Okay, I wrote a thing. This is set in season five, somewhere between 5.02 "Nameless, Faceless" and 5.09 "100." It's a little brutal, I guess. I hope you like it.

[…]

"FBI! Hands in the air!"

"FBI! FBI, don't move!

"Down! Down on the ground!"

"BPD! Get down!"

The door splintered away beneath Morgan's boot and the BAU and BPD officers charged the inside of the small suburban home. After searching thoroughly for several tense minutes, confused calls of, "Clear!" rang out.

Hotch approached the final closed door - a closet in the master bedroom. His glock drawn, he ripped the slatted wooden door open to reveal nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

Sitting propped up in a chair was a Victorian-style hand-painted doll - the same kind left behind with each of the fourteen victims at the crime scenes, each one specially crafted to look like the woman killed. Only there was something different about this doll. The normally ornately painted face looked incomplete; its lips were pale and its cheeks left un-rosy, and its eyes were plain and tired-looking. It gave the doll an almost sickly appearance. In addition, instead of being dressed in a ruffled period-piece dress like the others, this doll had been stuffed into clothing that had apparently been taken off a boys' doll - khaki pants, a gray button-up, and a purple vest. And lastly the wig that had been sewn carefully to its scalp had been shorn messily into a curled brunet mass that reached its chin. Pinned to the doll's vest was a note - a single sentence on a ripped piece of paper.

"Missing something?"

He bent down to pick up the doll. There was no mistaking it. The breath caught in Hotch's lungs and suddenly everything around him got very quiet. The only sound was the rushing of blood in his ears and the rapid pounding of his own heartbeat.

"Reid," he choked out.

"What?" Emily asked from behind him. Hotch turned to face her. She nearly flinched at the pale, drawn expression on her boss's face.

"We have to get back to the station. He's going for Reid." The last of his words were thrown over his shoulder as he darted past his stunned subordinate. "Morgan, call Reid! We don't have much time!"

"Come again, Hotch? He's going after Reid?" Morgan questioned in disbelief, his voice crackling over the earpiece, already running back around to the SUVs at the front of the house.

"He left a doll," Hotch growled in response. He was just sliding into the driver's side when the rest of his team emerged from the empty house. Rossi jumped in the front passenger seat and Emily and Morgan in the back. They barely had time to pull their doors shut before Hotch peeled away from the curb, tires squealing and siren blaring.

"Why would he target Reid?" Prentiss asked, her eyes darting nervously between her teammates. "He doesn't fit his victimology."

"He's not picking up," Morgan muttered, phone pressed against his ear, panic seeping into his voice, saturating each syllable.

The hard pit forming in Hotch's stomach twisted and dropped. "Damn it. Damn it!"

"Oh wait - he's calling me," said Morgan, looking down at his cell phone. The relief was evident on his face.

"Or someone else is using his phone," Rossi grunted, twisting in his seat to face the two in the back. His forehead was damp with sweat and his eyes seemed almost too wide.

Morgan kept his gaze level with Rossi's as he accepted the call and pressed the speaker button. "Reid."

There was a beat. Then another.

"Reid-?" Morgan spluttered out worriedly.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the line and then: "'M here."

His voice was all wrong. It trembled, almost like he was shivering, and it sounded strained, like a thin piece of wire that had been pulled taut.

A heavy silence settled inside the SUV. They knew. They were too late.

Hotch shook his head, furiously biting back the tears in his eyes. His fists tightened on the steering wheel in a tremulous white-knuckled grip as flashes of autopsy photos flickered in his mind, of what this man did to his victims. The rage boiled away and left only a cold, urgent panic in its place. "Reid, we're on our way," he said softly, suddenly breathless. "Just hold on, we're almost there."

"Oh, I think it's too late for that, Agent Hotchner," a male voice panted into the phone. It was higher-pitched than expected and Hotch fought down the niggling voice in his head that sounded surprisingly like Jason Gideon helpfully reminding him that the man was a sexual sadist and was likely getting aroused by his own actions.

"Ayden Brandt." Hotch ground the name out, spitting it from his mouth like poison. He risked a glance at Rossi and saw the older agent was already on the phone with 911.

"I mean, you really shouldn't make a promise you can't keep, ya know?" Brandt crooned, continuing on as if Hotch hadn't spoken at all. "Here's what I don't understand: why would you all leave poor, gimpy little Spencer here all by himself? He's like a sitting duck. All I had to do was sneak up behind him, and then one well-aimed blow to the knee and - WHAMMO!" Brandt barked out a harsh laugh. "He dropped like a sack of potatoes. And the rest, Agents, was easy. As. Pie."

"You son of a bitch," Morgan snarled, his face contorted with pure rage. "If you touch him - if you even think about touching him - I swear to god I'll rip you apart limb from limb."

"Well. That's awfully barbaric, wouldn't you say, Agent Morgan?" Brandt replied, his voice light with giddiness. "Especially since I've stabbed your little friend - oh, how many times was it? …Come on, Spencerrr, I know you were keeping count."

A thready squeak of a voice: "Fourteen."

"Fourteen!" Brandt shouted. "Oh MAN, that's good! Although, to be technical, one of those wasn't a stab, was it, Spence? For those of you playing at home, I cut off one of his cute little fingers."

"Oh my god," Emily choked out, covering her mouth with one hand. She looked deathly pale, like she'd be sick at any moment.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Agent Prentiss," chided Brandt mockingly. "It was just the left pinky. He'd do fine without it. Although, Spencer, if you're so eager to have fourteen, I could give you another. But you have to say pleeeeaase…"

There was a brief pause, then a strangled, high-pitched whine reverberated from the phone.

"There we are. Fourteen pretty little stabbity-stabs," Brandt sang. "Not to mention the number I did on his knee. Hey. Hey, guys. You wanna know what I did to his knee? Huh? Do ya, do ya, do ya? Hey, Spencer, you wanna tell them? No - no, I wanna tell them. Okay, you guys ready?" He paused, almost as if he actually was waiting for a response. Then in a whisper, like he was sharing some schoolyard secret: "I dissected it."

Morgan cursed low in his throat. The tears that glistened in Prentiss's eyes finally rolled down her cheeks.

"I couldn't help myself!" Brandt defended emphatically. "It was such a pretty scar. So I thought, why the hell not help myself? And I carved into that pathetic little Frankenknee like it was a Thanksgiving turkey. Hey, what caliber bullet was that anyway? It sure did some damage. I'm talkin' fucked all over the place. Whatever, it all looks like lasagna to me. I tried to pull the pins out, but they were determined to stay in there. I mean, they were not coming out!"

"Dave-"

"Paramedics are on their way, Aaron," Rossi replied immediately. "But they have to be cleared before they can go into the station."

"My, my. Fourteen. But that is a lot, isn't it? How many times did George Foyet stab you, Agent Hotchner?" asked Brandt tauntingly.

Still so very fresh in his mind, Hotch remembered exactly how many times and precisely where Foyet stabbed him. And even if he couldn't, he'd have the scars for life. But one thing he would never forget - one thing he could still recall with perfect clarity - was how badly it hurt each time.

"Nine," Hotch said, the word thick in his throat.

Brandt whistled appreciatively. "Nine, oh, good for you. Nine. But I have to say - the kid's got you beat. Although - and you're gonna hate me for this, Spence - I'd really like to make it a good, round fifteen. I've always been fond of odd numbers."

This time there was only a low, broken groan in return from Reid.

"I only have two regrets," lamented Brandt in a campy tone. "I'd love to see the light leave those pretty brown eyes… And, of course, I'd love to see all your faces when you run in here only to find a still warm corpse. How delightful!"

"We're close," Hotch assured. "We're closer than you think, Brandt. We'll catch you. We'll get there in time, okay, Reid?"

Brandt hummed, low in the back of his throat. "I dunno, boss man. He's lost a lot of blood. You know, I honestly don't know why you don't wear red more often, Spencer. I've been watching you for the eight days you've been in Blythewood and I haven't seen you wear it once! It really is your color, red. Very sexy…"

The team could hear Reid gasp, then sputter a weak, "Don't…"

"You son of a bitch!" Morgan roared. "I'll fuckin' kill you!"

"Oh, come on, Morgan!" Brandt purred excitedly. "Don't tell me you of all people haven't had a little taste of this! He's like the poster child for twinks. And don't get me started on those 'fuck me' lips."

"I fucking swear-"

"Who'da guessed that under all those layers nerdy little Dr. Reid would actually be a hottie with a body? Tell me, sweetheart - do you really wanna die a virgin?"

"Don't kid yourself, Ayden," Hotch interrupted, his voice now an eerie calm. "We both know you're impotent. That's why you choose to stab your victims instead of raping them. You wouldn't even be able to get it up without the torture."

"Hotch-" Rossi muttered in a warning tone. Behind them Prentiss choked back a sob.

For the first time in the conversation Brandt's voice grew dark, a husky warning. "I guess it's lucky for me then, Agent Hotchner, that I believe this qualifies as torture."

There was a sickening squelch, then a distant grunt of pain from Reid.

"Aaaaahhh… I've got my whole hand in his gut… That is sooo pretty…" Brandt said, his voice practically oozing through the phone. Then he chirped: "Well! I guess I'd better get going. As much as I'd love to hang around with my new playmate - and I really would - I should get a move on. Oh, and don't worry, Agents. Little Spence won't have to suffer long. He's going quick now. You probably won't make it in time, so no sense in rushing. Stop by the drive-thru, pick yourselves up some Happy Meals. Besides, I'd love it if mine was the last face he sees. But I'll be merciful - I'll leave the phone on so you can at least listen to him die. Bye-bye for now, BAU!"

The phone clattered for a brief second as Brandt set it on the ground, and then the only sound coming from it was a slow, rattled breathing. It was the sound of a person dying.

For a long moment no one in the SUV could bring themselves to say a word. Then, quietly, almost a mewl, Reid whispered, "Morgan?"

Morgan could only clench his jaw in response and hang his head. He tried to speak but words were suddenly beyond him. He swallowed, his throat impossibly dry, and cleared his throat. "Yeah, kid. I'm right here."

Reid gave something of a puff of relief. "'Mm'kay. I jsss… Keep talkin'a me. I can't… 'M having trouble…thinking."

Morgan nodded despite knowing Reid couldn't see him. "Yeah. Yeah, you got it Reid. What - what do you wanna talk about?"

Silence met him on the other line. Then Reid's breathing hitched and he gave a gurgled yelp of pain.

"Reid… Come on now, Pretty Boy. You gotta stay with me here."

"We're nearly there…!" Hotch chimed desperately from the front seat.

Reid coughed lightly, and it was a thick, wet sound that made Rossi cringe and turn his head toward the window.

"'M cold," Reid admitted. "Can't…can't feel my…hands. I lost…" Another mangled breath. "Lost a lotta blood." His voice sounded lighter now, almost like he was in awe.

"How much blood, Reid?" Morgan demanded. "Hey, kid - how much blood's in a human body? Come on, Reid, how much blood." He was grasping at straws now and he knew it. But Morgan was determined to get Reid's foggy mind to focus on something. They were so close. He could see the building.

"I, uhhhh…" Reid mumbled tiredly. "Mmm…can't r'member," he whined, exhausted.

"Come on, kid. You gotta think."

"Dunn't hurt so much anymore. It's - ahh, my body's in shock, Morg'nnn…" As he said his name, his voice trailed off into an almost contented sigh.

"Reid. …Reid…!" There was no response, only weak, labored, struggled breathing.

Hotch hopped the vehicle up onto the sidewalk and slammed it into park. The team flew from the SUV, leaving the doors wide open. He didn't pause in his stride as he called out to Emily. "Prentiss, stay out here! Coordinate with the LEOs. I want this place canvassed for Brandt - he couldn't have gotten far."

"Yes, sir," Emily snapped back, silently relieved she wouldn't have to go in there and actually see Reid like that. She didn't think she could do it. She just wasn't strong enough and she felt disgusted at herself for it.

"And call JJ, pull her from the coroner's office. She's needed here. I want that bastard's face everywhere!"

Emily watched her team run up the steps to the Blythewood Police Department, her brown eyes wide and glistening with fresh tears. "Please, God," she prayed silently. "Just - please…"

"Reid, you listen to me," Morgan panted as the team sprinted toward the door. He drew his gun as Hotch breached the entrance and Rossi brought up the rear. "Reid, we're here, okay? So you just - you just hold on. We're gonna get you."

There was a noise on the line that sounded almost like a sob. "I know," Reid said, and Morgan could swear he'd never heard the kid sound so fucking resigned in all his life. "I know," he repeated, and his voice sounded more distant this time. "Thanks."

The agents raced down the hall to the conference room the BAU had commandeered for the last week. Rossi gripped the handle, sparing a split-second to glance up at Hotch and Morgan before flinging it open. Morgan reluctantly pocketed his cell phone to draw his gun up, but he was careful to leave the call open.

Brandt's claim of Reid not putting up a fight was apparently false; the room was a disaster. The whiteboard was overturned and papers and files were strewn about on the floor near the table. A swivel chair laid on its side, and beside it was a broken porcelain mug surrounded by a puddle of coffee - Reid's crutches, one of which was snapped nearly in half.

And then he saw him.

Suddenly all the prior urgency, all the alarm evaporated into thin air and was replaced with a clear, stagnant stillness. There he was. On the ground in a corner of the room near the window was Reid. He was impossibly still and his brown eyes were half-open staring at the ceiling above him.

Morgan shook the sudden memory from his mind, the conversation Garcia had recounted between her and Reid when Hotch first came back to work: "I've been thinking about it - the whole time I've known Hotch, I don't think I've ever seen him blink." "I know, it's weird." "It's classic alpha male behavior." "Do you think he stared down Foyet?" "Maybe. Could be what saved his life." "Do you think he stared the whole time - like, with each stab?" "I have no idea." "Is he okay?" "I wouldn't be. But - I'm a blinker."

Morgan fought back the sick feeling of irony as he moved slowly toward his still body, toward those listless eyes. He choked back the nausea, the screaming pain in his chest. When he reached him, Morgan's knees gave way under his weight and he collapsed in on himself, staring down at his friend.

He couldn't look too long at his body; it was gruesome. His left knee was a mangled mess, all cleaved open, the prosthetic kneecap practically torn away. His body was littered with puncture wounds, concentrated mainly in his abdomen. The blood blossomed out away from his body, staining the stark white button-up, the powder blue cardigan, the knees of Morgan's pants.

He drew his eyes up to his face. He didn't look in pain, but he didn't quite look peaceful either. It was simply as if a calm had taken over. A fine sheen of sweat was glistening on Reid's face and neck. His usually pale skin was nearly translucent from blood loss. His brown eyes which were normally so large and expressive, conveying every emotion he hid and freely exclaiming every word he somehow couldn't rapid-fire out of his mouth - those same eyes were now dull, unfocused slats. The rings under his eyes had always been there but they were darker now, more prevalent. When was the last time the kid had slept? It suddenly and absurdly occurred to Morgan that Reid hadn't stopped working during the entire case. While the rest of the team worked in shifts, going back to the hotel to sleep for a few hours at a time, Reid instead opted to run on cop shop coffee and fifteen minute power naps at the station. He'd worked so hard to catch this man, harder than any of them - and for what?

Morgan's vision blurred violently and he thought he might be passing out; he realized belatedly that at some point he'd begun crying, already mourning his friend's death. He felt the sudden need to gather the thin young man in his arms, provide him some kind of comfort even if he could no longer feel it. Reid had to know that Morgan hadn't lied to him; they made it. They had him. They had him and it was over.

The world around him was muted as he drew his arms around Reid, like everything was underwater. He thought he heard someone calling his name from the surface but he couldn't be bothered to pay them any attention. His entire world narrowed down to the butchered young man before him.

It was only when firm hands pulled him back in a steely grip that time seemed to catch up to his movements. "Morgan, stop! Morgan, listen to me, you can't move him!" The voice was familiar, but it contained a roughness that made it sound foreign, distorted.

Morgan whirled around to face Hotch behind him. His supervisor's face somehow still held that calm neutrality, but there was something else there just beneath the surface clawing to get out. Morgan had neither the capacity nor the energy to identify it.

It was relief.

"Morgan, you can't move him," repeated Hotch patiently. "He's still alive."

That Morgan understood. He turned back to Reid. His eyes were still eased open, but instead of staring up at the ceiling, they were concentrated on his face. Morgan felt a pressure on his knee and looked down to see Reid's hand squeezing it weakly. He did it. He held on for him.

Rossi ushered the paramedics into the room and then everything sped up into a dizzying blur. He was alive. He held on and he was alive.

[…]

So there's chapter one for you. Loved it? Hated it? Needed more explosions? Let me know, friends. Chapter two will be coming at your beautiful faces shortly!

Also, don't tell the Flashpoint fandom I'm hiding out in here. I sort of lost inspiration for my story two years ago. I've been threatened with bodily harm. I fear for my safety.