Title: Not Yet Broken by Lexikal (originally published on my livejournal under the pen-name Hanniballexster)

Rating: M for description of self-injury and mention of sexual assault and mild language.

WARNING (READ!): I have been told by some readers that the self harm scene in this is very descriptive and graphic and may trigger some readers, so please, if you feel you may be triggered or you don't want to read it (I myself don't consider it graphic, but that's just me) then turn back now.

Author's Note: No, I don't really think Reid would act the way he does in this story; the story is rather AU, something that was floating around in my head months ago that I finally decided to upload here to ff dot net. However, before anyone can say that they don't see Reid as the self injuring "type" (or something along those lines), I'd just like to remind everyone: there is no '"type" for this behaviour. Anyone of any age can self injure, just like anyone can develop depression or kill themselves. Despite what you may have heard self-injurious behaviour is not always a sign of a personality disorder, and usually is not for attention. The reasons people may self-injure are so different and varied that to list them all would take a good hour. There is no one reason people do this- every sufferer has different reasons. Please review! Thanks.

This is dedicated to my friend, Julia, who is dealing with self-injury right now.

Archive: Go ahead, just please tell me where and when so I know what's up.

LAST WARNING: SELF INJURY AND DARK THEMES AHEAD! DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDERAGE OR MAY BE TRIGGERED! DO NOT READ IF THE SAW MOVIES BOTHER YOU (JUST TO BE SAFE). DO NOT READ AFTER MULTIPLE WARNINGS AND THEN COMPLAIN TO ME THAT THIS WAS TOO DEPRESSING/UNNERVING/UPSETTING. THIS IS NOT A DEATH FIC OR A TRAGEDY FIC, BUT IT DOES CONTAIN SOME HEAVY MATERIAL! LAST WARNING!

Reid had been unnaturally quiet all week, paler than usual. On the plane rides back from cases, he slept- or pretended to sleep- and refused offers to play cards or chess or chat. Even with Morgan. And Morgan was his buddy, the closest thing to a best friend that the young man had ever had.

Hotch waited for him to perk up. One case in particular had seemed to drain him. A woman- sexually abused and given electroshock treatments by her father as a child- had been drugging women and keeping them like dolls until their bodies gave out.

She was technically a serial killer.

He'd heard Spencer had been really gentle with her, had witnessed himself how protective his agent was of this particular UnSub when she was lead away, even insisting on going through initial booking with her, waiting with her until Hotch finally ended it and told them to get their go-bags.

It was time to go home. Justice would happen now- their job was to catch the monsters, not hold their hands. Spencer had looked at him, some strange expression on his fine, young face.

"She wasn't a monster. In her mind what she was doing wasn't monstrous."

As if that explained everything. The victims that woman- disturbed or not- had taken and drugged and made into living dolls would never be the same. Period. For an FBI profiler in the BAU the case had been more or less a success. The UnSub hadn't been killed, the victims they could have saved, had been, even her father, her catalyst into madness, hadn't been killed, and yet...

That was months ago and Spencer was pulling away from them more and more each day.

They'd just finished a case, one involving the kidnapping and torture of young men. Horrific, of course, but when was a BAU case tame? Never.

Hotch sometimes wished he could speak to Reid the way Gideon had, be Reid's mentor. Morgan was protective like a big brother, but like a big brother- and it was obvious to Hotch from watching them interact- Reid was careful about how much he told Morgan, how far he let him in.

Hotch thought back over the weeks, watching Reid sleep across from him. His arms, even in sleep- were folded around his mid-section, as if he were trying to hug himself or keep his insides, well... inside.

He studied him physically- his hair looked stringy and greasy and the dark circles under his eyes, which had always been something of a joke around the office, weren't simply dark anymore. His eyes looked bruised. Literally bruised. And yet, every time they had downtime, that Hotch could remember, for months, Reid had opted to sleep. To escape.

He'd have to talk to Reid about this. He had to... he told himself it was because he was Reid's superior, that it was affecting his work performance. That wasn't really true. Reid was as professional as ever, as good at his job as ever. But he no longer goofed around or rambled about physics or esoteric topics until people lost interest. He was shutting down. Truthfully, Hotch was getting scared. He knew, even without an eidetic memory, the statistics of suicide amongst police officers, and those stats were even higher for violent crime profilers. For his people.

And Reid just wasn't acting like Reid anymore.

Period.

"This is ridiculous, I was the one that caught McCarthy, and you know it!" McCarthy. Their last UnSub.

"Reid, you didn't catch him yourself," Hotch said calmly. "We're a team. You know that."

Reid snorted. "That's such..." Reid trailed, obviously wanting to swear. "So I don't want to do stupid Las Vegas parlour tricks anymore. So what?"

"You barely talk anymore," Hotch replied bluntly. "You look dishevelled."

"I'm just tired! I have a history of iron deficiency anemias and-" Reid stopped himself. "This isn't about my job performance, and you know it! It's because I'm not the geeky little screw-up that rambles on and misses all the social cues and makes an annoying- albeit adorable, according to Garcia- joke of himself. Well, I'm learning, Hotchner."

Hotchner, not Hotch. Reid was angry. His arms were folded in front of him, over his sweater vest. You didn't need to be a profiler to read the body language there.

"Reid...you haven't acted this way since..."

"Since what? Tobias? You want to check me for drugs, Hotchner? Fine, I'll piss in a cup. But I'm not going to some incompetent bureau shrink with an IQ that most chimpanzees..." He stopped himself again, breathing hard.

"You're bright, I know that. I also know you'll just screw with her head if I make it an order." Come on Hotch, stay neutral, and stay diplomatic. Worry about his mental health when he leaves the office. Right now, just stay in control of the conversation; guide it...

"So it's not an order?" A bit of hope had crept into Reid's voice.

"No," Hotch sighed. "But... look at yourself in the mirror, Reid. Will you do that?" His voice was gentle, gentler than Reid could ever remember. Like he was speaking to Jack or something; speaking to a four year old. Reid's blood curdled at the niceness of it.

"If it's not an order, may I leave?"

Hotch nodded crisply. He'd never heard Spencer Reid speak like this before, never. Reid wasn't just snappy- he was haughty, dismissive, skirting on the edge of insubordination.

Reid stalked to the door, threw it open, and shut it none too quietly.

Hotch thought for a moment. Picked up a photo of Jack, grinning and delighted and holding a toy tank. He stared at the innocence there.

Even a few months ago, despite his age, Reid had looked that innocent. Almost.

Now, there was nothing left but a sarcastic, bitter shell. Slowly, quietly, he left his office and crept through the bullpen.

"Garcia."

"Sir!"

She'd been playing with some toys on her desk, waiting for a search to come back with results. "Sir?"

"Garcia, I need your help with something."

She nodded effusively.

"It's not exactly...I'm not sure it's even legal."

Her eyes widened. "Will it help us catch a baddie?"

"Not exactly. I need you to get me all you can on Reid's history. Infancy, childhood, everything. If it's sealed, unseal it. Can you do that?"

She thought for a moment, the smile and sparkle in her eyes draining away. "Reid." She repeated, almost sullenly. "Our Reid?"

"Yes."

"Sir, if it's sealed..."

"I can't explain it right now to you."

"It's because he's... he's really losing it, isn't he?" She said, sounding forlorn. Hotch stared. Blinked. Aside from the odd field cases that required a tech analyst on site and the occasional team get-together, she didn't see much of Reid. But even she'd picked up on it.

"Morgan's really worried about him," Garcia offered as way of explanation.

Hotch nodded solemnly. "So am I. Look... I don't want to do this. But... I..." for once, he was at a loss for words. "If there is anything in his past that might help, I need to know it. Will you do it? You're taking a risk."

"To help our Junior G-man?" Her fingers were already hammering on the keys.

"Nothing over Bureau computers. Use your own, if you can... you have a printer in here?"

Garcia nodded, quickly switched over to her own computer.

"One copy only and directly to my office, please." He turned, about to leave. Stopped. Thanked her. She was risking her job.

"Reid, open the door!"

He'd phoned twice.

The first time Reid had answered, obviously drunk, and sworn him out for a few seconds before smashing the phone back into its cradle.

Garcia had gotten him some info- probably not all of it of course, only what had ever been documented- but she'd gotten it. A few weeks ago. And Hotch had said something, enough that Reid, already paranoid and wary, had known Hotch knew. Nobody else had noticed.

They'd been discussing a case, a case involving the sexual assault of victims, definitions of different forms of rapists making their way around the table. And Hotch, not realizing what he was going to do, had mentioned something about victimology.

One of the victims had looked like Reid, had been a child of about 11 with large, innocent eyes; glasses; longish hair. He'd been raped multiple times with a curling iron before being shot. The victim's name had been Sean and he'd been in the gifted class at school, and Morgan, probably thinking of Reid, had looked at the smiling school portrait of the child and snarled angrily.

"The guy was targeting girls, and now this little boy... kid was probably trying to help him find his dog or something, maybe chart out the fastest way to get around town using that big brain of his, and even so... not like the kid would've gone willingly, not like the others..."

"Even geniuses can be raped and killed, Morgan." Hotch said, sipping from his coffee cup. That was all it took.

When he glanced up, Reid's eyes were on him, burning. Hotch knew that Morgan and Garcia talked, and they spoke often. Had Garcia read all the files? Maybe. He hadn't asked. Had she told Morgan anything? Hotch didn't think she would, but he wasn't sure. But Reid had caught on somehow. Hotch glanced away, momentarily feeling ashamed.

What he'd read about Reid had made his stomach do somersaults.

That had been two weeks ago and all Reid had done was pull away even more, become angrier. Until tonight, earlier, JJ and Garcia had been talking, planning their weekend at a bar, a weekend of drinking and rating men. Regular Girl stuff.

"We're all just meat to you, is that it? Grades of fucking meat?" Reid's voice was a snarl, low and dangerous. He was already ready to go, satchel hanging off his thin shoulders. He sounded angry with both of them, but his eyes were focused on Garcia. Blazing.

Hotch had been about ready to leave, too. Had seen it all unfold.

"Reid! My office! Now!"

"Fuck off!" Reid spat in defiance, and stalked out of the bullpen. JJ and Garcia stared after him, gawking. Garcia, in particular, looked a little pale, her eyes round and unblinking as an owl's. Hotch looked at her, not sure what to say. Finally he shook his head in dismay.

"That's not him, Garcia. He didn't mean that."

"I know that, sir." Garcia said quietly, sounding more stable than he'd assumed she'd sound. He nodded.

The rest of the team had already gone home for the weekend.

Hotch had tried to sleep, but he kept replaying Reid's recent behaviour, what he'd read, and now this- the anger at Garcia and JJ- over and over in his head. The outright insubordination. He'd told his own unit chief to fuck off. No hesitation even.

By 10 pm, his stomach was knotted with worry, and he'd phoned Reid.

And Reid was drunk. Very, very drunk. Except, even drunk, he realized after a few slurred sentences that it was Hotch phoning and slammed the phone down.

Hotch waited a half hour. Phoned again.

"You can talk to me now or I can phone an ambulance." Hotch threatened. He didn't know why, exactly. Reid hadn't threatened suicide, wasn't at any obvious immediate risk... but every cell in his body was screaming at him. Something was very wrong. After years of being a profiler, he'd learned to listen to his gut.

The phone was slammed down again. Hotch exhaled sharply, suddenly feeling a bit airless. He'd thought the threat of an ambulance would keep Reid on the line for at least a few minutes. A few. But... unless...?

Hotch had his jacket and shoes on almost immediately, his keys. He tried to tell himself he was being irrational. Except, he wasn't. Reid was the one being irrational, very irrational, very out of character. And it was disturbing to watch.

And then finally, after an eternity, he was at Reid's house, hammering on the door. Finally he remembered that Reid had once given him a house key... just in case of an emergency, Reid had said.

After Gideon had left he'd asked Hotch if the older man would mind being his next of kin. His mother was too messed up to be his next of kin, anyway, and, though he obviously loved Morgan, it had been Hotch he'd asked. This made sense. Hotch was his boss, his superior, a father figure of sorts in his own right. But he'd also given Hotch his house keys, too, not long after. Hotch fished them out of his jacket, found the right key and inserted it into the dead bolt. The door opened slightly, but the chain was on.

But Hotch could see enough. Reid was sitting, almost naked except for his boxers, on his sofa. He caught a glimpse of a pale- almost fish belly white- leg. The leg was speckled with blood and blood was pooling beneath the tips of one of his arms, from what Hotch could see.

"Reid! Open the door! NOW!"

"Go away!" Reid yelled and shifted on the couch. However deeply he'd cut himself- Hotch couldn't be sure- there was a lot of blood. The blood rolling off his arm was making a constant dripping noise, like a bathroom sink that hasn't been turned all the way off. A splattering noise. Reid wasn't spurting, obviously, but a cut that deep...

"Reid, I'm phoning the police unless you open the door now. I'm giving you 10 seconds." Drunk and obviously distressed, it might take Reid 10 seconds just to process that information. Hotch began to count, like he did sometimes with Jack when Jack was having a temper tantrum. He saw movement and knew Reid had shifted, heard his socked feet pad slowly towards the door.

Reid's eyes peered out into the night, haunted and lost.

"What do you want?" He was trying so hard not to slur his words, but his voice and eyes were roiled with resentment and shame and some other emotions Aaron Hotchner couldn't place.

"Open the door." Hotch said, as calmly as he could.

"My house." Reid snapped back. "Now go away."

"You've injured yourself. You're a risk to yourself. You can let me in, or I can call the police."

Reid seemed to process this information. Finally came up with the lousiest excuse Hotch had ever heard from anyone, let alone the young mastermind.

"I'm nearly naked."

"Reid, open the door."

"You can't see me in my underwear!" That gut-churning drip-drip-drip faucet sound was still going on.

Hotch thought about all he'd learned about Spencer Reid in the last few weeks, and what he'd suspected for months before that. Realized that maybe Reid wasn't just trying to stall.

"Okay, go get some pants and a shirt on. But be quick. You have two minutes, or-"

"Yeah, yeah, phone an ambulance-" Reid slurred.

"No. I'll kick this door down." Who knew how much blood Reid had already lost?

Reid nodded dully, as if he didn't care, as if he were bored. "Two minutes!" Hotch called after him.

Reid was fast, though. He came back, and Hotch heard the chain slide off. He stepped into the room. Had to stop himself. Was glad he wasn't one that got squeamish easily.

Reid's apartment almost looked like a crime scene; scrap that- it did look like a crime scene. God.

The largest puddle- more of a pool, actually- of blood was under the arm of the sofa Reid had been sitting in.

He hadn't used a razor, but kitchen scissors, the kind designed to cut through bone. Hotch felt sick. There was blood spatter on the walls; on the throw on the sofa...

Reid's arm was gaping open, layers of... Hotch shut his eyes for a moment, not wanting to think about what was exposed. That horrible dripping was leaking scarlet onto his jeans. Real jeans, nothing like what he ever wore to work.

Hotch moved quickly then. He went directly to Reid's bathroom, grabbed a towel and came back quickly, using the bloodied scissors to cut the towel into strips.

He led Reid back over to the sofa.

"That was one of my best towels," Reid said, sounding indignant.

"Yeah, well... this is probably one of your best arms." Hotch snapped back, his voice a low growl, the growl masking his throbbing fear. His heart was racing.

Was this a suicide attempt, or self injury, or...? He didn't know. It was so deep. It needed stitches, obviously. Obviously. He wrapped the towel around it tightly, directing Reid to apply pressure. Then he picked up the scissors, stuffed them into his trench pocket.

"Your jacket, Reid. Where is it?"

"We going somewhere?"

"Your arm needs stitches." Hotch said simply. Reid went pale then. He'd been pale before, but then, he went absolutely... translucent.

"No hospitals." He breathed, and before Hotch could react, he'd vomited down the front of his shirt. He looked ready to faint.

Hotch studied him, more confused than ever. He knew Reid had been in foster care, after his dad left and for short periods when his mother couldn't look after herself. He'd been in 8 different foster homes between the ages of 10 and 15. He'd been removed because of sexual assault- rape - from two of them. The reports had all been very clinically written, very detached, but Hotch knew enough to realize Reid had been through hell.

"Why are you scared of the hospital, Spencer?" Hotch said. He usually called Reid... Reid. But right now, "Spencer" seemed appropriate. He'd known the young man for years, seen him loaded into ambulances before. He'd never seen this reaction.

"Doan' wanna' go!" Spencer whined, and then began to cry. He was gasping and his tears developed into full bodied sobs, wracking his whole body, until he was coughing, coughing and spitting up, struggling for air. Hotch never let go of the injured arm, could feel that the blood, at least, was no longer coming so fast. It was slowing down, even if it hadn't stopped.

"Reid, you need stitches. Otherwise you'll have a scar." He tried to sound calm, but Reid's distress was distressing him. Even after Hankel, Reid hadn't acted like this, not this horrified, this fearful.

"I doan care about a stupid scar!"

"Reid, I'll be with you the whole time."

"I doan wanna go! It'll stop bleeding on its own, anyway!"

His breathing was starting to hitch again. Hotch nodded, knowing he should call an ambulance, do something; also knowing that if he followed protocol Reid might never trust him again. Maybe do something worse next time. And there'd be an official report, a note in his jacket. Things could get messy from this, really fast.

"Okay. No hospital."

Reid looked up at him, his tear stained face slowly regaining some colour. He nodded, and slurred his thanks.

Hotch stared around the apartment. Knew it was important that Reid not see all this when he sobered up.

"Reid, your washing stuff? Do you keep it in the bathroom?"

Reid nodded.

"Here's the deal. No hospital but only if you sit there. You hold onto that towel tight. Don't look at the injury, just keep pressure on it. Don't remove the towel, not to look. Not at all. Keep the wound elevated about your heart. And when I bring you some water, you drink it. I ask you to do something-" Hotch thought about all this, how asking Reid to do whatever he wanted might be misinterpreted.

He stopped.

"You hold onto that wound tightly and stay put. I am going to clean up. I am going to stay with you tonight."

"No hospital?" Reid croaked, fear creeping back into his voice.

"No hospital," Hotch promised.

He cleaned as quickly as he could, filling a bucket with hot water and Pine-Sol, sponging as much blood from the floor as possible, washing away the blood on the walls. He stripped the covers off the cushions on the sofa and left Reid sitting in the tub with a bucket, just in case he vomited again. Finally he mopped the floor, checking in on the young man every two or three minutes. He worked quickly.

Finally, with Reid's drunken directions, he found the first aid kit. There was gauze in the kit, and cotton and tensor bandages and butterfly bandages. Polysporin and rubbing alcohol and tweezers; but also lighters, matches, sheathed razor blades. Hotch frowned, greatly disturbed, and finally went over to Reid.

He peeled back the towel slowly, gently, wetting it with the water first so any initial blood clot wouldn't break. The wound had stopped bleeding significantly but was still gaping. Of course.

Hotch sighed and washed it with water, glancing up at the younger man's face every few seconds, trying to cause the least amount of distress possible. But Reid looked blank. He washed it with soap and water and then sponged rubbing alcohol into it before smearing the entire mess with polysporin, carefully washing his hands each time he touched the wound.

Finally he tried to close the wound, applying butterfly strips carefully. Maybe the scar wouldn't be as big with the butterfly bandages holding it closed... he then wrapped the wound and much of the arm in white gauze before taping the edges closed.

Reid's shirt and jeans were bloody, so he helped him out of them, eyes scanning over the lean, skinny body. He caught a few white scars, raised and old, so raised they almost looked like hives or white welts. How long had Reid been harming himself?

He didn't really want to think about it. Finally he had the younger man dressed in pyjama pants and a white t-shirt. He led him into the bedroom, pulled back the sheets, and patted the bed, indicating that he wanted Reid to lie down.

Reid looked up at him, and for a moment there was nothing but terror in his eyes. Hotch sighed, tiredly. Sadly.

"Spencer, your body needs rest. I don't want anything from you."

Hotch swallowed heavily, remembering what he had read about Reid's youth, how Reid might be interpreting all of this, especially drunk...

Reid still looked wary. "Don't want to lie down."

Hotch sighed and propped some pillows up against the headboard.

"Then sit up a bit. You don't have to lie down completely-"

"I never use this bed," Reid informed him quietly, as if it were a secret. "Never."

Aaron Hotchner studied the young man in front of him, taking in the young tone, the fear, all of it. If he could do what he wanted he would just reach out and hug Reid until Reid fell asleep. But this wasn't about him, or his needs- it was about Reid.

"Why do you have the bed, then?" Hotch said gently, half trying to keep Reid awake- he wanted him a bit more alert and less pale before letting him actually sleep- but more than that, he was curious.

"People expect people to have beds. So I have one for show."

"Where do you sleep?"

Reid's eyes were closing. He seemed drained- literally and figuratively.

"Couch. I like to sleep on the couch. TV on." If he wasn't drunk, Hotch doubted he'd be sharing this much information. He felt slightly guilty about asking Reid anything in this state, the same way he would feel if he were to read Reid's diary... some thoughts were secret. Some secrets also killed.

"The couch... the cushion covers are being washed right now. When they're done, you can go sleep on the couch."

Reid mumbled something like "okay".

"Reid, were you trying to kill yourself tonight?"

Reid's eyes flashed open. He looked at Hotch, as if just noticing him for the first time. Apparently, the alcohol was wearing off. He gazed down at his arm, saw it wrapped tightly in white bandages. Went pale again.

His throat was working, he was gagging. Hotch ran, overturned a paper bin in the corner of Reid's room and held it under his chin just in time. This time nothing but acidic bile came up.

Reid was crying again, but softer. "Why did you have to see... why did you have to see..."

"Reid, I'm going to get you some water. Hold on."

He knew blood loss could lead to thirst- incredible thirst- as could vomiting. But more than that, if Reid was sobering up, even a little, he wanted him to retain a little dignity. Finally he decided on milk, knowing that it was a base, that it might settle his stomach and make the vomit sting his throat and nose less if Reid did throw up again.

He filled a large glass, went into Reid's bathroom and checked through his medications. He finally shook two Gravol and two Advil into his hand and took the pills and milk back to the young man.

"Reid, here. Gravol for the nausea; Advil for the pain."

"I'm not in any pain."

"You might get a... hangover." Hotch said. He didn't want to argue. He wanted to feel useful. Like he was actually helping, instead of just watching a colleague- and a friend, a good friend- deteriorate.

Reid sat up, eyes downcast, swallowed the gravol, and swallowed the painkillers. Finished off the milk and set the glass on his night stand.

Finally, in a very low voice, Spencer Reid apologized.

Hotch glanced over at him, surprised. "Why are you sorry, Reid?"

"For swearing at you. And... and for worrying you. Really, I'm okay."

"You're injuring yourself intentionally. That's not okay, Reid. You know that."

"I haven't done this in a very long time." His eyes were still downcast, as if he were too ashamed to meet his boss's eyes.

"You weren't trying to... permanently..." Hotch trailed, but he had to know.

Reid shook his head, and his face began to darken, redden. He looked so embarrassed, so small despite his height, so vulnerable.

"It wasn't a suicide attempt."

"You'd tell me if you were planning to hurt yourself like that, wouldn't you?" He phrased it as a question. He wanted Spencer to know he had control. But just the idea of the young man hurting himself was bad enough. Killing himself... it would make sense.

Reid had the background for it. He had- at the very least- PTSD from Hankel, and more than that, he'd probably had PTSD for quite some time. The files he'd read indicated that while he'd been assaulted sexually in foster care, there were indications of long term physical abuse long before that.

And, of course, everyone knew he'd been neglected- abandoned by his father, and neglected by a mother too ill to care even for herself. Now, nearing 30, he'd spent the better part of his adult years tracking down serial killers and rapists, dealing with victims, viewing photos that could and would traumatize the average person in their own right.

"I...I sometimes feel so tired. Really tired." Spencer's voice, when he finally spoke, was a mere whisper.

Hotch waited patiently, trying to school his features into the appropriate mixture of concern and calm. Right now was not the time to grill the young man, or pull rank.

"You think about dying, don't you?"

A dull nod. "I have for a long time. Since I was little." The words made Hotch's gut twist. Since I was little. What other demons- and Hotch was certain there were more- were lurking in the dark recesses of Spencer Reid's subconscious?

"But suicide... I don't think I am brave enough to actually do it. There are too many variables, and if there is no after-life and..." Reid stopped, glanced over at Hotch. His eyes were beginning to get heavy, a mixture of the Gravol and the stress of tonight, no doubt.

"I tried once, you know. In high school. I was 12." Hotch waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt. He had to hear this.

"I can't remember if I told you," it was odd for Reid to say that. He had an eidetic memory. Then again, an eidetic memory meant he tended to remember things visually. Even Reid had forgotten Garcia's name the first time he'd been told it.

"These kids... they stripped me naked. Tied me to a goal post... after they beat me up. I was out there all night. It was about a year after my first... the first assault." He glanced sideways at Hotch, trying to gauge his reaction to every new piece of information.

"Garcia got you my files, didn't she." It wasn't a question. Hotch nodded. "Because you were worried about me." Another nod from Hotch.

"I was 12," Reid continued. His pupils were very dilated now, and Hotch knew that at least some of him was living back in the past, remembering. "I believed in reincarnation when I was 12. I thought if I was a good enough person, then even suicide... that it might be easier the next time around. And I didn't want to be smart. Not a genius, anyway. I just wanted to be happy."

Hotch nodded, finally rested a hand on Spencer's uninjured arm. Spencer looked at the hand for a moment, as if startled, but he didn't pull away. Hotch left it there, hoped it would- that simple gesture- communicate how much he cared for the young man. How much he valued him.

"My mother... there were guns in the house. In case of an attack. They were my father's guns, but he left them when he went and she was paranoid and just held onto them, and of course she never kept them locked up or anything like that..."

Hotch nodded again.

Reid sat up a bit against the pillows. "In the morning, someone untied me from the post. Teacher, somebody, I didn't want to know. I was barely conscious. Got me a blanket, phoned my mom. Got me some clothes. I didn't go back to school that day, or the rest of the week, actually. That night-" Spencer breathed deeply, as if preparing himself.

"I thought about killing her. Knew I'd kill her in some way anyway if I ended my own life, but killing someone else is murder. Killing yourself... it's just suicide. I got a gun... I hate guns. Not sure what it was. A pistol of some sort. Loaded it. Went into my room. Turned on my cassette recorder. Mahler. Took the safety off, cocked it, put it against my temple. Kept listening to the music. Couldn't do it."

He was apparently finished with his story. That bit of it, at least. "A few months later, my mom got sick again. Went back to another foster family. They had a piano. I thought- I want to play music. Classical. Compose. Was never any good at it. Too clumsy. My fingers were long enough- slender enough. One of my foster fathers... he said I had hands like a woman's." Reid squirmed for a moment, his face screwed up. Apparently that one comment had bothered him more than almost any other part of the story... so far at least.

"I gave up the piano. Couldn't do it. Everyone thought I was a faggot, anyway, and I knew... the second time was when I was 14 and it lasted half a year. All I had to do was tell someone. But I didn't. So maybe I am a faggot." He stopped talking then.

"Reid, even if you were- are- a homosexual..."

Reid jerked his arm back, as if he'd been burned. Stared at Hotch, incredulous. "I'm not! I'm not, okay? I'm not!"

"Reid, I meant that it wouldn't matter. Rape isn't about sex."

That got his attention. He was up off the bed, though, pacing in bare feet now, arms wrapped around his stomach in a self-hug again.

"Everyone thinks that, right? That I'm gay? Cause of how I dress and I don't date girls... women... and..."

"Reid, nobody thinks-"

"They do! I know they do! I just... I hate sex. I hate sex. I've always hated sex. And I always will."

He stalked out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. Hotch found him bent over the kitchen sink, breathing hard, as if he'd just run a marathon.

"Have you ever had sex?" Hotch asked. It wasn't his place to ask, it wasn't professional at all. But he needed to ask it. Hear Reid say it. Reid needed to say it, admit it.

Reid nodded dully. He was still staring at the kitchen sink, as if it contained all the secrets of the universe. Hotch realized after a moment that the sink had a garbage disposal unit. That the switch might be on right now. He felt a chill.

"Reid, let's just go to the couch and talk. Please."

All he'd have to do would be to impulsively throw his arm in there and...

"Reid-" He put his hand on Reid's shoulder, tried to lead him away. Reid whirled, expression pained.

"Talking hurts. Can't you see that?"

"And not talking... about this... for this long? It's helped?"

"I have had sex." Reid said numbly.

"As an adult? Consensual..."

"Hotch, shut up..." Reid's voice sounded strangled.

"Child abuse... rape...you know that's not sex..."

"SHUT UP!" He did stalk away from the sink though, away from the device in the drain that could tear him to pieces in seconds. Hotch sighed and followed, sat down next to him on the naked sofa cushions.

His head was buried in his knees, his knees were up to his chin, and his arms were wrapped around his legs. He was sitting up, but he was in the closest thing to a foetal position he could get. Hotch knew better than to try and touch him.

"Please, just go home." He sounded so low, so incredibly tired. Of everything. Of everyone.

"Reid, you're in a crisis right now. You know that. I can't just go home."

"If you hadn't come over here tonight, you wouldn't know any of this. So just leave."

"But I did come. And I do know. So that's not an option."

"Hotch, please."

"Why? So you can finish what you started at 12?" His voice sounded cold, even to his own ears. But Reid's life was ultimately the most important thing. Reid glanced up, looking betrayed. He opened his mouth but no words came out. Finally shook his head and reburied his face.

"I'm staying," Hotch said, a bit more gently.

Hotch slept in the chair, uncomfortable and shifting. Reid lay stretched out on the couch. At some point in the night, Hotch heard footsteps, heard Reid walk into the bathroom. He sat up, alarmed. Heard the younger man urinate, heard the light switch flip back off. Reid came back to the couch and apparently went back to sleep.

"You have to talk to someone about this."

"No, I don't. You got that information by breaking the law. I don't have to do anything."

"Reid, you're barely functioning."

It was morning. Reid had gotten up early, was drinking black coffee with his usual mound of white sugar. The TV was on, showing footage of the latest Iraqi atrocities. The sound had been muted, but Reid was apparently more focused on the television than Hotch, despite the conversation.

"They won't be able to help, Hotch. All they'll tell you is that I seem depressed and withdrawn. Which you already know."

"A private psychiatrist then. A therapist. Somebody to help you."

"I'll be written up. I'll be more of a pariah than I already am. At any rate, anybody I see is not going to be as smart as I am. You know that. So what's the point?" He sounded absolutely miserable.

"Reid... I want to... but I can't help you."

"I know, you're my superior-"

"No. I mean... I don't know what to do. I want to help you."

Reid considered this. Nodded finally, as if Hotch had said something for the first time in weeks that wasn't offensive or completely idiotic.

"You touched my arm last night. When I was still half drunk. When we were talking."

Hotch remembered. Reid had been extremely upset, had looked so lost, like a little boy. Like Jack, but like a parallel universe Jack. An abused, tortured Jack. And that's how Hotch had thought of him- as a friend, and extremely intelligent, and, of course Reid was an adult- but then, at that moment, he'd seemed more like a child. More innocent than usual in a strange way, and Spencer Reid seemed pretty damn innocent for a man nearing thirty who caught serial killers for a living and had been raised by a schizophrenic and...

Hotch remembered the photos that accompanied the files Garcia had given him. Hospital photos of welts and bruises, bruises on his thighs, bruises in places he didn't want to think about. There'd been a photo of Reid's face, Reid staring blankly, woodenly, at the hospital photographer, his face bruised, eyes blackened, his throat bruised with ligature marks. He'd looked so young and frail in those photographs, and Hotch, who considered himself fairly sturdy, fairly calm in the face of a crisis, had felt physically ill.

What had Reid been like during the actual abuse? Had he cried? Screamed? Begged for his mother? He still seemed like a child in so many ways, he looked like one, his expressions. His mannerisms. How innocent, then, had he appeared to the monsters that had actually battered and assaulted him so severely? The kids who had beaten him and humiliated and stripped him naked?

"Why?" Reid asked, yanking Hotch out of his thoughts.

Hotch blinked. "Why what?"

"Why did you put your hand on my arm? I wasn't dying."

"You were hurting."

"You were trying to comfort me?" Reid asked. He sounded incredulous. For one thing, Aaron Hotchner wasn't the touch-feely emotional comforting type. Never had been. But more than that, from Reid's expression, his tone, Hotch knew that Reid didn't have trouble with the concept of comfort in general. He understood why other people needed comfort. For some reason, though, he apparently considered himself unworthy of it.

"You were hurting. Generally when friends see a friend hurting, they try to comfort them." Hotch tried not to sound patronizing, was afraid he did.

"You're my friend?" Reid asked warily. Hotch was taken aback. For a genius, the "kid"- as Morgan called him- could be pretty stupid.

"Of course I am. You don't know that by now?"

Reid shrugged and drained the last of his coffee, stood up and went to get more.

"Reid, if can ever help you, I want to. I want you... I need you to know that."

Reid came back into the living room. Somewhere an alarm clock was beeping. Hotch glanced at his watch. It was 6:30 in the morning.

"I...I... I kind of ... I sort of didn't really mind it that much when you... when you touched my arm." His voice was hesitant, as if he might be mocked for being human. Hotch nodded. Reid never saw the sadness in his eyes, because Reid was staring, apparently embarrassed, into his coffee cup.

"Okay." Hotch said eventually.

"I...I... when I was little..." Reid laughed, sounding even more embarrassed, "I used to sometimes wish that my Dad... maybe..." He was stammering a lot. Hotch waited him out. "I sort of wished when I was little that maybe... only if I was upset or something... maybe to try it out... maybe I thought I'd like to be... not all the time or 'cause I'm weak..." His face was turning red. Hotch sighed, and stood up.

"Spencer, what is it?"

"My mom, you know... she hugged me. But my dad... and after I was about 9 or 10 she didn't even... I sort of forgot and I sort of daydreamed about it because I saw other parents do it and it's stupid..."

"I'm sure it's not stupid."

"Not sex or anything, but," He was dark scarlet. "Sometimes I wish I could be hugged." His words, so hesitant before, were now pouring out. "I know Morgan and JJ and Gideon and even you did after Hankel and stuff, but I wish sometimes just when I get down someone could maybe just hug me, not because I am gay or anything or weak but just, you know, I think maybe it would make me feel better but at the same time I don't like being touched at all, really, so maybe it's not a good idea at all and..."

"Reid." He was so close to Reid now, he could smell his coffee, smell Reid's aftershave. Reid glanced up, face still red, eyes red-rimmed from the sobbing he'd done just hours earlier.

"Can I hug you? For me, I mean." Hotch's voice was soft.

"I...I..." Reid was stammering. He reminded Hotch, just then, of a dog that's been kicked too many times, that wants to approach a new owner for a hug or a pat, but is too scared. Trapped between fear and desire, desire not for sex, just love.

"I was really worried about you," Hotch said. He was playing the guilt card, and he knew it was wrong, but Reid looked so awkward, so still, so alone. It was hard to watch. Reid nodded, just barely, but it was a nod.

Hotch stepped forward and encircled the younger man. He could feel Reid go rigid for a moment, his breath momentarily cut off by the shock of contact. Hotch hugged him tighter, like he did with Jack when his son was sick with the flu or a fever or after a nightmare. Reid suddenly felt limp and dissolved into the hug, but it took Hotch a moment to realize he was crying. Silently, but he was crying.

He hugged Spencer Reid for a long time, what felt like a long time. In reality, it was probably five minutes. When he was finished Spencer looked disoriented, almost dizzy.

"I- I better go get dressed. Work." Reid's voice was hoarse.

"You're not going to work today. Not after that stunt you pulled last night."

"Okay. But you might need to go home, get fresh clothes-" Some of Hotch's clothes had the odd blood smear on them.

"I'm not going to work today, either. They can get along without us for one day."

Reid looked worried. "Hotch..."

"No buts. I'm staying here."

"What... why? I mean, what..."

"We can watch TV, drink coffee. Maybe play chess, if you want. You can sleep off that hangover I know you have right now."

"Wait a second-" Reid looked up, startled. Then he smiled slightly. "It's Saturday. There's no work today, anyway."

"I'm still staying," Hotch informed, and went into the kitchen, poured himself some more coffee.

"You and I, we need to talk. About a lot of stuff, I think." He tried to keep his voice light as he poured milk into his coffee, stirred it.

"Hotch, I'll be okay, thank you for all you did but-"

"Spencer, anyone who is that afraid to ask for a hug after slicing themselves to shreds the night before is not staying alone. I could phone Morgan... but he'd want to know why and..."

"No! Don't do that."

"It's me, or Morgan."

Reid nodded. "You."

"We could still get that arm stitched. Go in anonymously, urgent care somewhere. Slip out after they stitch it. No record. It's been less than thirteen hours."

"No."

Reid turned the clock off and the couch was made back up, the cushions clean, no sign of the carnage of the previous night, thank god. It helped a lot that Reid's sofa cushions were dark green, almost black.

Hotch had always liked Spencer. He found him funny, interesting- intelligent, obviously- but Reid opened up a little more and more as the day progressed. Half the time he drowsed, taking two or three Advils every few hours for his "hangover" and drinking water sloppily, as if it were going out of style. Hotch spoke gently to him, sitting next to him, perched in Reid's chair.

"You didn't really get arrested at seven!" Reid exclaimed at one o clock, when Hotch was telling him about his first shop-lifting adventure.

"I did. I stole a superman comic book. Got caught. My father, he was military, or had been...and then he was an attorney. Thought the best way to prevent me from ever getting sticky fingers again was to have the store manager phone the cops. They even put the cuffs on me."

"That's horrible." Reid said, but he was laughing, slightly amused. "Did you at least get to keep the comic?"

"No," Hotch responded solemnly, too solemnly, which made Reid laugh even harder.

"You ever steal anything?" Hotch prodded, mildly interested. He hadn't opened up about his life to well... not even Haley. Not like this.

"No," Reid said, then thought for a moment. "Uh... well... sort of. I stole a book of the complete works of T.S. Elliot when I was 10. I borrowed it technically, couldn't find it, and then found it. They weren't taking good care of it and nobody had taken it out in ages, so I just never returned it."

"That's not stealing," Hotch replied dryly. He had the insane, childish urge to hug Reid again.

"Reid?" Hotch asked after a long moment. Reid's eyes were closed and his face was pale. He'd thrown up a few times. Too much alcohol. Too much stress too.

"Yes?"

"I don't want what happened last night to ever repeat itself. Do you understand? I will report it next time." He had to get this out of the way. Reid had to understand how serious this behaviour was.

"I... I sometimes need the pain..." Reid had taken more Gravol and his voice was slurry again.

"You need comfort. You said it yourself. Injuring yourself... well, I don't need to tell you the statistics." Reid nodded.

"Even at work. You know where my office is. You might have an IQ that's off the charts but as far as your EQ..."

Reid actually snorted laughter. "I get it, Hotch."

"I mean it. Anytime. And I know it will be hard for you to ask. But I wouldn't offer in the first place if I didn't already care about you."

Reid nodded. Finally, he drifted off to sleep. Hotch could tell by the steady rise and fall of his chest. Quietly he got up, crept over to the television and flicked it off.

Even though he was sleeping, for the first time in months, Spencer looked calm. Peaceful. He was even smiling... just a little bit, but it was still a smile.

I actually made this a lot less graphic than I wanted it to be when I uploaded it to a word processor from live journal and edited it. It's very h/c and angsty, and while I do write angst, I hope I didn't go overboard (although I may have, given the subject matter). Like I said, dark story, but one that's important. Please review! Oh, and this is a one-shot (a long one-shot) so it's over, no more chapters. Thanks for reading!