It's been a while...I really would like to finish this story, but I don't know if it'll happen- judging by how long it takes me to update. Anyhow...

Two years later, here's another chapter. Enjoy!

Limerence

Dix

"I dream about you at night, I think about you in the morning, but I want you every second of the day."- Anonymous

Chapter 10: Bad Things

Water.

Was the first conscious thought Reid had as he stirred. His sandpaper-like tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as if dehydrated in the Sahara Desert. A common side effect of narcotics. Familiar from his past. His limbs felt weighed down like cinderblocks, like well-known mornings after a hefty dose of dilaudid. It struck him at that moment, just how much medication Dr. Brontë had given him. It was much more than he'd expected.

"Good morning love," a female voice chirped close by.

There was heaviness to his eyelids, and he fought to open them long enough to see he wasn't in the hospital anymore. He spotted the blonde, easily recognizing her energetic petite form. He took in her golden mane and her swift and lively moves. Reid knew he'd seen those limbs before, but his clouded mind didn't let him finish the thought. He blinked his eyes closed to rest instead, but in the next moment, the name came to his lips quite unexpectedly.

"Dr. Brontë?" as he spoke, the words fumbled into an incomprehensible murmur.

Reid waited to hear her response but all she did was hum a familiar tune to herself. A strange lullaby, something he'd heard before but couldn't quite place.

"Tea?"

When Reid opened his eyes again to reject her offer, he took in his surroundings. It all looked unfamiliar to him. In fact, judging by the forest trees through the panoramic window in the living room, he was pretty sure he wasn't even in LA anymore.

"Where am I?" he asked trying to sit up.

Dr. Brontë shook her head and used her nimble fingers to push his chest back down on the couch, "Oh no, you shouldn't sit up just yet darling."

"Where are we?"

She ignored his question. Instead, Reid watched as she gracefully held a white saucer in one hand while pouring water from the kettle into the mug she held. Dr. Brontë smiled sweetly at him, pushing the loaded teacup to his lips with insistence. Reid knew something was wrong, there were plenty of questions he should have but, above all else he was parched.

He took in tiny sips of the warm tea, savoring the floral and woody mixed flavors until his arms felt too weak to hold him up. He let his numbed body fall back down on to the couch with a thump.

"There we go. Feel better?" Dr. Brontë asked, placing the tea cup back on the glass coffee table.

Reid swallowed, hadn't he asked her something? He couldn't quite remember. He hated feeling so clouded. He needed his lightning speed of a brain back; but as he thought about it, it also felt nice not to have to think. Not having twenty different thoughts all swimming through his head at the same time slowed the pace of his thinking. It was a nice change.

"Where are we?" he heard himself ask in surprise, his brain refusing to leave his situation alone.

"Just rest dear," she whispered, her gentle hand caressing his forearm.

Reid wanted to. The idea of slipping off into dreamland was such an accessible idea, yet, there was a ball of anxiety building in his chest.

"No," he shooed her hand away and forced himself to sit up, "Take me back."

Dr. Brontë's smile faltered. She stared at him for a few seconds and grabbed something from beside her. It was a thin, plastic, pen-like object with an orange cap. Reid felt an icy chill run through the inside of his limbs but fought it away.

"I don't want any," he refused, unable to take his focus off the needle.

Dr. Brontë smirked, "You're not fully healed yet. You need your medication, Spencer. It will make you feel better."

As she said this, Dr. Brontë had already found a vein on his forearm and tapped it for inspection before swiftly piercing his skin with the sharp needle. It was done in such quickness and precision that Reid had no real chance to object. Within moments, he felt the familiar tingling spread throughout his body, while he watched as his blonde doctor got up with an active liveliness.

He'd seen those swift movements before. Her long blonde hair, her energy, her precision. The blond unsub had moved the same way. It was her. Dr. Brontë had been the one to stab him the night he'd been at Lila's. She had kidnapped Lila, murdered all those women by exsanguination, and kidnapped him. Dr. Brontë was their unsub.

But even as he tried sitting up, Reid felt a blanket of the medicine begin to take its effect. His body felt glued to the couch, his lids felt heavy, and lips were only able to mutter, "It's you," before he was completely sedated.

xxxoxxxoxxxx

Earlier

Lila's Home

"How did the unsub manage to slip away that easily?" Prentiss grumbled angrily, mostly to herself. She and Morgan were back in Lila Archer's home, searching for any clues that would help lead them to the Unsub, Dr. Brontë.

Both of them had objected to Hotch when he asked them to head back out. They couldn't stand leaving the hospital knowing that it was the last place they'd seen Reid. They wanted to be there and here leads from Penelope. They wanted to follow a car, race into an abandoned building, anything that would lead them to their golden genius. However, Hotch was insistent that they search Lila's home for anything they might have missed the first time.

Morgan was bent down looking at the single footprint left behind by the unsub with her shoe size. It was small, just like the foot of Dr. Brontë. He let out a loud sigh and got up, "I don't know. But I don't see how anything here is going to get us closer to finding Reid and Lila. We should be on the roads right now. we should be doing perimeter checks, looking at surveillance cameras-"

"In LA? You know we'd be wasting our time-"

"We're wasting our time here," he exclaimed.

Prentiss closed her eyes and took a deep breath, "We're all worried about Spencer Derek, but we both know there isn't anything else we can do out there. We need to keep our heads focused on the case. Think of this as just any other-"

"It's not just any other case Emily. It's Spencer. And the kid…I feel like we always let him down. I always let him down."

As the words left his mouth, Morgan looked away from Prentiss' empathetic stare. His eyes shifted in the room until they landed on a pile of old mail in the recycling can. A thought came to him then and walked up to the bin of papers, "Did we ever confirm if the Unsub sent Lila more than one note?"

Prentiss followed his footsteps, "I don't think so."

With blue latex gloves, Morgan rummaged through the pile of recyclables, looking for any incriminating clue the unsub might have left behind. Most of the mail was invitations to screenings, book and album launches, galas, and other events Lila was asked to attend. There were coupons from different yoga companies and a subscription to People Magazine issues.

Whatever Morgan would hastily put down, Prentiss picked up and carefully examined. They were almost at the end when Prentiss' phone began to vibrate. Without putting down the papers in her right hand, she maneuvered her phone out right pocket with her left hand and answered it, all in one breath.

"Prentiss. Hotch-" As Hotch said something on the phone, Prentiss let her lips fall open in surprise and bolted her eyes at Morgan, "Got it. Yes."

"The two agents who were kidnapped with Lila have been found tied up by a dumpster near the Santa Monica pier- but there's no sign of Lila."

With the last postcard in his hand, a flash of the Unsub's note came into Morgan's head. She had written her note on a postcard from the same Gallery where Reid first met Lila. The same Gallery was located in Santa Monica.

But as he held it in his hand, something didn't feel quite right, "It can't be this easy."

"What?" Prentiss cluelessly asked.

He turned to her, motioning towards the postcard, "The unsub wrote on a postcard from this gallery. This is the gallery where Reid first met Lila."

Prentiss cleared her throat, looking at the postcard Morgan held and spoke into the receiver, "We need to send a unit over to Monet's Galleria on Sunset Blvd."

xxxoxxxoxxxo

Later

Monet's Galleria

When Prentiss and Morgan got to the art gallery, there were already medics, policemen, and firemen on site. Both agents followed a stretcher as it was brought out from the back room of the art gallery, with a barely identifiable bloody blonde.

Unlike the other train of victims the Unsub had left behind, Lila not only had signs of exsanguination but her face was severely scrapped. It was as if someone had taken her face and scraped it against cement and gravel. Prentiss spotted the supervisor in charge of the scene and quickly left to get details of the site. Morgan stayed behind and followed the stretcher as it made its way into the ambulance.

"Lila, can you remember anything? Do you know where she has Reid?" Morgan asked, dropping all pretenses of comfort and concern. Above all else, his focus was on safely finding Reid. He knew that Lila might mean something to Reid, but to him, she was just another victim, with others to worry about her.

Lila fluttered her purple swollen eyes towards Morgan and opened her lips to say something. As she parted them, the machine attached to her stretcher began to beep away and Lila was only able to move down her air mask to wheeze one word into Morgan's ear before they began attempting to save her life.

Morgan stepped back and watched through the window as they used paddles on Lila's chest to attempt and revive her. He thought about what she whispered into his ear but it didn't make any sense. While he stood immersed in thought, Prentiss came back in the middle of ending a phone call.

"Hotch just called. The Forks Sherriff's department just found its seventeenth body and it's been identified- as get this- Dr. Cecilia Brontë, " Prentiss shared, then motioned towards the empty space the ambulance had left behind, "Any luck with Lila?"

He frowned and looked strangely at Prentiss, "Rowena?"

xxxoxxxoxxxo

Meanwhile

Place Unknown

When Reid woke up again the sun had gone down and Dr. Brontë wasn't around. Although he was still groggy he made himself stand up and search his surroundings. He was in what looked like a combination of the kitchen and living room part of the house. Half of the walls were made out of stone or concrete, he wasn't sure, but when he placed his hands up against the walls he could feel the coolness of the stone. His eyes searched for a door, but in its place, there was a doorway leading to a narrow concrete hallway that only led to three other doors. One was a sterile-looking bathroom and the other door led him to a large and mostly empty room aside from a bed and two night stands on its side. The third door was locked.

Most of the home's décor was minimalistic, aside from an old pink throw on the bed, with a tattered white stuffed animal. There were plenty of things out of place in the room Reid knew to pick up on, but he couldn't. He couldn't make sense of all the puzzle pieces in front of him and that scared him. It frightened him more than the fact that he'd been kidnapped. He knew it had to do with the medication she was giving him and he was resolute not to let her force it in him anymore.

"You look much better," Dr. Brontë candy-like voice cooed, stepping out of the room he'd just been in.

Reid needed to overpower her. He examined her build, yes, she was small but he could tell that she was very physically active. In his current position, he couldn't really depend on himself to successfully pin her down to escape. He also knew that she was intelligent. Her plan was elaborate, neat, and patient. And yet, he couldn't understand how it led to him. Why was she so obsessed with him?

He searched her face, willing himself to remember where they'd crossed paths before.

Dr. Brontë smiled when she realized what he was doing and let out a singular throaty laugh, "Is it coming to you yet darling? I know you've had others, but surely I'm not that forgettable."

With a good amount of time since the last dosage Dr. Brontë had given him, Reid felt his normal-self coming back. However, his eidetic memory still couldn't place her face. But he knew that apart from the night he'd spent with JJ, the only other period in his life where he had moments of complete black outs where from his party period at Yale.

There had been one girl in particular who'd attached herself to him briefly after their night together. She'd sent him typed poetic notes in traditional verse. But that girl's face wasn't accessible to him and he'd never learned her name. Back then he hadn't concerned himself with figuring out who he'd spent the night with because of sheer embarrassment, now he regretted that decision.

"I'll forgive you for now I suppose. Let's have dinner instead. I imagine you must be famished," she said trailing past him, into the kitchen. Like a moth attracted to light, Reid obediently followed Dr. Brontë, watching from a stool as she took out a large platter from inside the oven. It was a large plate of Pad Thai, his favorite dish.

The juxtaposition he found himself in terrified him. He understood that his life, Lila's and others were at stake, but he also felt completely safe with Dr. Brontë. He didn't feel threatened by her at all, and feeling that way really troubled Reid. He felt as if he wasn't in charge of his emotions-

Dr. Brontë spoke up to break him away from his thoughts, "Eat up. Don't worry, I'll have some too- see? It's good."

She eagerly scooped up a fork-full of noodles into her mouth with great vigor, swallowing it with a smile to show it was safe. As much as Reid wanted to resist the plate she offered, the incessant grumbling in his stomach and lightheadedness insisted he had to eat. Slowly, he scooped up a good amount on his fork and began to eat. He took cautiously small bites and didn't take his eyes off of Dr. Brontë the entire time.

With her arm placed on the counter and head on the palm of her hand, watching as Reid ate, Dr. Brontë whispered, "Let me tell you a story. It starts off like many other whimsical fairy tales, really. See, there's this young and bright American exchange student majoring in philosophy, who goes to Britain to study at Oxford. She meets this strapping young gentleman who's trapped in an arranged marriage. Against the young girl's better judgment, she begins a relationship with him. She figures it's a fling and that she'll go back to America and forget about it. However, they aren't too careful as many young idiots are, and nine months later out comes their little bundle of joy-"

"But shortly after that, the young mother is diagnosed with a crippling mental illness. The idea of being a mother terrifies her, and she's always dreamed of getting her doctorate to create a legacy for herself. She's a rather selfish woman, wouldn't you say? So, she flees. She abandons her baby girl. The little infant girl is lucky in the respect that her father is a good man. Of course, as she's his bastard child, his wife, who already has two toddler daughters with him, detests the little girl from the moment she's brought into their home-"

Reid was so immersed in her story that he was surprised to find he'd cleaned the entire plate of spicy noodles. He also found a small bubble of anxiety beginning to fill in the middle of his chest. A venomous voice whispered in the back of his mind to give in. That it was easy. Just ask for more, it said. It flashed images of bliss he could easily obtain again. He fought against his body to give in. instead, Reid crossed his trembling arms tightly and hugged his stomach, willing his body back into control.

Dr. Brontë had gone silent when she noticed him uncomfortably shift in his stool. She raised an eyebrow, "Are you feeling sick again darling?"

"No. I'm fine," He lied, quickly adding, "I just need to use the bathroom."

"Well, go, if you must," she airily voiced in a melancholic tone.

Reid was already up before she could say otherwise and bolted to the cool and dark confines of the bathroom. He felt safe there from her destructive medicine and the cool tile floor felt pleasant against his feverish skin. It felt easy to breathe at last, and slowly he felt the anxiousness beginning to evaporate.

It was when he was finally at ease that he felt footsteps approaching him, and a change in light through his closed lids. There was a discernable thump, as Dr. Brontë dropped her weight against the door.

"Spencer? Are you ok darling? Should I tell you the rest of the story? I suppose I should. That little girl is lucky because she gets her father's undying affection. However, he's mostly away and so she suffers through the most atrocious unkindness on behalf of her stepsisters. The girl is fortunate in another way because unlike her unruly sisters, she gets into all the universities she applies to. Her father encourages her to travel to her top choice, Yale. Do you see where this is going, Spencer?"

Reid felt the food starting to make its way back up. His stomach cramped and he crouched into a ball while biting his lip. But he refused to give in, he refused to answer to her. He heard her laugh before continuing her story, "See, that little girl leaves all of her anger behind when she starts at Yale. Her future is bright, it's open to any possibility. And she thinks that perhaps living in the states she might be able to find her mother. Perhaps they might be able to patch things up. But things don't often go as planned, as we both know."

"See. Imagine you're a young impressionable eighteen-year-old, and in your first semester, you meet this virtuoso of a man. He's only two years older than you and already he's pursuing his doctorate. See this little girl has never been intellectually challenged, managing to outsmart most of her professors, until this man. Through his honest critiquing of her papers, and his deep and thoughtful responses, the girl begins to fall for him, it's the first time she's ever had a crush. Through a hand of luck, she finds herself at a party with him and well we know where this goes. Afterward, for a little while, she thinks he likes her back. Imagine her surprise when she decides to confront him about their notes, their intimate night together, and he looks at her as if she's a complete stranger. Can you imagine how crushed that little girl is?"

"-Her terrible first semester doesn't end there. See, while she's romanticizing a relationship with her Student instructor, her father gets sick back at home. But nobody calls to tell her that he's on his death bed, or when he dies, or for her to attend the funeral. Instead, she flies back home hoping to get her broken heart comforted by her father, only to find out he's been dead for a month. Why do her sisters and stepmother do such a terrible thing to her? Inheritance. Her father was fully aware of just how vile they treated his little girl, and their punishment was to be left out of the will. Their revenge was to rob her of the final moments she could spend with her father. Rather cruel, wouldn't you say? You can only imagine what this did to the girl. She was institutionalized for a while but when she got out she was resolute of one thing, to finally find her birth mother. Because it was all her fault. Do you see who this little girl is Spencer? Do you understand that it's me now?"

Reid felt his mouth dry, his muscles were tense and trembling from cold. It was as if the more she told him, the worse his pain got. He didn't understand how his body was going through withdrawals so fast, but he refused to give in. He wouldn't go down that road again.

"I was left with a single clue. The Works of W.B. Yeats. On the inside flap a little note reading property of D. Middleton. …when I found her, I saw there was no point in ruining her life. It was already pathetic. And to an intellectual, psychosis is the worst way for their life to end. Instead, when I found out she'd mothered another child, a boy, I grew jealous. I was angry, but I realized then that the only person left to take my vengeance out on was you. You would be my Oedipus."