by C.M. Decarnin
Slowly, he turned from the camera. Meeting Reid's eyes. His eyes were deep and lustrous.
He moved like a leopard. Slow and unworried. Studying Reid.
Space had become exquisitely meaningful. Just a couple of steps had brought him much, much closer.
He leaned forward, never breaking the dark gaze.
He stroked Reid's cheek. "Hello there."
Not Charles now, not Rafael. His heart sinking even as he said it, knowing it wasn't -- "Tobias?"
A tossing motion of the shoulders. "Those idiots. They're going to get us all killed." He knelt down between Reid's knees. Staring. A darkling awareness of Reid's apprehension. "Are you like them? Are you a good boy, Spencer?"
"Good?" By what stretch of psychotic imagination Charles Hankel could be called good --
"Are you a churchy boy? Say your prayers when you go to bed?" He rested his hands one on either of Reid's thighs. He whispered, with a faint mockery, "Do you keep yourself pure, boy?"
The underlying touch of a smile, invisible. "Can you see my mind, Spencer Reid?"
"By god, you can!" The laugh in his dark, dark eyes, not in his breath. "How did someone your age get to be a Federale anyway?"
"I'm twenty-six." I don't know what to say to him!
"Look twelve. Look --" His hands swept up Reid's thighs and met. "-- innocent."
"Please don't!" Because that had worked well last time. But it was the faultline of his fear cracked open. A whimper had come into it. "Please --!"
The hands unzipping and unbuckling him. Fingers through the fly of his underwear and -- touching him. Extracting him.
"Mm-mm. That kid's got you so stoned you don't know which way is up." He shook his head slowly. "You remember your classic triad though? Religion. Addiction."
"Homosexuality." It was as if he couldn't keep from saying it. "Except you have the order wrong."
"Oh, you're right about that, I was definitely here first." His eyes gleamed. "One plus two equals three." The hands caressed, one after the other, up his what Reid had heard Morgan refer to as 'junk' -- which was peculiar terminology, perhaps on the principle of opposites in slang, since most males placed inordinately high value on their reproductive -- He heard another whimper come out of his mouth but without another plea.
"Did your father molest you?" he blurted desperately.
"Him? He didn't even know what it was for. Called it his 'tribulation'."
"You use the past tense."
"Ding dong," he murmured.
"How did he die?" Reid tried to ease back but there was really nowhere to go in the straight kitchen-chair.
"You have the strangest idea of pillow-talk I ever did see. What did your Daddy do to you?" The mouth quirked just visibly, the hands kept on, gentle strokes, while the question hit Reid in the pit of his soul.
"Yeah, nobody is that innocent without major parent issues. Is this how you like it? Is this how you do it all alone in bed at night? Yeah, there. Oh you look pretty like that with your eyes shut, all into yourself. Let's see how you taste."
But it -- didn't hurt. Warm... wet... lapping, enveloping -- bitterly Reid sobbed a breath, and felt the slow, sweet ache extending, into himself, into the hot deeps of the capturing mouth. The tongue, oh god. Thumb and fingers on his testicles so softly.
The camera was off. Thank god. No one would know but him and --
"Who are you?" he gasped.
Sensation of a laugh around his erection but no let-up, no words. An anonymous encounter, the thought slid hysterically across his brain as suddenly he remembered he had hands.
Gently he pushed against the face.
And felt the teeth.
He snatched his hands back, handcuff-chain jingling.
The sucking and licking took up where it left off. One hand aiming him, the other caressing beneath.
Despair flooded over him.
They could do anything they wanted to him. Even if he managed to find
some way out... once they were done with him would he be worth saving?
They'd taken pieces -- continents! -- of him already, now his virginity.
Be careful what you wish for. This hand on him, this mouth, were what
he would have, now, to look back on: his first time. Two tears rolled
down his face as his head went back and heat coalesced in his groin and shot
out of him into the killer's mouth, giving himself to this stranger in this
It wasn't as good as what he'd heard called 'home-made sin'; though to be fair the drugs were probably damping his responses; surprising he had even been capable of erection; must be the adrenaline he was awash in -- probably also why he didn't feel relaxed post-orgasmically --
"What are you thinking in there, I wonder."
He had pulled off him and was sitting back on his heels, watching Reid through half-lidded eyes.
Then he laughed.
"Don't worry, it gets better."
Rearing up, he raised his arms, crossed at the wrists, put them around Reid's neck and hauled him in to a kiss, lewdly thrusting his tongue in and out and twisting it.
Oh god, that taste --? Though everything, in here, just smelled like fish.
The man was ravaging him. He humped against him and bruised his lips savagely, taking without quarter, as if --
He felt him come.
Where was the gun?
Not on him.
It was Rafael's.
If he weren't fastened to this chair.
But if he did anything that brought Charles Hankel back, in this position --
His blood ran cold. Confess your sins.
A couple of less violent kisses.
A pulling away.
Leaning back, eyes closed in satisfaction. Panting slightly. His hand heavy on Reid's shoulder.
He couldn't let them get to him. He had to stay strong, keep profiling, and take his moment. He hoped his moment hadn't come and gone while this one ravished him.
A breath of a laugh. "You want me to turn the camera back on? See if they can tell you ain't cherry no more?"
Reid's hands flew to his mouth. But he couldn't know what the bruising looked like.
Would they be able to tell from that? From the look in his eyes, some clue about his posture?
Another part to play, for his life. Maybe he would think it was from being beaten. Maybe some of it really was.
He arranged himself hurriedly in his underwear and zipped up, and buckled his belt. It looked normal. Normal.
The stranger watched lazily. "One good thing, you never have to worry about lipstick on your collar."
Reid tried to imagine living with the real Charles Hankel as a gay son. Clearly, that had not worked out. 'I was here first.' Maybe this personality had even split off well before the others. He looked at the brand-mark of the cross scarred on his forehead. Why had no one helped this child? That mark alone should have whisked him out of his father's house. But the BAU knew better than anyone how the system failed its children. Few of their killers but had been tortured to death in spirit at the start of life.
He had thought he was going to die lying in the leaves behind the Hankels' barn. Everything since the rush of relief at survival there had been like a rough plane ride, alarm and shocks of terror saturating hope. Hang on, maneuver, don't let them Stockholm you, communicate, get intel, think. The emotional storm of an intensity he could barely navigate.
Tobias had always lived like this, had been invaded, inhabited, possessed by his father's will like a hurricane blowing through him. This one, though, was thoroughly dissociated.
"You're not like them," Reid said.
"You noticed that." He took Reid's right hand between both of his. "So sensitive." He traced the palm gently, and down the fingers. "So alive. Your clothes say you're the squarest boy in school, but your hands..." He smiled secretively. "They give you away, Spencer Reid. They tell everybody who you really are."
"Who am I?"
He chuckled. "You've got balls. I hope they keep you around."
"Where are we?"
He glanced at the shack walls. "Same old place."
He touched two fingers to Reid's lips. "Too many questions for a first date, Spencer. You want to leave some mystery."
"If you untie me we can get out of here. We can make sure no one kills you."
"Mm, you wouldn't like what'd happen if I did that." The dark eyes caressed him, the fingers trailed down his chest. "I don't get a lot of me-time."
"Can you tell when they're coming back?"
"I can tell you one thing, sugar. Don't confess your sins."
"All right. But --"
The full hand, this time, over his mouth, while his own hand was lifted to an astoundingly suggestive kiss, placed between the middle and ring fingers.
"I'm going to turn the camera back on now. Oh. And one more thing." He leaned up almost to Reid's face. He felt the warmth of his breath, his body heat. He leaned in, not touching, along the side of Reid's cheek, and breathed, "I'm Jesse."
Then he was up and at the camera. When he turned again the hate-filled glare of Charles Hankel struck Reid like a blow. He cringed submissively.
He became aware of his hands, lifting, fingers touched together in a delicate chalice.
He curled them into inexpressive
fists; and buried them in his lap.