* THIS STORY IS ON PERMANENT HIATUS *

I do not intend to return to it and continue it, ever. I do not remove it from the site, however, because for one, there's no shame in admitting that I didn't finish a story. It happens and seriously? It is a hobby, there are no obligations here, right? And another reason - I got a few very nice reviews for it and I want to keep them. They matter a lot to me.

At least now you don't have to continue reading, because you know there's no solution.

I am truly sorry for never completing this story.

Disclimer: Not mine. No profit gained.

Timeframe: Directly post 'Our Darkest Hour'.

A/N: Because the new season is closing and I think that TPTB are going to skip on all the Morgan!trauma and I like me some trauma for some otherwise strong characters - I decided to indulge myself a lil'bit. Perhaps some of you want to indulge with me? Come in, and . . . ekhm . . . enjoy?

A/N 2: The first two chapters were written before the Season 6 premiere aired, then . . . I go a bit of an AU.

Promise

"Is that another promise?" he mocks and staggers out, pulling Ellie with him.

Morgan wants to scream but he doesn't. Instead he fingers the leg of the bed for splinters or anything even remotely sharp. Nothing. The leg is smooth and cold. Ellie's aunt screams and sobs. Derek's arms feel like they're about to be riped out from their sockets. The airs smells of unwashed hair and cloths and dirty body and urine and blood.

"Please, somebody . . ." Ellie's aunt wails. "Help . . ."

Derek's head pounds and his side - where the UnSub's boot hit - throbes.

"Shut up," he mutters through clenched teeth and metallic taste of blood on his tongue. "Shut up."

There! On the side of the bed he feels a metallic holder. Its edge is jagged. It should be enough to tear the duck tape, please, please let it be enough.

Once.

And again.

The metal shrads graze Derek's skin but he doesn't feel it, no. Again. Again.

The tape breaks, then some more and finally it snaps. Derek tears his hands free, pulling hair, hitting his elbow, the force of the movement making his over-stretched joints protest with searing pain.

"You did it?" the woman behind his back gasps. "Free me, free me!" she screams and Morgan wants to hit her, wants to hit something, anything.

His legs are still tied.

He turns on his side, then scrambles to his kees which, twisted by the duct-tape, won't hold him steady. They tweak, they hurt, they scream 'no! not like this!' but he has to get up, get himself free. Now!

Before he turns away toward the door he catches her face. The aunt, Spicer's sister. Her eyes huge, almost getting out of their orbits, mouth swollen. Distorted. Her voice like sharp ice-cold knives through his skull, "Free me, freeee meee!" He could cut his restraints with this voice.

"I will," he grunts and pulls his aching body out of the room. Kitchen. There has to be a kitchen in this house. Knives are in the kitchen.

Morgan has to crawl through the hallway. It's dark and narrow and walls are falling on his head, bouncing off with every step he makes. Are the steps made with his palms still steps or should they be called something else? Steps are taken with your feet, not your palms. He's bleeding. He's leaving bloody stains on the carpet, the owners aren't going to be happy . . .

The owner is dead, isn't he? Derek finds it hard to remember, to focus. His head is pounding.

There is a body down the hallway. Dead owner.

Kitchen. He's supposed to find the kitchen.

He looks into the open door on his left, on his right, turns down the corridor and there! There's the kitchen. He can't see what's on the counters from this child-like perspective. A toddler must feel like this, never knowing what's up above. He has to climb up but his hands hurt more and more and his knees are protesting against the strain.

Something wet streams down his cheeks as Morgan grasps the edge of the counter, trying to thrust his fingernails into the hard surface for better support. He pulls and pulls, his head pounding, up inch by inch. Something kicks him in his ribs again but it's just a memory, it's a bruised muscle reacting to the change of position, to the new burden. Something scrapes his underarm – it is torn skin grating against the edge of the counter. He needs to pull all his weight up on his hands, because his knees are tied together so tight, straightening up while supported on them is impossible. His hands almost buckle. He lands face-first almost in the sink.

On the other side, there's the knife-stand.

He can't reach that far, so in the final leap of determination Derek crawls sideways, pulling his legs behind, over the sink until his fingers land on the handle and he pulls the knife from its holder. He sees the sharp glint of the blade and imagines slicing that monster's throat with it. He doesn't shake off that image. Instead he wonders what's happening with the girl right now.

He has to find her!

He can almost feel the filthy fingers touching her in her most secret places, where no one should touch a child. She's delicate, innocent, frightened . . . no.

She's not merely frightened, it's nothing like what Morgan remembers. She's terrified beyond imagination and he must hurry up to save her before it's too late . . .

may be continued . . .