Chapter Text
Spencer never understood how much he took for granted the nights of crawling home from the BAU at two in the morning until his evenings consisted of dragging himself into a dark motel room somewhere in Russia whilst under deep cover. Long gone were the nights of running his fingers along overflowing shelves of leather-bound books, humming in thought as he made the difficult choice of what to read. Instead, his nights had involved him staring at boards filled with suspect and victim photographs, and maps plotting crime scenes and any other connections. Every night, he saw the empty stares of the victims behind closed lids. He hated being undercover. He had no contact with anyone for six months.
The BAU had undergone some changes in his absence. Matt had also been sent on a classified assignment. Emily had been reassigned to section chief. David had been reassigned to unit chief, a role he loathed. Penelope had left. Only JJ, Tara and Luke remained. Spencer himself had been assigned to support in gathering intelligence in Russia for the state department. There had been rumours that a terrorist organization in Russia was planning to develop new chemical weapons and initiate attacks in the United States. He was one of two agents who understood and spoke Russian perfectly, and he held a PhD in chemistry. It made sense. He had been working between consulting and teaching, but with the pandemic, his work had screeched to a halt. The FBI struggled to find him work that he could do following his traumatic brain injury and the resulting chronic migraines and seizures. He was well-controlled, but the risks were too high. When the pandemic finally came to an end, he had gathered more intelligence than the state department had ever asked for, he was withdrawn from his undercover work. Never before had he been more grateful for the sticky heat of Washington DC until he was trapped in bitterly low temperatures in Russia. Working from Virginia again meant that he could go back to his nights of crawling home and settling down with a good book. He remained in the state department in intelligence, using his fluency in multiple languages to monitor and gather intelligence from across the United States.
Warm air instantly hit Spencer as the front door to his apartment swung open, his keys still in the lock. Instead of walls filled with victim and suspect photographs, they were sage green and lined with rows of bookshelves. A chess set was nestled on a table under the lounge window. The voile curtains at the large window ruffled lightly with the breeze from the open window. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, absorbing the scent of roasted coffee beans and leather like it was the first time. He took pleasure in the small things. He threw his beloved tan leather satchel onto the sofa with a sigh and extended his arms above his head to stretch his muscles. With a satisfied hum, Spencer flipped back the flap of his satchel and rummaged through his files and books until his fingers closed around the plastic container he was looking for. He fished it out and unscrewed the lid, then tipped two round, white pills into his palm. He tossed them into his mouth and grimaced as he attempted to swallow them dry. The taste was bitter as they dispersed on the back of his tongue. He shuddered and reached down to set them on the coffee table before kicking off his well-worn Chucks and heading into the kitchen. As he did every night, he filled the pot in his coffee machine with water and heaped some of his favourite blend coffee into the filter, then flicked the switch to allow it to work its magic. The heavenly scent filled the air.
With a deflated exhale, Spencer unravelled the knot in his maroon silk tie and unfastened the top button of his white button-up shirt, then slid his tie out from under his collar as he padded his way back into the lounge. He draped his tie over the back of his brown leather sofa and braced himself against the cushions. He pressed his eyes shut and kneaded his temple with his fingers to assuage the building pressure. A headache had been gnawing away at him all day but had finally taken hold on his way home. The coffee machine gave a final hiss as it completed his caffeinated goodness. Spencer tilted his chin up at the sound and let go of his sofa. His body thrummed with the need for his coffee fix. He made his way back to the kitchen and tugged open the cupboard above his head to retrieve his favourite mug. He smiled softly at the pink octopus one that Penelope had gifted him when she left as he lifted out his ‘kiss me I'm a genius’ mug and set it down on the counter.
He was oblivious as he poured the dark liquid into his mug.
That was until his tie was wrapped around his throat and pulled tight. Spencer’s mouth gaped as he tried to suck in air. The coffee pot smashed against the floor as his hands flew up to the tie, fingers scrambling blindly to pull it away. He felt himself being dragged backwards. He thrashed and kicked wildly, his foot sending his mug hurtling to the floor from the counter. Glass and ceramic littered the pooling coffee on the tiles. He twisted this way and that to relieve the pressure on his trachea but the tie seemed to tighten further, pinching the back of his neck. His feet scuffed against the floor in an effort to regain his balance. His vision began to blur and his eyes watered with the reduction in oxygen as he came to an abrupt stop. A foot in the back of his knee sent him crumpling to the floor, guided down by the ligature. Spencer’s eyes rolled. A hooded figure appeared in his line of sight with a syringe in his gloved hand as he was wrestled into the lounge. The needle on the syringe glinted in the low light of the room. He stared darkly into the pair of piercing green eyes that met his from behind the black woollen ski mask. No words were spoken as the needle plunged into the side of Spencer’s neck. His hiss of the burn in his veins came out as more of a croak. His fingers slipped away from the tie. As the darkness consumed him, the tie was released, sending him tumbling face first into his laminate flooring. There was an angry red line around his neck.
The men quickly stripped Spencer of his watch and socks. One man swung the small gym bag from his shoulder and fished out some zip ties. Latex brushed over the soft skin on the inside of Spencer’s wrists as his hands were drawn behind his back and crossed. A zip tie was circled around his wrists and pulled tight, the zipping sound deafening in the silence. Not quite done, another zip tie was fed between his wrists and tightened, ensuring that he wouldn't be able to slip his hands free. Spencer’s ankles were pushed together and a zip tie was curled around them. The zip tie was pulled harshly to fasten it, then another was looped between his ankles and tightened. A thick roll of heavy-duty tape was passed across from the bag. The man accepting the roll knelt at Spencer’s legs and balanced them on his knee. The tape cracked loudly against itself as the end was pulled away from the roll and wrapped tightly around his legs, just below his knees. After several layers, more tape was bound around his thighs. The kneeling man came to his feet and dragged Spencer’s limp form into a sitting position.
Spencer’s head tipped forward, his chin on his chest. Fingers entwined in his chestnut, collar-length hair at the back of his scalp and forcefully wrenched his head up. Slow, wheezing breaths passed Spencer’s slightly parted lips. His long eyelashes brushed his cheeks. Shadows stretched down his face from his angular cheekbones. The veins and muscles strained in his neck from his forced position. The tape was pasted to Spencer’s upper arm and wound around his chest, binding his arms to his torso. The man with the tape considered his prisoner for a moment before tearing a length of tape off the roll and slamming it down over Spencer’s lips. He roughly smoothed it down with his palms to secure it over his mouth. Another strip of tape was torn off the roll and forced over Spencer’s closed eyes to seal them shut. Finally, a thick, black cloth was draped over Spencer’s taped eyes and tightened in place, knotting it tightly at the back of his head. The man holding Spencer’s head up let go of his hair, allowing the young man to tip over sideways and drop heavily to the ground with an echoing thud. A body bag was laid out on the floor next to Spencer. His bound feet and legs were stuffed inside first, followed closely by the rest of him before it was zipped up over his face. One of the men crouched down and dragged the body bag upright, then rammed his shoulder Spencer’s midsection to lift him into a fireman's carry.
“Давай. Пошли.” [Come on. Let's go.]
…
A relentless slapping against his cheek stirred Spencer from his drug-induced fog. He grunted and snatched his face away, pain flashing through his neck and throat from the strangulation. Each breath burned. As his awareness slowly returned, he noted that his hands seemed to be held above his head. He twisted his wrist to feel his restraints. A zip tie lashed his wrists tightly together, then a set of handcuffs were closed around his wrists, chain attached to a sturdy hook. It forced his arms above his head, straining the muscles in his shoulders and ribs. He attempted to shuffle a foot. He could feel cold concrete beneath his bare toes. He could recall wearing socks in his apartment. His ankles, knees and thighs were also tightly bound. He needed to open his eyes to assess the situation, only he couldn't. His eyelids were firmly stuck and there was a sensation of adhesive across his eyes. There was also a softness of material on the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He had been blindfolded with duct tape and cloth. Whoever had taken him didn't want to take the chance of being visually identified. More tape sealed his mouth shut. It stretched from ear to ear and brushed the underside of his nose.
“Dr Anton Konstantinov,” came a low, drawling voice. Spencer instantly recognised the accent. Russian. The cologne was also familiar. Alexei Ivanov. “You have been a difficult man to find. You simply vanished when we needed you.” A gloved hand cupped Spencer’s jaw and tipped his head back. The genius breathed slowly and carefully through his nose, nostrils flaring with each inhale.
“We thought it odd that the chemistry specialist that was brought in to help us develop our weapons never seemed to speak, but he followed everything we did perfectly and silently corrected our formulas. Despite his silence, his absence was deafening. Your absence. What was odd, was what we discovered when we tracked you down. Dr Anton Konstantinov never really existed, did he?” Spencer didn't react. The fingers tightened around his jaw at his stoicism.
“No. There never was a Dr Anton Konstantinov who specialised in chemical engineering from Saint Petersburg. One of our associates in Boston thought he recognised you as a professor of criminal profiling in Virginia, so we went around all of the colleges. One very slack-jawed idiot later, and we found out who you really are. Dr Spencer Reid.”
Fingers fumbled over Spencer’s cheek near his hairline. Alexei grabbed a corner of the tape over Spencer’s lips and tore it away with a single stroke. Spencer’s exhale was controlled despite the burn across his skin from his stubble being ripped out. He clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together as he felt his shirt buttons coming undone and the fabric pushed to the sides. He involuntarily twitched at the fingers trailing down his chest. Alexei hummed. Spencer’s hands clenched into fists.
“It would be such a shame to spoil something so pretty, so why don't you just tell me what I want to know.” Spencer’s top lip curled in a vicious snarl.
“No.” Alexei sighed almost sadly as he stepped back and slipped steel knuckles over his fingers on each hand. He flexed his fingers as he considered the bound man. The first strike caught Spencer on the side of the nose, snapping his head to the side. There was an audible crunch under the knuckles. Spencer made little more than a huffing sound. Blood splashed onto his chest from his crooked nose. Despite the pain flashing across his face, Spencer straightened his head as though daring him.
“That was a warning. Who do you work for?” asked Alexei. Spencer swiped his tongue over his lips, tasting the blood trickling over them.
“Go to hell,” rasped Spencer, his voice strained. The knuckles crashed into his right cheekbone, forcing Spencer’s face the opposite way. His cheek instantly began to swell. Still he made no sound.
“Still keeping quiet, huh? I will make you talk.” Spencer chuckled darkly.
“Are you sure about that?” Another fist landed square on his jaw. Blood sprayed in an arc from a split in his bottom lip. Spencer panted, his face burning.
“Who do you work for?” Spencer laughed again, his usually pearly white teeth coated in blood.
“That would be telling.” Alexei growled and threw a punch into Spencer’s heaving ribs, relishing in the crack beneath the steel knuckles. The air rushed out of Spencer’s lungs with the force of the hit. He swayed on the chain that lashed his hands to the beam across the roof. Blood oozed from Spencer’s nose and mouth, dripping steadily onto his chest and dribbling down his heaving abdomen. Spencer’s mouth gaped as he panted.
“Is that the best you've got?” Another punch slammed into his abdomen. Spencer huffed slightly and doubled up, curls falling about his face from under the blindfold and his shoulders straining.
“Who do you work for?” Spencer tipped his head back and chuckled again.
“Your mother.” Alexei yelled in frustration and threw a jab into Spencer’s right temple. Spencer’s head twisted painfully to the side. Blood began to seep out from under the blindfold and ran in a thin line down his cheek. “WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??” roared Alexei. Spencer coughed, wincing at the pain across his ribs.
“You hit like a girl,” murmured Spencer. Alexei drove a knee up hard into Spencer’s groin. Spencer doubled up again. “That was a low blow, Alex.” Spencer exhaled deeply and straightened, listening to the echoing thudding of Alexei stomping away. He gently shook the curls away from the beads of sweat on his face, aware of the dull throbbing in his skull.
Spencer tugged slightly on the cuffs to test them but they didn't budge. He extended his fingers to assess what the handcuffs were hooked to. What he in fact thought had been a hook was actually a long zip tie that bound the chain on the cuffs to a narrow metal pipe. He could feel the pipe just out of his reach. As a six foot tall man, Spencer’s captors had to have used a stool or something to restrain his arms up. Well, his plan to unhook the cuffs and choke Alexei went out of the window. He swept the tip of his tongue over his bloody lips, hissing through his teeth at the sting of his saliva in the cut. Alexei approached quickly and wrapped a hand around Spencer’s neck, tipping his head back. Spencer’s throat jumped under Alexei's palm. The Russian man leaned in close to Spencer’s face.
“Clearly, we're not going to get what we want tonight,” sneered Alexei.
“Did your girl refuse you sex tonight too?” questioned Spencer mockingly. Alexei's fingers tightened around Spencer’s throat in warning.
“Shut up.” If Spencer hadn't been blindfolded, he would have rolled his eyes.
“One minute you want me to talk, the next you want me to shut up. Make up your damned mind.”
“I want you to tell me who you work for.” Spencer’s face broke into a sadistic smile.
“Go fuck yourself.” Spencer cringed internally at the sensation of Alexei licking his stubbled jaw.
“We will make you talk. One way or another. For now though, your attitude has pissed me off.” Spencer jutted his bottom lip out.
“Too bad.” Alexei released his hold on Spencer’s throat and pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. Spencer pursed his lips knowingly. Of course. If he wasn't going to talk, they would keep him quiet. The tape cracked against itself as a long strip was ripped off, then forced down over Spencer’s mouth and smoothed down roughly, purposely knocking against his broken nose and cut lip.
“Time to go to sleep, Dr Reid. We will begin again tomorrow.” Spencer’s retort was muffled by his gag. Fingers entwined in his hair at the back of his head and wrenched his head forward. He felt a pinch as a needle sunk into his neck, then there was the telling burn of drugs in his veins. The drug worked quickly, the numbness spreading from his fingers to his toes. His head dropped forward as he was engulfed by the abyss and his legs buckled, forcing him to hang limply from his wrists.