tw for abuse mentions, violence/gore, torture, transphobia, referenced self harm
I thought I would be okay. I thought that I would never have to think about him again, that I would never have to remember that awful night ever, ever again. I thought everything would be fine. It has been three and a half fucking months, for God's sake. I thought I would never have my mind dwell on Jackson ever again.
Oh, how I was wrong.
Who doesn't love to spend their Valentine's day working on a case that brings back horrible memories, right? Who doesn't love being reminded of the day their boyfriend tried to kill them whenever they look at the pictures of victims for their job? Who doesn't love remembering the feeling of his hands around their throat, squeezing until they could barely breathe?
I stare at the photos in front of me, biting my lip. My gaze lingers on the heavy bruising around the victims' throats, the purple and green and yellow blossoming across their skin. Just like how my own neck had looked when Jackson choked me.
I force those thoughts out of my mind, dragging myself back into the present moment. Hastily closing the case file, I take a deep breath. The others start boarding the jet, muttering amongst themselves. Derek sits down beside me, studying my face with a mildly concerned expression.
"What?" I ask him, fidgeting with my hands. I have been practically unable to stop fidgeting for the entirety of this case.
"Nothing, just... You alright?" he responds as JJ takes a seat across from us, Reid sitting beside her.
I shrug slightly. "I'm fine," I answer. "The case was just... I don't know, tough, I guess."
He eyes me curiously for a moment. I look away quickly, catching Reid's stare as I do. I rest my elbow on the arm of the chair, leaning my head against my hand as I shift to look out the window. I can still feel Reid's gaze lingering on me.
"Anyone want a drink?" Rossi asks as he heads towards the small kitchen of the jet.
"Me, definitely," JJ responds with a sigh, running a hand through her hair.
"Me too," Derek adds.
"Me three," Emily chimes in.
"Aaron?" Rossi questions.
"Not tonight," Hotch answers.
"Spencer? Y/n?"
"No, thanks," I respond.
Reid shakes his head. "Me neither."
I chew on my nails and the skin around them as I stare mindlessly outside, my throat feeling tight with the remembrance of Jackson's grip. I can't focus on anything with the image of his face flashing constantly in my mind, the way he looked while he had his hands around my throat, squeezing until I could not breathe.
The past few months have sucked. My paranoia has spiked crazily, making me anxious to go anywhere other than work or home. Sometimes even my apartment is a scary place to be in, even after he packed up his shit and moved. He still knows where I live. It is not like I can go stay with Alice, or Ezra, or June, because they are all still pissed at me. Their annoyance has lessened somewhat, but they still do not talk to me much. Only when necessary. I did consider asking my mom if I could stay at her place for a while, but I decided against it. I did not want to cause her more stress than necessary.
Along with the heightened paranoia, I have been almost completely unable to focus on anything. Stress about Jackson coming back, flashbacks to that night, nightmares filled with his face. All of it has been too big of a distraction to allow me to focus. Everyone has noticed. Everyone has asked questions. I have avoided answering, trying to brush off the subject. Only Reid really knows what happened, and Hotch knows bits and pieces. That is because I had to tell him, due to the fact Jackson stole my fucking gun. He does not know the full story, though.
Not even I know the full story. My mind still dwells on what Jackson had said to me. You don't even know who I am, do you? You don't know who my father is. After he said that, I had done a more extensive background check. I had not found anything. I don't know anything about him, and that scares me. There are so many questions haunting my mind, but there are no answers.
Of course, I have not told anyone about this. As far as they are aware, Jackson McCillian and I ended on good terms, as we just did not work out very well together. So, obviously, I did not tell anybody about the research on him that I did. Not even Spencer. I did not tell him about what he said, either. He just thinks that Jackson was a horrible, abusive asshole. Of course, he is that, but he is so much more. I just don't know what exactly he is.
I have barely been able to sleep in my own bed since we broke up, scared that I would wake up and he would be beside me. I took to sleeping on the couch most nights, and I have been strangely glad whenever we have had to spend a while away on a case.
The jet ride does not take long, and soon we are back in Quantico. We all file into the bullpen, being greeted with 'welcome home' hugs from Penelope.
"You okay, sweet?" she asks me as I drag myself to my desk.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I answer. I'm getting really sick of saying those three words. "Just tired."
She studies my face for a moment. "You sure?"
"Yeah," I respond, offering her a gentle smile. I shrug off my jacket and drape it over my chair, leaning against my desk. "I'm okay. You don't have to worry about me."
"Okay," she replies, though she looks sceptical.
I give her hand a slight squeeze, forcing my best convincing smile. Her eyes are filled with concern as she smiles back. I just wish people would not worry about me so much.
The evening passes slowly, and by the time I am leaving, it is dark and cold outside. My limbs feel heavy and I am so, so tired. I can barely think straight, my mind foggy and clouded. As I head across the parking lot towards my car, my brain forcing worries of kidnap and murder into the forefront of my mind, I hear Spencer's voice.
"Y/l/n," he calls out, hurrying across the parking lot to catch up to me.
"What?" I sigh, turning to face him. I am too exhausted for his nonsense right now. I just want to get home.
"I think you need to tell the others about Jackson."
I furrow my eyebrows at him. "What? No," I respond.
"Why not?" he asks.
"Because I don't want to," I reply, irritation already creeping into my words, making my voice sound harsher than I intend it to.
"They're all worried."
No fucking shit.
"I'm fine. They shouldn't worry. It happened ages ago," I protest.
"And it's still affecting you," he says. "They want to know what's bothering you. What's making you so jumpy, and paranoid."
"It's not their business, though, is it?"
"It is when it's affecting the way you work," he insists, clearly annoyed.
"So now you're saying I can't do my fucking job right?" I snap back, my arms folded over my chest.
He scoffs softly. "Yeah, maybe I am," he replies, walking closer to me. "You're not focused, you're not thinking straight, you're constantly second guessing yourself and everyone when it isn't necessary. You could make the wrong call and cost someone their life, just because you're too concentrated on your ex boyfriend."
"Shut the fuck up, okay?" I almost yell. "I've had enough of you telling me that I can't do my job. I've had enough of you treating me like I'm inferior to you. I'm good at my job, and you just can't accept that for whatever petty fucking reason. I don't know why you hate me so much, Reid, but I'm fucking sick of it. You're an asshole to me for no good reason. At least not one you've explained. I'm sick and fucking tired of you treating me like shit, telling me I suck at my job, and acting like you're so much fucking better than me."
"All I'm saying is that you should tell them," he insists, his eyes narrowing. "It's the smart and rational thing to do."
"Oh, so you're saying I don't know what's the smart thing to do? Quit acting like you know what's best for me!" I exclaim. "You don't know shit about me or my life, alright? You just act like you do, because you think you're all big and smart and better than everyone else. But fucking face it, Reid, you're just like the rest of us."
"Shut up."
"You're such a fucking cunt!" I shout.
"Shut up," he repeats.
"No. I won't shut up. You need to stop acting like you're so fucking superior. Give me a good reason why you hate me so much. Give me one decent reason why you treat me horribly compared to the way you treat everybody else."
He stays quiet, hesitating for a second. "I..." he starts, looking away from me. "I- I don't-,"
I shake my head. "Yeah, that's what I fucking thought. You don't have any reason to hate me. You're just an asshole."
"That's not true," he responds defensively.
"Yeah? Then what is true? Tell me the fucking reason why you insist on being such a dickhead to me!" I yell. I walk towards him, standing directly in front of him. "You act nice to me for, what, a day at most, and then you go back to being a spiteful, bitter ass. I don't understand you, Reid."
He does not respond, his lips slightly parted as he stares at me, his eyes flickering across my face. With our close proximity, part of my brain wants me to kiss him. But I know I shouldn't.
"Do you want me to quit, is that it?" I ask, my voice suddenly soft. "You hate me so much that you, you want me to put in a f- fucking transfer request, just so that you never have to deal with me again?"
Reid takes a breath. The muscle in his jaw twitches. He clenches and unclenches his fists by his sides, breathing deeply. "Well, maybe I fucking do, Y/n."
That hurts more than it should. His words are like a knife, tearing at my skin and plunging deep into my body, puncturing my heart.
"Fuck you," I spit.
When he doesn't say anything, I scoff and shake my head, turning to leave. "Wait! I- I didn't mean it," he calls out as I am walking towards my car.
"You're such a fucking liar," I snap, not looking back at him. My skin feels hot, almost as if it is on fire. I take a shaky breath. "See you tomorrow, Reid."
"Y/n! I'm sorry!" he yells after me.
"Forget it."
As I get into my car, slamming the door shut behind me, I smack my fist onto the steering wheel. "Fuck!" I yell, sucking in a sharp breath as I press my palms into my eyes, trying to fight back the tears that threaten to spill.
I drive home in silence, my body practically trembling. My grip is tight on the wheel, my knuckles turning white. I bite my lip harshly, to the point that I swear I taste blood, and attempt to calm my ragged, uneven breathing.
When I park outside of my building, I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing deeply. My body shudders slightly with each heavy breath, and I run my hands through my hair.
I get out of the car, glancing around the parking lot. Panic immediately seizes my body, making me freeze up, as I see an unfamiliar vehicle parked a few spaces away from me. Just as I am about to turn around to look for anyone, a large hand grips the back of my head, slamming my face into my car.
I cry out, pain jabbing through my head and whiteness flashing behind my eyes as blood pumps down my face. A hand clamps over my mouth as a strong arm wraps around my waist, hauling me off my feet and pinning my arms to my sides. I try to scream, but every sound I make is muffled. Something sharp stabs into my neck, and I hear a clatter just before another pair of hands grips my calves. I try to lash out, to scream, to call for help, but their grips are too strong and my body is beginning to feel oh so weak. The last thing I register is being shoved into the back of that unfamiliar vehicle, and then a darkness overtakes my mind.
-
Blinding pain stabs into my skull. My entire body aches, and I can feel the sweat sticking to my skin. The air feels like it is buzzing around me. My eyes slowly flutter open, and I wince against the bright light of the room I am in. I let out a soft groan, turning my head away from the brightness as I squint my eyes.
The room is small and scintillatingly bright- although there is only one source of light, that being a circular light on the ceiling. Mould clings to the walls and ceiling, the only signs of darkness in the room. Other than me, the room is empty. The walls are bare, no windows, no indication of time of day. I am alone.
Glancing down, I notice the ropes around my wrists, binding me to a wooden chair. The rough material rubs against my skin. I shift slightly, moving my arms to see if there is any way I can get out of the ropes.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a familiar voice mutters smugly. I look up, blinking, and groan quietly at the harsh light. My gaze fixes onto Jackson as he saunters into the room, slamming the door behind him with a wicked grin on his face. "Hey, babe," he says, crouching down. "Miss me?"
I can't seem to speak, so I just groan again instead.
"It's been a long three- is it? Three and a half?- months, huh?" he drawls in a sickeningly upbeat voice. "Bet you went crawling to go fuck Reid the second we were over, didn't you? You fucking slut."
"Fuck you," I manage to mutter, my voice hoarse.
"Well, you already fucking did that, you whore," he snaps. In a quick movement that I barely register in my groggy state, he is standing once again and gripping my face, forcing me to look up at him. His fingertips dig harshly into either side of my face. "You were so easy, Y/n. You were so fucking eager to have sex with me. All I had to do was take you on one date, and you were basically pouncing on me. We knew you'd be the best candidate the second we saw you join the fucking BAU."
I tug at the ropes tying me to the chair, and he quickly pulls his hand back and slaps me across the face. The sharp sting draws a gasp from my mouth. "Don't fucking try that. You're not gonna get out of here, understand?"
"Fuck. You," I repeat, harsher this time.
He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it onto the floor, so that I can clearly see the revolver on his belt. He rolls his shoulders and unholsters the gun. A horrible smirk tugs at his lips as he levels the gun at my head, his finger hovering over the trigger. "You either shut the fuck up, or I shoot you, okay?"
I do not speak. He smiles even wider; the sight makes me nauseous. "Good girl. And don't start with that 'I'm not a girl' shit, because it's fucking stupid, okay? You're female, you always will be, you can't fucking change that." He jabs the gun closer to me, making me wince. "It's not even loaded anyway," he laughs, shrugging. "See?"
He squeezes the trigger and I flinch, but there is only a soft click in the place of a gunshot.
"You're such a fucking pussy," he mutters, putting the gun away and folding his arms over his chest. "I'm going to have so much fun with you, babe."
"I'll kill you," I seethe, fighting against the ropes. He is just out of reach for me to be able to kick him. "I'll fucking kill you."
"And how do you plan to do that, hm? 'Cause, to me, babe, it sorta looks like you're not in any situation to be killing nobody!" Jackson shakes his head, chuckling slightly.
"They'll find me."
"Maybe," he says casually. "But only when you're dead and we're long gone. They'll find your pretty little body, all bloody. Maybe I'll cut you up into little pieces. Maybe I'll suspend you from the ceiling like a piñata. What a lovely surprise for your team, hm? I'd love to see the look on their faces when they see your corpse and what I'll have done to you. Too bad I won't be here to witness that, huh?"
He crouches down in front of me again, wrapping a hand around my throat. He does not squeeze. Yet.
"You know what I'd especially love to see?" he continues in that horribly calm tone of his. "I'd love to see Dr Spencer Reid's reaction to your death. I'd really love for him to be the one to find your body. I think that would be great. What was the last thing you said to him, hm? Was it 'fuck you'? Or- or was it 'you're such a fucking liar'? That's it, isn't it? Those are the last words you'll ever have said to him."
"I'm gonna fucking kill you!" I yell.
Rage flashes across his face, twisting his features into a caricature of anger. He tightens his grip on my throat significantly, digging his fingers in behind my windpipe as he squeezes. I gasp, fighting against the ropes as he chokes me.
"You're not going to do a fucking thing, Y/n," he hisses, his face so close to mine that I can feel the spittle flying from his lips with every word he speaks. "I'm the one in control of this situation. Not you. You can't do any-fucking-thing to me."
"F- fuck... fuck you," I splutter, my vision clouding as he tightens his hold.
"I will make you hurt so bad... that you'll be begging me to kill you, just to put you out of your misery," he whispers into my ear, his breath hot on my skin.
And then his grip is gone and I am gasping for breath, hastily sucking in lungfuls of air as I cough and sputter like a failing engine. I barely have time to recover before he is slamming the gun into my cheek, a sharp pain slicing through my face. My jaw drops as a cry escapes my throat, the sting slowly being replaced by a numbness that creeps through my skin.
"Fucking bitch," he mutters before leaving the room.
The slam of the door echoes off the walls, and I am alone again. I let out a soft whimper as tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision. As I cry, the tears become indistinguishable from the blood already dripping down my skin, and I am sure I look like a mess. It is not as if it matters, though. I will probably die in here.
I stare mindlessly into space, a numb, sad sense of helplessness infecting my mind and slithering through my veins until it has taken over each inch of my body. My limbs feel heavy, like I would be unable to move no matter how hard I try. It isn't as if I can move anyway, not with the ropes around my wrists.
I think about a lot of things in an attempt to distract my mind from the pains in my body. I think about Alice, and June, and Ezra, and Oliver. Tears fill my eyes as I realise I might not ever talk to them again. I might not ever talk to anyone again. I think about how the argument with Reid could have been the last time I would have seen him. I think about how I will never get to tell him that I love him. He will never know. I think about my mom, too. At the very least, Christopher made that promise, so even after Jackson has killed me, she will know I love her.
In this room, time is a foreign concept. So, when Jackson returns, I do not know if it has been a minute or an hour. But, either way, he does return. The door slams against the wall as he storms into the room, and I flinch. He does not bother shutting is behind him. He walks towards me, a cigarette hanging from his lips and a metal tray, carrying various tools and weapons, in his hands. Wordlessly, he crouches in front of me and drops the tray onto the floor, the items clattering loudly.
"Please," I whisper, my breath trembling.
He does not say anything as he unbuckles my belt and pulls it from the loops. He discards it onto the ground beside the tray and unbuttons my pants, forcing them down over my hips. Once he has harshly tugged them down and off, he picks up a scalpel from the tray.
With his free hand, he plucks the cigarette from his lips and looks up at me, exhaling smoke as an eerie smile curls at his mouth. "You've got experience cutting yourself, don't you, babe? That's clear here. Maybe I should get you to do it yourself rather than me doing it."
He traces the handle of the scalpel over the healed scars on my thighs before flipping the tool over in his hands and pressing the blade against my skin. It is cold and sharp, but he does not cut me yet.
I shake my head quickly, begging, "No, n- no, please, Jackson, please don't. Please. I- I'll do whatever you want. Please don't."
He watches me carefully as I plead with him, his eyes narrowed and his expression one of irritation. Without warning, he slices the scalpel across my thigh, opening up a cut. I let out a cry of pain, a choked sob following soon after as I look at the blood filling the wound and dripping down my skin.
"Surely this shouldn't hurt?" he taunts, moving the blade to another place on my leg and cutting open my skin once again. He laughs as I wail. Another cut. And another. More and more, until my leg is trembling and slick with blood. "You're so pathetic, babe," Jackson murmurs, dropping the scalpel.
He takes a long drag of his cigarette and presses it against the skin of my other leg as he exhales, holding it there. An agonised scream claws through my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my fists tightly as he pushes the cigarette harder against my leg. I dig my nails into my palms in a feeble attempt to redirect the pain elsewhere.
As he finally takes the cigarette butt away, flicking it onto the floor somewhere, I let out a soft sob. "Please," I cry, "please, I'll- I'll do whatever you want."
Laughing, Jackson shakes his head and brushes the ash from my thigh. The sting of his touch reverberates through my entire body. "Don't be silly. I don't want anything. Not from you, at least. You're just a message, sweetie."