He has been gone all night. Missing they called it. Not taken, not kidnapped or crash landed or lost, just… missing. My man, my lost boy, the keeper of my heart. He is everything to me; he is gone.

What began almost fourteen hours ago with a phone call from Elliot has now become a desperate vigil at the top of the ivory tower that is Escala, with everyone grappling to cling on to some semblance of sanity. We are all on the edge of a precipice right now, barely hanging on to the cliff face by our finger nails. Gail Jones is going for normality in the face of adversity and is in the kitchen cooking a breakfast nobody wants. She looks a mess, not her usual put together self. She has yet to acknowledge that she should actually be on a day off today. The pile of pancakes and bacon is largely left untouched in favor of coffee or scotch.

GEH continues to function like the well oiled machine that it is. The Media and PR divisions reported for duty last night without even being asked to come in; they have been there all night. Both teams are well aware that with both Ros and Christian missing there is technically nobody to authorize their overtime. As such it is likely they are now working unpaid if the worst has happened. I make a mental note to speak to Carrick if that's the case. Christian would want them paid for their time and efforts - surely there must another department head who could sign off on it?

Time ticks on and the world around me continues to turn without him, though my world ground to a halt some fourteen hours ago. As I look around me the message is clear, the family is united in their grief. They are very together, to the point that I have been excluded from their gathering. From their joint demeanor they seem almost certain by now that he is lost, yet nobody among them dares to actually speak the words. The despair in the great room is palpable and washes over me in waves.

The authorities resumed their efforts to find him around two hours ago. Once first light was upon us - just after five - they held a teleconference with Taylor, Welch, Carrick and Elliot so they could 'coordinate with our efforts'. Along with Search and Rescue, the FBI is involved. The cooperation line was just a ruse; the real purpose was to break it to us gently that once noon passed they would be scaling back their resources - that and the fact they now considered this a recovery operation, not a rescue. The guys came back from that meeting looking like the FBI had torn out their beating hearts and trampled all over them.

Taylor and Welch had organized their own search and rescue team as per emergency protocol. They have of course been working all night, and with a more positive brief - to locate and safely return Christian and Ros. Still they have no news and no leads; even they are beginning to look defeated. There is no sign of Charlie Tango anywhere so far. Not even the wreckage of some as yet unidentified craft has turned up. He has not been taken to, or admitted himself, to a hospital. Every John Doe admitted in a three hundred mile radius has been checked out personally by one of the security team.

I want to believe it is a good sign that we have found nothing; it should be something to be positive about… hopeful even, but I just can't. Like the rest of them, I've lost the belief now that he will return home alive. I'm sinking deeper and deeper into a dark and unrelenting vision of a future without him by my side. I don't know how I'll carry on without him… honestly I don't even know if I want to. I don't think that I do, but that's a thought for another day when I am without company.

I pour myself another glass of cognac in the hope that it will make me numb to the pain, an action which elicits a raised eyebrow from Grace and an audible tut from Carrick. I don't care; if he is gone I have nothing to live for. If I choose to drink myself into oblivion at eight thirty in the morning while the team search for the body of my fiancé…well, his huffing and sighing isn't going to fucking well stop me.

As I look around the great room it registers that everyone here has someone to cling to. Everyone has a life raft… except for me. Jose left to go fishing. It seems Christian was paranoid - I clearly mean nothing to him or he would be here to support me. Kate is holding Elliot and doesn't give me a second look. Ethan is consoling a distraught Mia. It really is just me. I am in a room full of people who profess to care and yet I am completely and utterly alone. How is it possible that I can feel this lonely with so much company?

It is clear to me that whatever my relationship with Christian, I am in their eyes the most unimportant person here, the person with the least right. Little inconsequential Ana; the spare wheel. To them I am nothing more than just the stupid little girlfriend who has been around for a couple of weeks. In fact, to Carrick I'm sure I am nothing more than a little slut with 'Gold digger' tattooed across my forehead. He puts on a pleasant show but I often catch him scowling in my direction, a hint of disdain in his cold eyes - just like there is now. He rolls his eyes as an unchecked sob escapes my throat. They think I have no right to feel this way, no grounds to be this upset.

For a brief second I am angered by their collective disregard, even neglect of me, but then it all falls into place. All of my worst fears are recognized as truth. I am not enough; I'm not pretty or elegant enough, not classy enough. I am from the wrong social circle. I am not worthy, neither of him, nor his picture perfect not-a-hair-out-of-place-even-in-a-crisis-rich-as-s hit fucking family. Perhaps it is my lack of self-esteem that Flynn was so keen to explore just two evenings ago, but I feel certain that I'm not wanted here. I am sure that I'm intruding on what they consider a very private family affair. The way they are sitting in a large circle, paired up and holding hands… even Kate and Ethan are more a part of it than I.

I am on the outside of the circle, both figuratively and literally.

With my cognac in hand I move from the breakfast counter to the media room by myself. They are now on the other side of the glass wall and I no longer have to hear the murmurings of their hushed and indiscernible chatter. As time passes any looks of sympathy or concern thrown in my direction have ceased, everyone too overtaken with their own wallowing to worry about how mine is coming along.

I feel unwelcome in my own home, our home. But then I have to remember how short our history really is. Except for the staff and Flynn, none of them have any idea how our relationship began, none of them understands what we have overcome to be a couple, what I have endured for him. There is no knowledge of how we interact together, or the emotional turmoil that has ensued over the course of this last two weeks. They don't know that I left him or why. They don't know I was attacked and sexually assaulted just a couple of days ago. They don't know that one of his crazy ex-subs held me at gun point. They don't know I'm living here or even that he proposed. Hell, I'm calling him 'my fiancé' and even he doesn't know that I accepted!

I look at the TV news, now with the rolling headline 'Christian Grey - Missing billionaire feared dead' and I wish that it were me instead of him. My death would pale into insignificance in comparison. The jobs that will be lost, the value that will be wiped off stocks and shares, the impact on the economy and the worthy causes he supports. The impact of my loss would surely be inconsequential next to his, I'm sure nobody here would even notice if I were gone. I hear the words on the TV once more and they echo in my head. Feared dead… missing… suspected helicopter crash… feared dead… dead... FUCK!

I can't bear the sudden pain that tears through my heart as the realization hits me like a brick wall. He is dead, gone, not ever coming home to me. With that thought the walls begin to close in and I can't breathe. I never knew I would feel so lost and incomplete without him. He truly is my lifeline, and if I take him at his word, I am… I was his. I just want to feel his presence, feel his breath on my face, his hands in my hair. I'd give anything to touch him just one more time; I'd gladly give my life in place of his in exchange for holding him just one more time, for telling him how much I love him.

I am sinking deeper, consumed by the darkness. He didn't even know that I wanted to be with him. My baby, the beat of my heart, who is surely lost to us all, took his last breath doubting how much I loved him, how much I will always love him. I feel sick to my stomach. Oh God, please. This can't be happening. Our life together was just beginning. I am feeling dizzy now, the room is spinning. I am drowning in a pool of grief, pulled under by the agony that is my loss - my pain, the degree unknown to them. My head is beneath the water and it doesn't matter how hard I swim, how far I reach, there is no escape from the depths of my despair. My lifeline is gone already, there is no sense in fighting, and there is no one to pull me from the abyss.

The waves grow taller and crash against me. I feel my lungs fill, the fear within my chest expanding and forcing out any air that remains. My hands automatically go to my throat, clawing at the skin. I am desperate for a gulp of precious oxygen but I can't seem to find it. I lose my grip, falling over the precipice and into the deep, dark nothingness… alone.

-x-

I hear Sawyer's voice in the distance as I wake confused and realize I am no longer in the media room. I'm in bed, our bed. Somebody must have carried me here. I stretch out my arm for him but the bed is cold. It's in that second that I remember he is gone and the pain returns like a knife in my heart, an actual physical hurt that takes my breath away. I don't cry. I don't think I have any more tears in me now, I just feel the pain.

The last thing I clearly recall is drinking cognac and watching the news report at nine this morning. I vaguely recollect not being able to breathe. I note the blood beneath my nails and my hand goes once more to the now sore skin of my throat but there is a large dressing. Oh God, what a mess I was. It must have been security that looked after me, it sure as shit wasn't Dr. Grace or the rest of his selfish, self-absorbed family.

It takes all my courage to face it but I turn towards his empty side of the bed. His scent hits my nostrils and I realize that it lingers on his pillows. I completely lose the battle with my emotions once again and pulling one into my arms I hang on as tight as I can. Inhaling deeply I try to breathe in the very essence of him, willing any molecule that remains of him to meld with me. I have no energy for the full-blown, all out sobs that wracked my entire body last night, instead I find myself rocking back and forth with his pillow and sniffling occasionally as the tears flood rapidly but silently down my face.

I don't know how much time has passed but still I weep; I begin to shiver as my mind registers that I'm cold. I am still wearing my skirt and blouse from last night. Whoever moved me lay me atop the bed-clothes, making no attempt to change or cover me. My chill serves as yet another reminder that he is gone. Usually I am far too hot, smothered by my vine of a man who never shared his bed with anyone before me. He would be entwined with me, wrapping me up so I'm cloaked with his heat and his love. The thought that he'll never again hold me is enough to tip me over the edge and I am shaking uncontrollably, my tears continue thick and fast.

I keep hold of the pillow and move mindlessly to his laundry hamper. Wanting something of his to keep me warm I pull out the Harvard rowing sweatshirt he wore for his run yesterday morning. It is ridiculously big on me and it smells of sweat and body wash. I have to fold the sleeves over three times just to free the tips of my fingers and more like a dress; it hits me just above my knee - an inch or two longer than my pencil skirt. I know it must look ridiculous and smell hideous but I just don't care. This is one of the last things he wore before he died.

I think of yesterday morning, waking to a note saying he'd had to leave early for meetings before Portland. Suddenly I'm alert and full of purpose. I discard the pillow on the bottom of the bed and I'm up and searching, wiping my tears. I need that note. I check the bins in the bedroom and bathroom. Nothing. I have to find it… I must have it. That note is my last little piece of him. I must find it. I go to the closet for my work bag and empty the contents on the floor, searching them frantically; it's not there. I must keep looking.

I check the clock; it is five past one - lunchtime. If I'm quick I can catch Gail before she sends the garbage down with Reynolds at security shift change. I run from the bedroom through the great room and into the kitchen. I am oblivious to everyone and everything, my focus solely on finding Christians note. I have to have it, his last words to me. I must find Gail. I continue to move with tunnel vision shouting out for her until Sawyer steps out of the security office and grabs my arm forcing me to stop.

I know he is speaking to me but I don't hear. His lips are moving but I can't process the sounds. I can't focus on him now. I start to cry and scream and ramble incoherently about the note, fearing that this delay will prevent me from retrieving it in time. Suddenly Taylor is there too, his hands find my shoulders and he is almost shaking me, still I hear nothing. I feel nothing except the grief, the pain, the fear of losing this damned missing love note as well as losing my man.

I fight to free myself but before I can register anything else I feel a sharp pain, a stinging, burning sensation on my cheek, a ringing in my ear. Then I see her - Kate, she looks a mess, too. Her hair is in knots, her clothes wrinkled, and a coffee stain down her chest. She has mascara lines down her cheeks yet she is wearing the biggest grin. She is shouting at me and I begin to hear words: "sorry... bit hysterical... just breathe Steele". The words I hear next throw my world into a complete tailspin - I had plans in my mind for every eventuality at this point, except for this. I hear "crashed... found him... injured... fire" and my heart is racing again. I have the biggest rush of adrenalin I have experienced in hours and I am completely overwhelmed, once again shaking and crying hysterically. Then I hear "safe". He is safe. My Christian is safe.

My legs give out beneath me with any last lashings of adrenalin waning; I am now truly spent. Kate drops to her knees so she is beside me on the floor but I pull away from her as I feel myself begin to retch, the meager contents of my stomach keen to acquaint themselves with the grey marbled floor of the staff quarters. Sawyer thrusts a small office trash can at me and as I heave I hear Grace in the background telling them all it's just the shock of everything and to give me some privacy for a minute.

After my night of hellish exclusion I can't help but wonder if this isn't just some terribly cruel joke for Carrick to test my intentions. I almost don't want to believe what I've heard in case it's not true - I need to guard against the emotional turmoil that will ensue once more if they are wrong. I am certain Kate is mistaken. What if it's not him? I will not, cannot allow myself to believe it until I have seen him, touched him, kissed him. I won't let the knowledge soothe me until he is in my arms, because if he were ripped away from me again so soon I would surely die from the pain.

Grace brings me a wash cloth and towel to freshen up along with a glass of water. She explains that the wreckage of Charlie Tango was located near Silver Lake and that it suffered engine failure and a fire. We don't know why, or how badly they are hurt, yet she assures me they are strong and will both be fine in time. I am pulled to my feet by Kate and instructed to brush my teeth so we can leave for the hospital.

-x-

Once we arrive we are shown to a large and comfortably furnished relative's room in the private wing. We are informed by one of the interns that Christian is still being assessed and treated so we wait once more. The hospitality staff brings us refreshments for everyone. There is free TV and internet along with a large on demand movie selection. There are games consoles in the plush and spacious sitting area and a stocked mini fridge in the kitchenette; it is more like a hotel suite than a hospital waiting room. All of this without even filling in an insurance form… the benefits of the Grey Foundation having funded the Children's wing here will never cease to amaze me.

A short while later a Dr. Sanders arrives and has a talk with us about Christian's injuries. There is a little confusion when Dr. Sanders asks for me specifically - it would seem that my Mr. Grey informed the hospital that I was his next of kin. His actions have left Carrick apoplectic and watching me very closely to gauge my response. I am pleasantly surprised but I graciously defer to Grace on all matters medical. This it seems is enough to appease Grey Senior for now.

It appears that initial reports were accurate and Christian was actually in pretty good shape when he got himself out of Charlie Tango, just some scrapes and bruises and a nasty gash to his left calf, which incidentally needed almost thirty stitches. Unfortunately Ros was not so lucky, pinned to her seat, her leg trapped and broken. As the flames took hold Christian fought his way through them to pull her to safety.

We are informed that he has nasty burns to his forearms and hands. The burns are large but thankfully not full thickness so, provided we can keep them free of infection, he should heal quite quickly. His wounds have been cleaned and dressed, they are wrapped with pressure bandages to help reduce any scarring. In addition he has to wear splints on both hands for a week or two to stop the skin from contracting. It will be a difficult and painful road we are told, but he will get there. In time and with support from physiotherapists and occupational therapists he should make a full recovery - six to eight weeks until he is completely healed if all goes to plan.

Dr. Sanders is obviously familiar with Christian because he jokes that the first procedure performed was to surgically remove his BlackBerry from his hand. He follows up with a quip about him employing another minion so he can dictate text messages and emails. His gentle and optimistic demeanor and subtle sarcastic wit make him an absolute pleasure. After the night of bitter indifference I experienced with the family it is just the kind of positive human interaction that I need. His comments elicit smiles from Elliot, Kate and I, and I'm sure Taylor's cough is to cover his chuckle, Grace and Carrick though look none to impressed with his sense of humor. Their bad moods are cemented when Sanders informs us that Christian requested to visit with me alone before anybody else sees him.

Dr. Sanders leads me, flanked by Taylor, in the direction of Christian's suite and as we approach I can hear him before I see him. He is talking to Sawyer, thanking him for his efforts and asking for a full debrief first thing tomorrow. His voice… his beautiful, melodic, angelic, sultry, sexy, gravelly, dominating voice is like a symphony to me. Although not his usual strong baritone it still resonates and moves me, like an ethereal piece I thought I would never have the pleasure of hearing again.

I enter his room with Taylor and despite the preparation with Sanders it is still a shock to see him. He is propped up and looks uncomfortable, the crease of his brow betraying his tough exterior. His beautiful hair is singed at the front and his face and neck a little red. Both arms are bandaged and splinted from the elbows down to the tips of his fingers. They are elevated in hanging slings attached to the frame of the bed. There is a blood pressure cuff around his right bicep and leads attached to his chest, a monitor beeping away at his side. A central line has been placed to administer drugs and fluids, IV's of saline and antibiotics are running into him along with a morphine pump to help with the pain. He has a nasal cannula to deliver oxygen.

Taylor approaches and shakes hands with Sawyer as he makes his way out of the room. Christian loses the bravado as he acknowledges Taylor with a small smile and asks him weakly "Sophie?". I have no idea what they are talking about, though it crossed my mind earlier that it was odd that Christian had no security with him. Taylor smiles broadly and responds "False alarm, Sir. Gastritis, her appendix is just fine. Yourself, Sir?"

Christian looks to me and just nods. As he takes me in tears form in his eyes as my own. It's as if I'm staring into a mirror, my own emotions reflected back at me. Taylor slips out discreetly with a quiet "I'll be outside if you need anything." As I move towards him I smile and perch on the edge of the bed with care. I lean in and stroke his face, gently kissing away his tears as my free hand moves to his hair. He chokes out "Anastasia… I". Before he has chance to continue I silence him with my kisses, stopping only when we are both gasping for air.

There is a knock on the door and one of the nurses enters the room questioning "Miss. Steele?" At my nod she hands over a plastic bag holding all of Christian's property and clothing telling me that she was asked to hold it until I arrived. Christian smiles a thank you as I take the package from her. I tilt my head to one side and look at him curiously until he instructs "My overcoat, breast pocket… the box you gave me." In my haste to comfort him I had completely forgotten that today is his birthday, and that I still had to answer a very important question.

I search for the box and remove it from the pocket of the now annihilated black Balenciaga overcoat, which has been cut up the length of both arms and straight up the back. It is burnt badly and the smell of smoke and I don't even want to think about what else is overpowering. I retrieve the box quickly and shove the coat back in the plastic bag, tying it to seal in the offensive odor of burnt meat which turns my stomach.

The box is battered, crumpled at the corners and the ribbon burnt at the ends. I move back towards him, box in hand, he looks at me expectantly as I untie the ribbon. Before I lift the lid I pause and remind him "I gave this to you before we saw Flynn. I wanted you to know that whatever he said to me was for no other purpose than giving me some insight; that whatever he said would not change my mind about you and how much you mean to me."

He nods at me but grimaces at the resulting slight movement of his arms. "Christian, do you need more pain relief? I can call Dr. Sanders for you." He looks at me for a long moment before telling me simply "yes, but the box first, Ana".

I lean over the bed as I lift the lid revealing the key ring. I switch it on and it flashes, but it is 'Seattle' side up. He glances between me and the key ring several times as if contemplating his response. He opens his mouth to speak but I hold up a finger to silence him before lifting it from the box. I hold it by the ring and allow it to dangle, spinning it around to reveal the blinking 'yes' on the other side.

Despite the pain his face lights up as he registers the significance of the flashing piece of plastic hanging in front of him. "You're saying yes?" he asks, trying to hold back the biggest billion mega watt grin I've ever seen from him. I lean across the bed and press the call bell. "In sickness and in health baby. Yes, I'm saying yes. I love you more than life Christian; you make me whole. I love you and I want to be with you always." The nurse enters and asks simply "Pain?". At a terse nod from Christian she adjusts his morphine pump and within seconds his eyes start to flutter closed.

I lean in and kiss him once more as I tell him "Happy Birthday Mr. Grey, now sleep a while." and he drifts off into a pain-free slumber with a peaceful smile on his face.