Spencer's POV
It had become something like a sick game to Spencer. How horribly could he treat you before you snapped, before you realized you'd had enough? He had been doing it to everyone without a second thought, just because he could, and he hated himself for it. He was out of control, and it made him nauseous to think about what he had done to you. Yet at almost every moment he was stuck thinking about the next thing he could do to you or someone else, like a repulsive cockroach inside of his brain that he couldn't kill. He was self-destructing, and he was taking you down with him. He had almost hurt you today.
He couldn't quite describe the insurmountable rage that would unexpectedly come over him, the random urge to destroy and tear down the entire world just because he could.
Just because he could...
Throughout the week he caught glimpses of the disgusting marks he had left on your skin when you had gotten home last week, and they made him feel sick. Because he hadn't left those marks out of passion or love, he left them as a reminder that he had control over you, a sign that he could use you however he wanted and you would let him. He had apologized over and over again for it, but you had brushed it off. Whether you forgave him or not, it was an abuse of power and a revolting one at that. It was inexcusable. That wasn't who he was, and yet you still trusted him. He didn't deserve that trust. He didn't deserve you.
He didn't want to think about it. But the disappointed look on your face today, the slight fear, came to the forefront of his mind every time. You were just trying to help and he knew that, but he was pushing you away all the same. He needed help. He knew it, you knew it, probably everyone did. Hotch definitely did.
You had called him on the train, but he didn't feel like talking. Finally home, Spencer sighed, throwing his phone onto the couch and roaming into the kitchen to make some tea. Maybe it would make him feel better?
It didn't.
He kept mulling over the conversation with you. He didn't want to dump all of his issues on you, but he should at least talk to somebody. As much as he detested the idea, he made a mental note to make an appointment with someone Monday morning for later in the week. He was hurting himself and the people he cared about, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep doing this before he did irreparable damage.
It was just... how could he explain how empty he felt inside? Like there was a black hole somewhere in his chest, sucking in every good thing he had and keeping it there, hidden from his reach. He had been dissociating, even having flashbacks every once in awhile. It wasn't as bad when you were there with him because you grounded him with your words or a small touch, but it was still difficult. It was almost infuriating how he couldn't quite break out of the cycle; he knew there was something wrong, could feel it in his mind and body, but his knee-jerk reaction was to act out in anger or plain deny that there was an issue because that's what he always did. But acting out had turned into a completely separate monster entirely, one that Spencer couldn't control, that reared its ugly head at a whim and lashed out for no reason at all.
And look where it got him. You had to be upset at him, but Spencer wasn't sure if you were furious or just crying. Probably both. He hated seeing you cry; it absolutely tore him apart from the inside out, and it made it worse that he seemed to be the only person there to ever see it. He liked that you came to him for comfort, but could barely stand to see the hurt in your eyes, the way you crumpled in on yourself, apologizing constantly for feeling normal human emotions. This time, he was the one who had done that to you, and for some reason the disgusting part of him had rejoiced in the fact that he could do that to you. You would finally see who he really was. What he had turned into.
He listened to your voicemail later that night. Actually, he listened to it four times before he called you back. Not like he needed to; he had memorized it on the first listen. The worry in your voice through the phone was clear, and it was heart-wrenching to think about how he had ignored you when you so obviously had his best interests at heart. He barely had a handle on himself and his destructive impulses, and he had attacked you when all you were doing was showing concern. What he had done to you was wrong on so many levels and he needed to apologize, though he wasn't near enough worthy of your forgiveness. You didn't answer your phone that night. He tried to call you the next day too, even texted you sorry and that he wanted to talk, but you were silent.
He was miserable. He told himself over and over how he deserved this, how he deserved to be hated because of the terrible things he was doing. Yet he couldn't stop, and now you were realizing how horribly toxic he was, how fucked up he had gotten over the past month. He was dreading the upcoming conversation where you told him you couldn't stand to be around him anymore, that you hated him. He already hated himself.
Were you going to leave? Or would you stay, and treat him as if he didn't exist? He was going to have to watch you grow, blossom without him because he was holding you back, watch you find happiness with somebody else because he wasn't enough for you. He selfishly wanted to hold on to you, but he knew that right now he was only doing damage, pushing his own unhappiness onto you and everyone else because he wasn't strong enough to contain it inside himself.
His train ride to work on Monday was hell. He was anxious, shifting his weight from foot to foot and picking at the skin on the side of his nails. What was he going to say to you? What were you going to say to him? Probably nothing, honestly. You compartmentalized your relationship with him well; you were friendly at work, but because he stepped over the line, you were probably just going to freeze him out until you were ready to talk.
You usually beat him to the office, but you weren't there this morning. Maybe you got stuck in traffic? Nope. Thirty minutes had passed, and you still hadn't arrived. Speaking of, where was Emily? It was strange for anyone on the team to be late, much less two people on the same day. What were the odds? He calculated the probability in his head quickly. He didn't like the numbers.
It had been an hour now, still nothing from the both of you. Spencer made his way to Hotch's office, knocking on the open door to announce himself. Hotch looked up from his desk, his brow already furrowed in what looked like concern. Spencer didn't need to say a word; Hotch already knew.
Spencer gathered the team while Hotch went straight to Garcia. They congregated in her tiny office while she checked phone signals. Neither you nor Emily had left your apartments for the weekend. Garcia had tracked phone activity too; from the looks of it, you had gone to the Metro Saturday afternoon before turning back and going home. Not that the team knew why. Spencer's heart sunk. You had made one last call at your place, but that was it. It had been a day and a half. Emily's phone hadn't been active since Friday, more than two days ago.
Both phones said that they were at your respective apartments, but the lack of activity was enough of a sign to know what had happened. Spencer went with Rossi to your place while Hotch, JJ, and Derek went to Emily's. They all knew Emily the best; they would know what to make of it. Whether the team acknowledged it or not (at this point they probably would), Spencer knew you better than everyone else. It was the most logical decision to make, him going to your place, and yet he was dreading every second that passed as Rossi drove closer and closer to the apartment, the same words repeating over and over again in his head.
It's your fault.
It was clear now that you had chased after him on Saturday. If he had just walked a little slower, if he had answered your call or turned back around, if he hadn't purposely started that fight in the first place...
That's why you had never answered your phone. Maybe you didn't hate him. But that little fact wouldn't matter if you were dead.
Rossi had looked confusedly at him when he knew exactly where your spare key was hidden, but Spencer chose to ignore him. Everything looked exactly as he had left it a day and a half ago. The coffee mugs that the both of you had been using were still on the coffee table, the blanket on the couch half hanging on the floor the same way it had been when you had jumped up to stop him from leaving. The dishes were still unwashed in the sink, your bedroom door still open and your sheets still tangled up in a mess at the foot of the bed the way he had left them yesterday morning.
Your phone was sitting in the middle of the kitchen table, right next to your keys. But Spencer knew that you always put your keys by the front door because you lost them constantly, and you almost never used the table unless you had company over. Nothing else was out of place, other than the fact that you weren't there. Spencer's legs almost gave out. He placed his hand on the back of your armchair, gripping as tightly as he could to try to hold himself up. You were gone. He had known from the start that you wouldn't be there, but he had held out hope that you were okay, that you'd be in bed still asleep, curled up under your blankets peacefully. He tried to keep a straight face as despair overtook him. He couldn't do this.
"Let's take a look around," Rossi suggested, starting to move into the room. Spencer did it with him just for show, knowing there wasn't going to be any evidence left behind. There never was. The whole ordeal was bringing back memories of his own abduction, and he fought back the panic that was threatening to come to the surface. Were they hurting you and Emily just like they had done to him? The thought made him feel physically sick. His world was crumbling apart before his eyes, and it took everything he had not to break down on the spot. He was going to have to relive his own experience through your eyes. If he had just stayed with you...
Spencer knew Rossi was going to make a comment about there being someone else here, how you hadn't been alone. He figured now was a good time to come clean about it, because keeping quiet would make it seem like there was something to hide.
"Everything looks the same as it did on Saturday when I left."
Here came that look again.
"You were here?"
"We usually have breakfast or lunch together at least once on the weekends. Whenever we're free."
That wasn't technically a lie.
"I didn't know you two were that close."
Spencer shrugged, trying to keep his face in check, wringing his hands together so that Rossi wouldn't notice that they were shaking. Rossi's statement didn't warrant an answer, so there was no reason why Spencer needed to say anything else.
"Are you okay?"
Spencer knew that Rossi asked out of concern, but that still didn't stop his anger from flaring up. How come everyone kept asking him that? He bit back a rude reply, trying to get himself in order before he spoke. Did he look fucking okay? You were gone and it was his fault. He had left you when you needed him.
"I'm worried," Spencer finally replied.
After a few moments, Spencer turned to Rossi. No point in wasting time. You and Emily were somewhere else, going through god knows what, while the team was just standing there, letting it happen.
"There's nothing here. We should go."
-
Your POV
Someone was calling your name. Your brain was too foggy though, so you couldn't quite place who it was. It sounded familiar. You tried to open your eyes, but you couldn't muster up the energy to do so. Your limbs felt heavy. Why were you sitting up if you were asleep? Maybe you fell asleep in the armchair again? No, too uncomfortable.
What was going on?
You realized you couldn't move your arms. You slowly gained the strength to open your eyes. It took your brain a moment to process what you were seeing. Was that...?
"Emily?" you asked, your voice raspy.
She was sitting facing you, tied to a chair about 20 feet away. It took you a few moments to realize why it looked so familiar; she was bound up just like Spencer had been a month ago. Spencer? Where was he? Wasn't he with you?
"You're awake. Good. We need to get out of here."
"Give me a minute," you mumbled. Your thoughts were all over the place. It was like you were digging for something but couldn't quite reach it. You looked around, trying to place where you were. A nondescript concrete room. No windows, just annoying incandescent bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Ugh, you hated the gross yellow lighting. You were tied to a chair too, your wrists and ankles bound to the arms and legs of the metal seat. This was uncomfortable.
"I need you to focus," Emily urged. You slowly turned to look at her again. You knew you should be worried because she was worried, but you just couldn't concentrate. You felt woozy, almost nauseous. How was she so alert? Her bloodshot eyes were darting everywhere and she was practically shaking in her chair, as if she was trying to move around but couldn't.
"Em... what are you on?"
You struggled just to finish your sentence. It was like you were there mentally but not able to be there completely outside of your head, and she was too present, almost hyperactive.
"I think I'm on some kind of uppers. I can't even sleep. How do you feel? Are you on anything?"
Her words were almost rushed. She was probably right.
"I don't know. Just... tired."
Your brain couldn't quite connect the dots. There was more than just that, and you knew it, but those were the only words that could come out of your mouth.
"Downers," Emily observed, still vibrating in her chair. Huh. Smart idea, honestly. You two were your own worst enemies at the moment.
"What were you doing when they got you? I was getting my mail."
You tried to think back. What were you doing?
"Spencer. I was... I was with Spencer."
Emily blanched.
"Then why isn't he here?"
"He left."
"So he wasn't with you? Did they get you at your apartment? His place? A restaurant? Inside? Outside?"
"No, they uh..." your head was almost starting to hurt from how hard you were trying to get the words out, "outside. They got me outside my place."
"Both close to home. They knew where we all live. This is bad. They can stage it, make it look like we're at home. They took me on Friday night. When did they get you? What day is it?"
"It was... Saturday afternoon," you replied.
"Shit. Okay, okay, it's fine. So it's been at least 24 hours. They haven't touched me other than to dose me up. No questions, nothing. There's at least three of them. All white males that I can tell, all wear masks. No accents of any kind, no identifying features. I don't recognize them at all."
At this point Emily was just thinking out loud.
"I wonder if they'll take anyone else. All of us live alone except for Hotch and JJ, we're all targets at this point. It doesn't have to do with age, because Spencer is the youngest and then it's you, but I'm older than Derek. But the more of us they take, the riskier it gets. It's risky to even have us in the same room together. They're escalating."
"Didn't we say... I'm not a threat?"
"You have to mean something to them, because they would have killed you a month ago when they had the chance. They're keeping us alive, but for what I don't know. We have at least another 36 hours before they even notice we're gone. Fuck!"
She was writhing around in her chair. You felt kind of bad, like you weren't even trying, but you barely had the energy to hold your head up and look at her, much less struggle with restraints that you knew weren't going to fail anyways. You felt your brain trying to freak out, trying to warn you, but all you could do was sit there under the waves of numbness. Logically you knew there was something wrong, but you couldn't bring yourself to focus enough to elaborate on it.
"I'm tired, Em..."
"You need to stay awake. I can't do this on my own, I need you to stay with me."
The doors burst open with a bang and Emily jumped. You started slightly, your mind taking longer to process the sound than it normally would have.
"You're awake!" one of the men exclaimed, moving over into your eyeline. He was tall, at least over 6 feet. You could tell he was strong under all of the clothing. The second man moved around to Emily. He was shorter, but way more built than the tall one. They both had dumb ski masks on, so you couldn't make out their faces underneath. How original. The tall one put his hand on the top of your head, tilting it back so that you had to look up at him.
"Look at you! We're so glad that you could finally join us!"
There was mirth in his voice, and it made your stomach churn. What kind of sadistic bullshit was this? He let go of you so that you were facing Emily again. She had her poker face on; you knew she wouldn't crack under pressure. But it seemed like they knew that, too.
"Emily! How are you feeling?" the tall man bantered. She refused to even look up at him, opting to stare stoically at the wall behind you.
"Sorry, I don't think you quite heard me. Let me ask you again."
He reeled back without warning and punched you square in the face before you could process what was going on. Pain blossomed on one of your cheekbones as you let out a sharp cry of surprise, taking a moment to process the hit before turning your face back to Emily. The worst part was that you knew whatever you were on was already dulling the pain. It would be much worse later.
"How are you feeling, Emily?" There was no joy in his voice anymore.
You made eye contact with her and shook your head as imperceptibly as you could. She couldn't answer them right now, because if she did, it would set a precedent. They would know that hurting you would cause Emily to spill and give them what they wanted. So Emily stayed silent and stone-faced in her chair, the only sign of distress being one of her legs jiggling from the drugs.
"Not in the mood to talk? That's okay. Maybe Y/N is."
He knelt down next to you, his brown eyes peering at you through the mask. You tried not to look at him despite your curiosity, staring straight at Emily instead.
"How are you feeling?"
You kept your face as blank as possible. You could feel your heart beating rapidly; you were scared that your disobedience would cause Emily pain. The man reached over to your face and forced you to look at him. After a moment, he cocked his head to the side. You could tell by the movement under the mask that he was smiling.
"Not the talkative type, huh? We don't actually need you to talk for this one."
He pulled a little cloth zippered kit from one of his pockets somewhere. It looked like a lock-picking kit. But when he opened it up, there were syringes instead of tools. You glanced over at Emily fearfully, and you could see that she was trying to keep her cool. You squeezed your eyes shut as you felt a needle enter your arm, purposely not making any more eye contact with the tall one. Whatever he put into your arm was cold, and in no time you could feel yourself start to drift off. It wasn't quite unlike being in the hospital that one time with Spencer. It seemed like forever ago.
-
Your mind was clearer when you woke up. So clear, in fact, that you could register the pain before your eyes even opened. You were hoping that it would go away, but it just hurt worse and worse as you came into consciousness. You ached everywhere. If you were on some kind of drugs before, you definitely weren't now. You opened your eyes to see Emily still jittering in her chair.
"Em?"
She whipped her head around to look at you, guilt written all over her face.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't know."
"Know what?"
Ugh, your face hurt! It wasn't just from the hit you got before you passed out, it was something else. Your lip felt puffy, and you realized there was the faint taste of blood in your mouth. Was that scratchy feeling dried blood on your chin?
"I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Are you hurt too badly?"
"I'll manage," you replied. You had a moment to look around at yourself, take stock. You had bruises forming along your arms, and you could see shallow cuts in the flesh there. That's where the aching came from. Your neck was a little sore. You flexed your fingers and toes, immediately feeling a shooting pain through your left wrist. You gasped, not expecting it to hurt so badly.
"Broken or sprained?"
"I- I can't tell. It's bad, though." You could feel it throbbing under your restraints. You looked back up at Emily.
"What did they do to me?"
"They beat you. Cut you up while they asked me questions."
"What else? What did they want to know?"
"It's best I don't say anything at all. The more that you know, the more danger you're in."
"It's a little late for that."
"I know. But you know how this is, I can't say anything. They, um..." she paused, gathering her breath, "you need to brace yourself. They said you might not get to sleep through the next one."
Your heart sank.
"You know why we're here, then?"
"Technically speaking, yes. They want information that I have, and they know I'm trained for this kind of torture. But you... you're not. You haven't been in the game as long. You're my motivation."
"Just because I was an easy target."
"Yes."
You paused, letting that sink in.
"Are we getting out of here alive?"
She looked at you with uncertainty in her eyes.
"I don't know."