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Zero-point-two-five seconds.
That's how long it takes for someone to react to visual stimulus. Zero-point-two-five seconds. Two hundred and fifty milliseconds. Two hundred and fifty thousand microseconds. Two hundred and fifty million -
Zero-point-two-five seconds.
And he, despite all the amazing facets of his mind, despite the great intellect he is afforded, cannot beat basic physiology. Basic neuroscience.
In this case, zero-point-two-five seconds is too long.
He notices the yellowish-white color of the wall. The blanket haphazardly thrown on a soiled bed. The dingy carpet laying across the center of the room. He notices maps of Hartford taped to the walls and covered in red ink; images of women with eyes and mouths crossed out in black ink. Pictures of blood-rended bodies.
He notices a faint breeze blowing from a cracked window. The gentle flickering of the only light.
He doesn't notice the man standing in the corner, covered in bloody clothes and red splatters. Not for zero-point-two-five seconds.
Too long. Far too long.
Before he can aim his gun, before he can even get a word out, the man is on him. Knocking him down, pushing him down the the force of his body, stocky and muscled. And he feels the air rush out of his lungs, his ribs groan and protest as he hits the floor hard.
His gun skitters away, out of his hand and somewhere deeper into the recesses of the room.
Knees on either side of him, hands pressing his wrists flat into the floor. He struggles, struggles with all his strength, but his bonds don't budge. The man looks at him - their UnSub, just as they'd expected: late twenties, white, with a scar running down the length of his face.
Their eyes meet, brown clashing with blue. And Reid can't help but shiver at the pure panic in those irises. The profiler in him works quickly - this man would do anything to escape. Anything not to go to prison.
Kill him.
Kill himself.
Reid screams.
He tries to scream, but a meaty, sweaty, bloody hand is convering his mouth, his nose. He can hardly breathe through it, hardly think as his heart beats harder and faster and the world starts to tilt around him.
Hotch, Morgan, Emily - they're all clearing the rooms around him. They'll notice he hasn't checked in. They'll find him.
They'll find me.
But then the hand is moving, quicker than his mind can process. Moving from his mouth to his throat, wrapping around the vulnerable flesh there. A second hand joins, pressing, pressing -
He tries to scream again, but only a horrible croaking leaves him. Too soft, far too soft.
He whimpers and squirms and claws desperatley at those bloody hands, but the man just keeps his eyes boring into his, fingers squeezing, holding him firmly down with his body. Every inch of them touching, god, and he can't escape it. And those hands keep pressing...
God, it burns, it hurts so much! I need air, please, I need air, need air - !
Black dots swarm his vision. His mouth gapes as he tries and struggles and fails to draw air into his lungs, his body. A whimper, hoarse, animalistic, tears out of his throat - with it goes the last of his air.
His fingers go limp against the UnSub's. Fall to the ground.
The black swarms in. The world is blotted out.
Reid never heard the sound of footsteps getting closer.
It's loud, the gunshot. It shatters through the air in the small room, shatters through the small slip into unconsciousness Reid had fallen into.
A warm wetness covers his face, and he jerks into awakefullness. He's gasping, open-mouthed against the vice of his throat. But it's loosening, slowly, slightly...
The black dots dance their way back to the corners of his vision. And he can see, he can see...
The UnSub. Still above him. Hands still wrapped around his throat. Eyes still locked on his.
But his forehead is gone.
It's blood and gore and brain and bone. Dripping down his face, dripping into his still-open eyes, into his mouth, agape in a silent scream.
In slow motion, the man falls limp to the floor. Legs still tangled around his. Those hands slide from Reid's neck, leaving vivid fingerprints in their wake. They lay still, just inches from his head.
A piece of... of something... slides down his cheek. And suddenly all he can do is breathe, gasp and breathe and gasp and I'm dying I'm drowning I'm -
"Reid, look at me, look at me!" A voice seems to yell in his ear. And he flinches, eyes flying open as his hands weakly try to push him away.
But he sees Morgan. Morgan, kneeling next to him, fear shining brightly in his brown eyes. A dark hand on his shoulder he hadn't even felt, shaking him.
"Kid, you need to breathe! Slower breaths, you're hyperventilating." Morgan's voice was loud, forceful, pounding against his skull. "He's dead, you're safe, please just breathe."
He tries. He tries, but his chest burns and his throat burns and he can't stop feeling the gore warm and wet on his face and seeing that bright red hole where their UnSub had once been -
"Hotch, we need a medic now!"
Hands are under him, pulling him, gently. And he groans as his ribs protest, wincing as the sound grates against his swollen airway. The world spins and those black dots come in again, and he wants to surrender to them, wants to leave this wretched reality so much -
"Please, Spence."
Those words slip into the air, trembling. And he forces, with all the energy he has left, to open his eyes again.
He's half-up, body fully supported by Morgan's arms and shoulders. His chest is rising, up and down and up and down, and he dimly thinks it's going faster than should be possible.
And he sees Hotch, gun still held limply in one hand, talking into the radio on his vest. Hears him asking for a medic, saying "agent down" in a barely-wavering voice. Emily, just behind, looking into the scene with horror in her eyes.
The burning in his chest returns with a vengeance. Those black dots swarm again. People rush into the room, more hands are laid on him. A cuff wraps around his arm; a device is put on his finger.
And the world once again drops to a pinpoint.
The world drops to a pinpoint - that pinpoint being Morgan's hand, where he is gently rubbing circles on his palm. Again and again and again, a bit of order in the chaos. A bit softness in the pain.
A mask is put over his face.
An eternity later, a tube is put in his throat.
He gratefully passes out then.
He didn't wake up in degrees. No, he woke all at once, a crashing wave of consciousness rolling over him. The world is blurry and languid, but present.
His ears are ringing.
It was loud. It drowned out the sound of everything else into a dull roar, leaving only something like the pealing of a bell. Dimly, he wondered what pitch it was playing at.
His ears were ringing, and he was trying desperately to focus on that over the thing in his throat.
But panic was rising in his chest, spreading through his body, and he was helpless to stop himself from gagging and shaking and god, please, get it out! Someone help me!
A hand settles on his shoulder, a voice can barely be heard above the fear ringing through his head.
"Open your eyes for me, kid. Please, just open your eyes."
He listens.
The world is bright and white and he winces as it sends a spike through his skull. But his brown eyes lock onto Morgan's face, and the older agent manages a shaky smile.
"There you are, pretty boy." The hand moves to his own palm, wrapping around it gently. "You're on a ventilator. A nurse is going to be here in a few minutes to see if we can remove it. Just let it breathe for you."
It's the hardest request he could've made. Harder than solving the Collatz Conjecture, or hitting a moving target 500 yards away.
But he tries.
Time slips by slowly. Morgan's talking to him, in gentle tones, but the ringing panic drowns him out. Click-hiss, the ventilator goes. His world is wrapped in that click-hiss.
Footsteps come closer. People hover above him. He hardly notices.
And finally, that dreaded click-hiss stops.
He gasps in a breath, a real breath. It rattles in his lungs, scorches past his inflamed throat and the tube still nestled inside. And he's inhaling again, and again.
Less than twenty-five breaths per minute. If I can take less than twenty-five breaths a minute while maintaining my O2 levels then they'll take this horrible thing out.
His eyes lock on Morgan. The world slowly filters back into tune.
"That's it, kid. Just keep breathing, just like that."
The minutes pass. Filled with shaky breaths. A nurse above him says something, too muddled to make out. Then the tube is moving, and he's coughing and -
He doesn't pass out. But the world wavers and he loses time.
When his eyes open again, the nurses are gone. The room is shaded, only one light shining shadows onto the walls. And a soft sound filters to his ears.
"Y-you're watching hockey?"
The words are hoarse and rough and they burn as they lave his throat. But it's enough to make Morgan turn to him, to make him smile slightly.
"C'mon Reid, the Blackhawks are in the playoffs. I wouldn't miss that for the world."
His statement is undermined by how quickly he turns off the TV.
Reid opens his mouth, tries to respond, but only a croaking leaves his lips. And then he's coughing, coughing hard enough to make his lungs cramp and his vision sparkle.
A cup presses to his lips and he drinks greedily, relishing the feeling of cool water despite the pain as he swallows. He whimpers as it pulls away, despite his stomach churning at the sudden intake.
Morgan's eyes latch onto his as he places the cup down, worry shining in them.
"You okay, kid?"
He nods, forcing himself to not wince as his head pounds. "I-I'm fine." He smiles slightly at Morgan's disbelieving glance. "How long... how long was I out?"
"Two days. They kept you sedated until late last night. The swelling in your throat had to go down so the vent could be removed, and any movement could've hurt your ribs more than they already are." The other agent's eyes darted down to the blanket, where one hand was picking at the threads. Reid could still see the emotions play over Morgan's face.
Two days. God.
"Has Hotch already been cleared?"
It was a good shot, about as much reasoning for lethal action an FBI executive could ask for. But it still made his stomach flip, just as it did every time someone on their team has to use their gun.
(And he couldn't help but remember the brains in his hair and the blood on his face and it's his fault that man is dead in a way, his fault)
"Yeah. Took less than an hour for him to get his gun and badge back. It was the quickest review I've ever seen - a good shot if there ever was one."
There never is, he thinks, bitterness and guilt burning like bile in his throat.
Morgan's eyes meet his again. And they must see the question burning in his mind, because the older agent grabs a file lying on the tray beside him. Keeps it closed as he lays it in Reid's lap.
"His name was Matthew Weiss."
His hands shake as they touch the manila front. And he doesn't give himself a second to think, to reconsider, before flipping it open.
Hard, blue eyes stare back. A mugshot photo.
They looked, bored into his own gaze, as those hands pressed, pressed, pressed -
His breaths swirled in his lungs; his chest tightened.
"How... How many?"
He couldn't get any more words out; Morgan still understood.
"Five more than we knew of." A gentle hand reached out, closed the folder. His eyes still stared where that picture has been. "He buried them under a vegetable patch in his garden."
Tears welled in his eyes. He knew. He knew what those people felt before they died. Knew what the burning was like, the need for air that was so close but so far. The pain. The fear.
He barely noticed when one of those tears escapes. Barely noticed being pulled into Morgan's arms, an awkward-if-heartfelt embrace.
But he does notice his breaths. They still ached, still singed down his throat and pushed against his ribs. But his chest still rose, and his breaths kept coming.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in -