Clearly, I am a mere mortal with access to the internet and do not own the awesome characters or anything affiliated with Criminal Minds. If they chose to sue me, they'd laugh at the state of my bank account(s) and give up trying to squeeze blood from my turnip truck.

Rated M for violence, gore, trigger situations (rape, torture, abduction), generous usage of the F-bomb, and the possibility of future sexing. The title is blatantly yanked from my favorite girl band, Heart, and their song "Black on Black II". Look up the lyrics.

Black on Black
By ScintillatingTart

Part one:

It had been two years; there wasn't a single moment that it didn't seem like an eternity. Two years since they'd turned around and she was gone. Two years of searching, hoping, praying that she was somehow miraculously still alive. Two years of utter hell.

But somehow, the remainder of the BAU team managed to pull their bootstraps up and go on with life, albeit in a way that was wrong, senseless, and somehow perverted by the loss of their own, over and over again. Gideon, Elle, Garcia…

They had gone to bed, safe and sound in a little motel, and when they'd awakened, Penelope Garcia was gone. Everything that could be done to track her down, to find out what had happened, had been done. All the leads in the case had gone cold long before, and with nothing left to do but assume the worst, the team had little choice but to admit defeat.

It was so much darker, so much more hopeless without her. Every case reopened the wounds; each profile led them further away from her. If she was still alive, they had no way in hell of finding her. If she was dead, they had no way in hell of finding her. She was so far off the grid that the grid didn't even exist anymore.

They had no closure, no sense of finality. She was there one minute and was gone the next, with no clues as to where, when, how, or why. The only thing they had was the contents of her purse, spilled pell-mell in a hotel room, all of her credit cards, driver's license, and her keys accounted for. They had nothing.

Two years of not knowing, of not daring to hope one way or the other. Two years of shattered dreams and fevered prayers that had gone unanswered by the God that had seemingly forsaken them all. Two years of phantom perfume in the bullpen and tricks of the light and sounds that didn't quite belong, like she was still there.

It truly was more than anyone could bear. They contacted her brothers, asking if it was time to look into declaring her legally dead. The contrary answer startled everyone, but it still lingered in the back of their collective mind.

If she wasn't dead, where the hell was she?

"This unsub shows no hesitation in first strangling, then mutilating, his female victims. We have no doubt that the unsub is male, due to the sheer power it would take to overcome a victim in this manner," Hotchner said in a cold, emotionless voice. "He clearly has the upper hand, and the women he attacks know it and bow to his will. Missy Hansen and Caroline Duvall showed no defensive wounds. This implies that the victims being overtaken and dispatched before they can react."

Prentiss interjected, "The unsub is very aggressive toward women in general, and is most likely abusive to any family members he has. We believe he is a Caucasian male in his mid-to-late forties, tall in stature, and takes great pride in his physique. When you identify him, he will be especially dangerous because of his sheer physical strength."

"His kills have become more frequent in the last seven months," Rossi added, "which could signify that his usual outlet of frustration is untouchable. Look into couples where the husband or boyfriend matches the profile and the wife or girlfriend is pregnant. Look into domestic violence reports, check divorce proceedings, or recent deaths. He's hiding behind something completely normal and using it like a perverted emotional shield."

"He won't go down without a fight," Emily said when Rossi fell silent. "He will likely try to take the object of his obsession with him, or kill them before we can make the positive identification. He thinks it's all a game, and doesn't realize that children who break their toys get punished."

Reid circled the dots on the map in red. "All of his fresh kills have been inside this circle. He picks his victims very carefully, abducting them in public places with incredible finesse. We believe he's taken women that remind him of the object of his desire, even in little ways. This is his comfort zone; this is where we believe he's hiding." He stopped speaking and licked his lips nervously, wondering if they were sealing some poor woman's fate by hunting down this monster on his turf. They really had no idea where he would strike again; it was all guesswork. The similarities in pattern between this case and the Garcia cold case were striking, but he could just be holding his breath and crossing his eyes to make patterns exist where there had been only chaos before.

"The center of the circle is void of any violent attacks," Morgan said, shifting a little and crossing his arms in a pensive motion, his fingers stroking his chin idly. "It appears to encompass the downtown area and some of the residential areas. He may be doing his hunting in this area, and then taking his kills elsewhere. He may also live in one of those residential areas."

"We can only offer you a working profile and a hypothesis based on the facts at hand," JJ said, shifting from one foot to the other. "The rest of it is legwork."

The police officers looked between themselves and nodded, muttering under their breaths about the FBI coming in and making them look like idiots. But truth be told, after forty bodies, Westville, Kansas, was overwhelmed. They needed to catch this man and convict him. They needed all the help they could get.

Westville was a tiny town off the interstate, barely big enough for a gas station, a diner, a bank, and a grain scale at the co-op. The only motel housed grubby travelers tired of driving the endless prairies and flatlands. What was there to stroke a murderer's ego? They didn't even have internet unless you got satellite.

Perfect privacy.

It was as much a motivation as anything else. Not a good enough excuse, but the only one they had to go on at the moment.

"We need breakfast before we get started," Rossi pointed out as the few policemen disbursed. "The diner seems to be the only option unless we go for the highway and go way out of the way."

Reid flashed him a troubled smile. "Nothing like a little excess grease to make the sick feeling in your stomach get worse," he pointed out blandly. "Is anyone else feeling like we're missing something?"

"We're missing a lot," Emily said, looking away quickly before they could accuse her of pouring salt in the wounds. "Besides, we're usually missing a lot when we head into the field. For all we know, he's been watching us since we got into town. We are a bit of flash, after all, and this is West Buttfuck."

"Westville," JJ corrected, letting the point fly over her head without even attempting to play ball.

Everything had changed two years ago: now they had to function like a broken piece of machinery, missing cogs and springs and the oil that kept everything running smoothly. Without Garcia, they were broken. That's all there was to it.

All the levity, the casual teasing, was gone. It was all business or no business. They were all too afraid to be close; they might lose someone else. Everything had changed. Nothing was remotely the same. The world was upside down, topsy-turvy, unstable in the worst possible way.

"Are you sure we shouldn't just go to the grocery store?" Reid asked. "Statistics show that cooks in restaurants –"

"Reid, are you being a chickenshit?" Rossi asked, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure the food isn't that bad."

"That's like saying that botulism is just a bacterium," Reid challenged. "And then people started shooting it into their faces."

JJ flinched. She could look at gory crime scene photos all day long, but if you mentioned Botox or cosmetic procedures, she got seriously squicked out. It was enough to turn her stomach, and definitely enough to make her rethink food intake. "I'll stay here and write the press release," she said.

"You want us to bring you anything?" Hotch asked. "Coffee? Danish?"

"Coffee. Whatever looks like it's safe to eat." She looked at Morgan. "You'll pick something, right? I feel safe about that."

Morgan snorted and smirked. "I like my eggs sunny side up, JJ."

"Not exactly the safest food decision ever," Reid pointed out. "I'll pick something for you, JJ. Something safe. No chance of botulism."

"Thanks," JJ said, rolling her eyes with a sigh. "Besides, small town diners are kind of creepy. The locals always look at you like they want to shoot you. It's almost as bad as a bar in the middle of nowhere." She stopped speaking, realizing that she was giving away too much of her tough girl image. "Emily, do you want to stay here and help me?"

Prentiss wrinkled her nose, but nodded. "Yeah," she agreed. "If the guys survive breakfast, we'll know it's safe to go in."

Hotchner sighed. "Coffee and a muffin, then?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm good with the coffee out of the pot over there," Emily said with a wry smile. "Don't worry about me."

Evelyn Webster caught a hint of her reflection in the steel of the walk-in door. Before she could stop herself, she looked away. It was too late; her stomach roiled, boiling acid up into her esophagus. It was all she could do not to throw up. The baby flip-flopped in response to her rising anxiety and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply and pressing a hand to her belly. "It's okay, little one," she whispered. "Mama's okay. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." She opened her eyes and opened the door. She retrieved the strawberries and beat a hasty retreat.

She wasn't paying enough attention not to walk straight into Silas. It was like running straight into a brick wall, and she bounced off of him, falling to the floor before he could catch her. Not that he would. He never did. She was awkward on her feet, the baby weight making her unsteady and uneasy, and he didn't give a damn if she fell or not. He never did.

"Get up," he ordered. When she didn't move, he grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. "I said get up. That means get the hell up."

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "Please let go: you're hurting me."

He sneered at her, but after another vicious squeeze, he released his hold on her arm. "Do you think you can handle the kitchen for a couple of hours? I have to go into town."

She nodded and swallowed. "Yes," Evelyn whispered, licking her lips nervously. "I'll manage."

"Try not to be stupid."

"I'll try," she said, averting her gaze as she took a step forward. He liked thinking that she was submissive to his will; it made her life slightly better to pretend that he was in control of her. If she relinquished her tiny bit of self-control, she would fall forever into an abyss and never recover.

The baby needed her. That was the only reason she hadn't tried to get away.

Silas grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. He reached out and patted her belly. "He's going to be a big, strong boy, just like his daddy," he said with a smirk. The smirk faded. "You're getting fat again. Have you been sneaking food?"

"No," Evelyn said sharply, shaking her head with violence. "No, I swear. I'm not even snacking. I promise." She closed her eyes, willing the guilty flush to leave her cheeks. She'd justified the lies, the little bit of extra food, by telling herself it was for the baby. Everything was for the baby; the baby was the only reason she was still fighting. She was fighting for the baby, not for herself. She was nothing.

He pushed her away. "Just see that you don't," he said. His tone was cold and harsher than usual. "We can't have you looking like a pig in front of the customers."

"No, sir," she murmured. "I won't."

"Get back in the kitchen already," he ordered, pointing. "It's the breakfast rush, for Christ's sake. You're such a stupid bitch today."

She wanted to tell him where to go and what to do, but she held her tongue. Subservient, submissive, let him take complete control. She turned on her heels and retreated back into the diner's kitchen. It had been a learning curve, but if she tried hard enough, she had a handle on her self-control.

The smell of eggs cooking was enough to trigger a little bit of nausea, but she fought it back. Everything made her sick lately. The baby was very good for that. So was her miserable existence. She was fighting for survival, fighting the hellhounds on her heels. It was a struggle that she couldn't win. Every day, she was losing ground. Every day, she thought about running away and throwing herself in front of a truck. Every day, she fought herself.

Her heart was sicker than her stomach, betraying her with its dogged beat though she begged it to stop. Just end it. Take a knife and end it all. Save herself and the baby. Save herself from hell.

She reached for a knife and ran her thumb against the edge before she gave in to her cowardice and began slicing the tops off of her strawberries.

"Pancake platter, toast with sunny side up eggs, and a hash with scrambled eggs," Melanie called from the doorway. "We've got some hotties at the bar. And they're packing heat."

Evelyn nodded and set aside the berries. "Cops."

"FBI," Melanie corrected.

Evelyn looked up. "The big guns," she said. "Something big?"

"Only the murders." Melanie sighed. "They want to talk to you or Silas. Ask you some questions."

Evelyn's heart started beating faster. The baby moved. She cracked eggs. It all happened so fast, she didn't know what happened until she was coming to. The man that was holding her up had to be some kind of a god. A beautiful, beautiful god, not to beheld by mere mortals.

"Drink this," he said softly, lifting a glass of juice to her lips. "You fainted. Have you eaten anything today?"

She sipped the juice, closing her eyes. "No," she murmured. "I haven't had time."

"Well, you'd better make the time," he countered. "I'm Derek Morgan. Melanie says you're Evelyn Webster and you own this place."

"Silas owns it," she murmured, pushing his hand and the glass away. "He'll be mad if he finds out you did that."

"What, give you something to drink?" Morgan asked. "I'll pay for it if that's what you mean."

She shook her head and pursed her lips together. "Help me up. I have to cook."

"You need to rest."

"I'll rest when I'm dead," Evelyn said, using him as leverage and pushing herself to her feet. She noticed two other men hovering in the doorway. "Thank you, Derek Morgan. Now, if you please, could you go back to the dining room and wait for your food?"

Morgan put his hands up in surrender. "Okay," he agreed, "but if you pass out again, I'll be making a return visit."

She closed her eyes and inhaled. "I am not a damsel in distress, Mr. Morgan," she said, opening her eyes and trying to steady her weak heartbeat. She was lying and they both knew it; her defensive stance and the stubborn set of her jaw gave her away.

It was a matter of time before he backed down. She knew he would. The men left her kitchen and she went back to work.

But she made sure his pancake platter had a couple of slices of bacon and eggs just the way he liked them before she passed it through the window. To anyone else, it would look like a lucky guess. To him, it would be an anomaly. Something that didn't quite make sense. He would have to investigate further, and when he did, he would understand. He had to.

Agent Derek Morgan was looking right past her and couldn't see what was right in front of his face. Men were stupid. He wasn't stupid. He'd never been stupid. He was beautiful, sweet, and not stupid.

She'd lost what it was to be her; all she needed was someone to find it for her.

She winced as she pricked her thumb with the knife.

Evelyn Webster's shattered soul begged for release. She was praying for a miracle. All she had left was the baby.