A/N: I have no idea where this came from. But it felt worth writing. Not betaed. Criticism and/or praise is very much appreciated.
And disclaimer: I own none of this; only the idea and the words are mine (If I did own it, Hotch would be a lot happier.).

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Swans

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Chapter One: A light and a dark side

The difference between a good man and a bad man is the choice of the cause.
(William James)

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The only light in the damp room came from a single, naked light bulb, hanging from the low concrete ceiling. It smelled moldy down in the basement room; the walls were covered in dirt and splashes of some dark, dried liquid. There were no windows and no way out, except for a white metal door.
For once there was no music coming from behind that door.

Two chairs were positioned in the middle of the chamber-like room, screwed to the floor.

The two people sitting on them - a woman and a man - had definitely seen happier days. Their clothes were dirty and torn and had more than a few drops of blood on them. If it was all theirs, was hard to tell, considering what equipment there was in the corner farthest away from the door.
A wooden working table, battered and darkened by age and excessive use, was covered by all kinds of tools. Pincers, a hammer, screwdrivers, a saw, a few knifes, scissors and forks, but also a dog collar, a whip, candles and matches.

If it weren't for the pair on the chairs, one wouldn't think much of it.

The man stirred, lifting his head up an inch. His eyelids fluttered open lazily and he hazily looked around; as far as his aching neck would allow. He took in the tools and the windowless walls, but couldn't get himself to feel fear or awe anymore. After finishing his brief inspection of his by now far too familiar surroundings, he tucked at the bonds binding his hands; his feet were also bound. Resignedly he had to concede that they were still firmly in place.

'Prentiss,' Aaron Hotchner whispered, the lack of music from the next room forcing him to keep his voice as low as possible.

The dark haired woman next to him didn't move.

Emily Prentiss' chin lay on her chest. She almost fell off the chair and only her tied hands kept her from actually doing so.

'Prentiss,' Hotch tried again. A little louder, a little more forceful this time.

The raven-haired woman groaned and Hotch saw her scrunch up her face. Then her eyelids slowly opened. Just like Hotch before Emily checked her surroundings and ties first, before lifting her head to meet Hotch's eyes. She bit back a pained moan as the sore muscles in her neck screamed at her to stop moving.

'The music is turned off,' Emily whispered. 'He been back yet?'

'I don't think he has been here since the last time,' Hotch murmured back. He tried to get himself into a more comfortable position on the hard chair, but that task proved to be impossible. Finally he gave up and slumped back against the wood again.

'I don't know if that is a good thing or a bad,' Emily chipped in, while trying to rid her hands from the rope. Her wrists and her fingers were scratched and grazed and she had ripped off three fingernails.

'Prentiss, stop that,' Hotch finally ordered, as he saw the almost dried wounds on her hands start to bleed anew.

'No, Hotch! We've been in here for what feels like three weeks and I can't stand another -'

'It's been three days,' Hotch interjected. His eyes searched for hers and when the two pairs of dark eyes met, both immediately felt somewhat calmer.

Emily hung her head.

'I hate feeling like a puppet on strings; you never know when your strings will be cut.'

'I hate that, too,' Hotch admitted; he sounded very tired.

Silence elapsed between them, as they both sunk into their own, dark thoughts and visions.

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Suddenly blaring music sounded from the adjacent room and made both agents jump. Their tormentor was back and he announced his presence with blaring Death Metal sounds. Yesterday it had been Rap and the day before that, their first day here in that wet cellar room, he had actually played Pachelbel's canon in D-major. Emily had recognized the melody immediately. It was one she had heard on many concerts that she had had to attend with her parents when she was younger and it had made her feel sick to hear such a beautiful piece in a place like this.

'Hotch,' Emily whispered almost pleadingly.

Hotch had never before heard her sound this frightened. But he knew where her fear came from. It came from the same place his own stemmed from. Because Hotch, too, was scared of the moment the door would open and the man would step through. A knowing grin would be plastered to his face, though his eyes would be as emotionless as they always were.

Every time we see evil, something good dies in us. That's what he had said at the end of the first day, just before he had closed the white door behind him and left two tattered and bruised agents behind. Hotch had to admit that he believed that, too - to a certain degree. He knew that every time he saw evil happening right in front of his eyes, holding on to the little good in this life became decidedly harder. But Jack still showed him how beautiful life could be and evenings with the team after a hard case, when they could laugh without having to worry, left him feeling much lighter inside. If you keep fighting everything bad that was out there, Hotch knew, then the good would prevail. Not always and not forever, but in small dimensions. And those mattered and always would.

'It's gonna be alright,' Hotch said. But he knew that his words probably sounded unconvincing, given that they were the same they both had been telling each other the past seventy-two hours.

'The team will find us, Emily.'

Even to Hotch it seemed ironic that he hadn't called her Emily until there was the possibility that they would both die.

'I really hope you're right,' she gave back quietly.

Then they heard a key being inserted and the white door behind them opened with a low squeak.

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A tall man entered. With his short blond hair and blue eyes he could be described as good-looking, but his face was too sharp, his skin too pale and his eyes dead. The sleeves of his simple, light blue shirt were pushed up to his elbows, revealing pale muscles. He shut the door behind him, but stayed behind the two agents on the chairs. From his belt he took a shiny golden badge and a standard issued Glock. With an almost loving smile on his thin lips, the man placed his credentials and gun in front of the white door. Then he slowly walked to the table in the far corner, passing between the two agents. He touched a few of the things on the table - a hammer, some duct tape and a stapler.

Two pairs of hard and unflinching eyes met his stare as he spun around to face Emily and Hotch.

'Hello, agents,' he said solemnly and leaned against the edge of the table casually.

Neither one of the tied-up answered him.

'Well, that's very rude,' he stated and stepped closer to Emily. It took Emily a lot of self-control not to flinch as he lightly traced her jaw line. Hotch tensed visibly on his chair, but the man's attention was on the woman in front him.

'I thought you had manners, Agent Prentiss. You used to greet me every time we crossed paths at the BAU.'

He took his hand back, but didn't give Emily some space to breath.

'When I met you at the BAU I didn't know that you were a sick, sadistic, murdering son of a bitch,' Emily spat. Her voice was even; her hands, however, were shaking behind her back.

'That is in the eye of the beholder,' he retorted calmly. 'I still see myself as an FBI agent who is trying to find new ways of solving crimes. And I am willing to go to great lengths to do that. By doing what the UnSubs do, by experiencing what they experience, by feeling what they feel I get into their heads. And once I did that I will change the BAU in a way that no one ever has. Not Jason Gideon, not David Rossi and not you, Agent Hotchner,' the man finished and turned to look at Hotch with cold eyes.

'No one cares what you see yourself as, Fuller,' Hotch replied. He kept his voice emotionless, almost indifferent. 'When they get you, you will go to jail for the rest of your life. And everything you think you achieved will disappear with you. Not one will remember your name.'

'We will see about that, Agent Hotchner. We will see about that.'

Never before had a stapler seemed more frightening to Emily or Hotch. Strange what circumstances could change.

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