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How It Feels

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"What's his name?"


The room was eerily silent. Silent except for heavy breathing.


"What?" Hotch's voice was level, practically emotionless, but hiding a faint tremor. A tremor of fear, indecision, things that don't often plague the stoic profiler. He shifted the grip on his gun, keeping it pointed straight at the man before him.


"What is the good agent's name?"


Philip Brooke's voice was insidious. Almost leering. Filled with an odd kind of lust, a hunger for power.


Power he certainly held in that moment.


A safety flicked off.


"His name's Dr. Spencer Reid." Morgan said quickly, eyes stuck on the gun pointed straight at Spencer's head. His own gun was trembling minutely.


A cold shiver of fear ran up Reid's spine. Every part of his mind was fixated solely on the barrel digging into his temple, the meaty arm laying across his throat and drawing him into Brooke's chest. Panic made his shoulders shake as his eyes met Hotch's.


"Spencer, what a nice name." The gun moved, gently, almost stroking his hair. Brooke's voice had lowered into a softer, rougher timber. It made his skin crawl. "And how old is Spencer?"


He saw as Hotch's eyes harden, the grip on his gun only tightening. "What do you want, Philip? You have our agent, what now?"


What was before a light pressure against his neck tightened. Panic lighted up his nerves as he struggled to breathe as the man slowly, steadily choked him. The ever-present thud of his heart seemed to grow immeasurably louder. He heard Morgan growl.


"What I want is to know how old your agent is, Hotchner." He forced himself to not struggle, forced his mind to not spiral into panic as the gun pushed in harder and the arm just tightened, tightened.


"He's twenty-two."


A warm, moist breath whispered against his neck, making him jump slightly even as the pressure on his throat lessened. "Really?" The arm across his neck moved. The gun's cool barrel kept him in place as a hand gently traced his face. Rough fingers traversed a cheek, a nose, before trailing softly across his lips. "He looks so much younger. He could be one of my boys."


Each agent in that room felt a cold drizzle of fear down their spine at those words. Brooke's 'boys' had been four children, all younger than fifteen, who he'd tortured, raped, then murdered in this very house. They all knew every gruesome detail of what had happened to those children; it'd been their case.


Reid swallowed, deeply, as a wet tongue dragged itself down his neck. Nausea coiled in his stomach, bile rising to the back of his throat. His eyes closed as it traced a line across his collar bone, before coming back up and focusing on his adam's apple. It licked, gently, around the column of his neck. "You taste just like they did."


He couldn't stop the soft whimper that left his throat.


"Stop it, you bastard!" Morgan shouted, loud enough that Reid opened his eyes again. The safety on the agent's gun clicked off. The tongue left his skin. "Don't you fucking touch him!"


"I don't think you understand, Agent Morgan. I hold the power here." That damned hand moved to the top of his dress shirt, slowly undoing the top buttons as he spoke. "I can do anything, and I mean anything, I want to the young doctor here."


A hand slipped into his shirt, stroking gentle patterns into the skin of his chest. He squirmed, pushing deeper into Philip's back as he tried to get away from the hand.


"We have enough evidence to charge you with four counts of kidnapping, rape, and murder of a minor. You don't want to add anything else to - "


"You have no idea what I fucking want!" The words were yelled, angry, and Spencer just squeezed his eyes tightly closed. "Now put your weapons down!"


"Philip - "


The hand quickly withdrew from his chest as the gun slammed down into his temple. His head whipped to the side from the force of the blow. Knees buckling, he only managed to stay upright with the help of Philip's restraining arm.


He groaned at the pain as a warm rivulet of something he just knew to be blood traced itself down his cheek.


By the time his eyes opened again, both Hotch and Morgan's guns were placed gently on the floor, their hands raised slightly.


"You're right, Philip, I have no idea what you want. But the FBI doesn't take one of their agents being held hostage lightly. If you tell me your demands, I can talk with my superiors, see what we can do." Hotch's voice was pitched ever so slightly higher, and Reid felt his heart clench at that small show of fear.


They both knew he probably wasn't making it out of this without a bullet hole.


A hand carded through his hair, the touch almost gentle, a startling juxtaposition to the pain radiating through his head.


"I don't think you understand, Hotchner. This is what I want. Power. You can't possibly know how good it feels, to have such complete control over someone." Philip nuzzles his forehead deep into his hair, his anger seemingly forgotten. He whispered, breath hot and moist brushing against his ear. "Open your mouth."


Licking his lips, trying to find a way to get his voice pass the massive lump of fear in his throat. "What?"


"Open your mouth, or I shoot you in the gut."


Swallowing hard, breaths coming short gasps, eyes locked on Hotch's, he gently opened his mouth. He watched the horror enter his boss' gaze as Philip steadily, unshakingly, shoved the pistol between his teeth. Gagged at the bitter taste of gunpowder coating his tongue.


A hand slid softly, gently, over his cheek. Caressing the outline of the pistol.


"Do you see, agent? Do you see how utterly intoxicating this is?" Rough fingers dug into the gash on the side of his head, and he groaned around the gun. "This is what I need, and you took it from me!"


The gun was quickly taken from his mouth, the restraining arm ripped away from his throat. His knees buckled, sending him crashing to floor as his breaths came in panicked gasps.


Two gunshots resounded through the room.


There was a heavy silence, after. Again, the only sound was heavy breathing. His eyes opened, cautiously, and was greeted with the sight of Brookes, gazing unseeingly at the far wall. A single bullet hole marring his forehead.


Hotch's backup weapon was held stiffly in the older agent's hands.


Morgan was the first to move, running to his side. A hand gently touched his shoulder and he pulled away. "Don't... don't touch me."


A heavy pause. "Are you alright, kid?"


He shook his head, trying desperately to get his breathing under control. But he kept gasping, unable to find the oxygen to fill his lungs. The world was spinning, it seemed far too loud despite the lack of noise.


Clambering unsteadily to his feet, his fingers started to frantically try and button the top of his shirt. They were shaking too much.


"I... I-I need - " His throat closed up.


"It's okay, pretty boy, it's okay. Lemme help you." Morgan's voice was soothing, calm, and he let it wash over him as the older agent slowly put his shirt back on right. "Calm down, kid. You need to breathe."


He tried, desperately, but his eyes glanced over to where Hotch was kneeling by Philip, and his lungs just constricted more. "I can't."


"Listen to me, Spencer: you're safe. That bastard's dead, he can't hurt you anymore. I need you to focus on that and try to calm down, okay?" He nodded, closing his eyes and desperately pushing away the panic. Slowly, his heart rate lowered, and the vice around his ribs loosened, slightly.




Morgan smiled, the expression almost melancholy, before putting a hand on his shoulder.


"It's nothing, kid. It's nothing."