/N--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. Enjoy

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.