Midnight

Chapter Two

Nine Minutes to Midnight

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Strong lives are motivated by dynamic purposes.

Kenneth Hildebrand

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A/N: Well I judge that as a pretty overwhelming response, at least, by my standards. 21 reviews at the time of writing this (15 from ff, 6 from lj), which is a great deal better than any other first chapter I've posted. This leads me to believe that a good majority of you wanted this update as soon as possible, hence this posting. So thanks to E, tearbos, dncnmndy, SillyOldThing, Lenni George, X3, A-zla, IrigD, Final Frontier Voyager, wiis, tazlvr2001, Profilerreid, MDarKspIrIt, Windy City Dreamer, B, msgills, sodoesrachael, runriggers, the Celt, raphael0877and last but not least, antynora. Your encouragement…encourages me.

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Warning: From here on in, there will be torture, there will be pain, so be forewarned.

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Derek Morgan wakes with his wrists bound to a chair. The wood is hard and scratches against his bare skin. He tries to maneuver his hands and gets several splinters for his efforts. His head is pounding like a jackhammer, and he isn't sure whether it is the remnants of his hangover, or another complaint altogether.

'Reid?' his voice is strained, as though he has only just remembered how to use it. 'Emily?' So concerned over the fate of his friends, he hasn't quite noticed the cold. He waits several seconds for a reply, and then slumps backwards awkwardly.

'Are they dead?' he asks himself. He had seen them lying there in the snow, the only movement being the flakes that swirled around them.

Were they already dead then? Were all his efforts at keeping them alive wasted? He shivers at the thought; at the potential loss of his friends, and at the notion of being trapped in this strange place, all alone. His shivers alert him to the fact that it is freezing; the cold assaults him through the many layers he still wears. The only things he has been relieved of are his Glock, his shoes, and his badge. Everything else remains. He tries to look at his watch, scraping off more flesh in the attempt.

The luminescent hands tell him that it is 9:32. He isn't sure if that's am or pm. How long had he been out? What time had they crashed the car? What time had they been ambushed by the unsub? He can't give the answer to any of those questions.

He realizes then that he is unconsciously referring to their attacker as "the unsub." It doesn't strike as hard as the realization that that makes him the victim. He can't fight back in this position. He can track the unsub down, and tackle him to the floor. He can't cuff the unsub tightly, reciting rights in an incensed voice.

He can only sit in the darkness, waiting for whatever nightmares their unsub has planned for him.

***

Emily Prentiss wakes up feeling as though she has just been hit by a truck. Her head is screaming, her body aches, and for almost a full minute, she has no recollection of who she is, or why she is in this strange place.

It all comes rushing back when she sees Reid. He's lying there, limp, unmoving. His head is lolled to the side, and at first, she thinks he's dead.

'Reid!' She ignores the pain, and rushes towards him. She puts one hand to his cheek and one to his chest. He's alive. Her right hand pulls away covered in blood. Remembering his bullet wound, she puts pressure on his shoulder. The act causes him to stir.

He gives a groan of pain and blinks several times, as if unsure exactly what is going on. 'Emily?' He thinks it's her, but he can't be sure. His head is fuzzy almost to the point of delusion. He feels her slipping off his layers of clothing in an attempt to get to the wound.

She lays his cardigan and her coat on top of him; she doesn't want him to succumb to the bitter chill while she's trying to stop the bleeding. There is a pile of rags beside her, clean enough that they won't cause infection. She holds them against the blood flow, and then searches for a suitable bandage substitute.

It's a small room – a cell, really. There's a bed with several thin, stained blankets on it. She doesn't want to know what those stains are, though she can guess. In one corner of the room, there's a 15.5 gallon keg. In the other corner, an empty bucket. She knows she could probably use one of the blankets as a bandage, but she also knows that they will need the blankets for their traditional purpose.

There's nothing in here for her to treat the wound, let alone bandage it. She pulls her fingers away to check the damage; it's a through-and-through. The bullet itself is probably lodged in a tree somewhere out there in the wilderness. That's good though – it means she doesn't have to deal with the added hassle of removing a bullet. For now, all she can do is stop the bleeding.

It's a snap decision. She knows that he needs the warmth more than she does. It's a polypropylene shirt, designed specifically for this kind of weather. She doesn't know how well it works as a bandage – she knows he would, but he's not in a particularly scientific mood right now.

His hand flails wildly as she wraps the shirt around the wound. Eyes meeting his, she grabs the hand and holds it tightly. His eyes are dark, in pain. She knows he's been through hell and back before, but that isn't always preparation enough for the next trip. She rebuttons his shirt, fixes up his outer layers.

'It's okay.' She tells him. 'It's okay, Spence.' He's shaking, so she tries her hardest to lift him up towards the bed. He attempts to co-operate, but his limbs don't seem to be following the orders his mind sends. He is, effectively, a dead weight.

He groans as she heaves him onto the bed. She tucks the thin, dirty blankets around him; at this point, too much cold will send him into shock. She realizes that she's still holding his hand. She tries to extricate her fingers, but is stopped by a moan from Reid.

'Reid? What's wrong?'

'Please.' His voice is weak; she knows he won't last more than a couple of days without proper medical treatment. 'Don't let go.'

She sits awkwardly beside him, their hands grasped tightly. They are each other's safety net. And they're not letting go.

***

Aaron Hotchner stares out the window of the SUV dolefully. The blizzard that they had been hoping to miss has come early; the time of their arrival in Keyser depends entirely on the length of the blizzard. Reid had made a comment the previous evening about the longest blizzard on record lasting for ten days. They're hoping that this one won't last that long; there isn't exactly a substantial supply of food in the car.

They had pulled over to the side of the road, unwilling to drive in such poor conditions. According to the GPS, there's a gas station a few miles ahead, so if worst comes to worst, they can brave the gale force winds and the raging storm.

JJ is asleep, stretched across the back seat and relishing the warmth of the heater. Rossi had been awake briefly, but had fallen into a light snooze when he realized that they weren't going anywhere for a while. This left Hotch, unable to sleep, staring out that window dolefully.

He has a strange feeling in his gut, as if something has gone horribly wrong. He had tried calling Morgan, Reid and Prentiss earlier, but there is no reception; cell towers have evidently been affected by the blizzard.

A shuffling sound from behind tells him that JJ is stirring. She seems unsure of her location at first, and startled at the absence of a warm body beside her. Technically speaking, this is her first case back since the birth of Henry. She has returned from maternity leave early due to the not so subtle hints from her co-workers. It isn't that Jordan Todd was a significantly detrimental influence to the BAU, but the team had clearly suffered somewhat in JJ's absence.

'No signs of it dying down?' she asks Hotch.

He grimaces.

'No.' He lets a few seconds of silence slip past him before continuing. 'We should have waited.'

'You can't control the weather, Hotch. Getting trapped in the middle of a snowstorm isn't your fault.' He has taken all errors to heart lately, whether they are legitimately his mistakes or not. It is a character trait the entire team knows has been keeping him awake at night, working to moderate those faults. If anything happens that he thinks he could have possibly prevented, he spends days brooding.

The job has eaten them all away inside.

Some of them will put on brave faces, make jokes, find something to smile about, but it's a façade; one that they are quite happy to keep up for each other. It's how they manage to keep going. They know that if one of them breaks, the others will be there. They don't know that in the coming days, they will need to be as strong as possible.

For themselves and for their friends.

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He can hear the wind howling outside, battering against the wooden walls. There's no heating, no insulation. This house feels like it was never built to last the winter months; a mere shack. Despite the coat that he still wears, he is shivering. The luminescent hands of his watch now read 10.18. It's a time he will remember, for it is when he first hears the footsteps. They are faint at first, distant. Then they grow louder, more forceful. The unsub is coming for him.

The door swings open and light shines in. He can see the unsub silhouetted against the rectangle of light. If he were to look around, he would now be able to see the things he had missed in the dark; the equipment racks which lined the walls, instruments of torture of which he would have recognized only half. He would have seen the boarded up windows, the scratch marks on the wall. Even without the light, though, he knows that this is not a nice place. He doesn't need the light to hear the screams of those that have gone before him. He doesn't need the light to know that he isn't going to get out of this without some injury, if indeed he gets out of it at all.

He stares at the approaching figure, trying to intimidate as much as he can from his admittedly inferior standing. His attempt is impeded by the sudden intrusion of bright light. Overhead, the fluorescents flicker on. There is, apparently, electricity in this strange, forbidding place.

He opens his eyes slowly, his field of view fading from black.

'Derek Morgan.' It is not a question; the unsub tosses an FBI badge from one hand to the other. 'FBI.' The acronym is spoken in a mocking tone – the tone one would usually associate with an embarrassing family secret. This unsub does not feel threatened.

'Go to hell,' Morgan spits. It's only part actual antagonism. He's trying to gauge the unsub's response. To get a better idea of who this man is, and why he decided to kidnap three FBI agents in the middle of a snowstorm.

There are no further preliminaries; the unsub does not try to make any conversation. He pulls something off one of the racks on the wall; due to the angle, Morgan cannot quite make out what his first method of torture is to be.

Derek Morgan has experience pain in his life, both physical and emotional. He has seen things that would send most people into insanity, he has felt things that have brought tears to even his eyes. He has never experienced such direct torture before. He has seen the effects of it – the mental anguish, the coping mechanisms. He has seen Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but he has never experienced it.

Somewhere in his mind, he's telling himself that it will kill Reid to go through this again. That it was bad enough the first time, with Henkel. But now. Now, they are trapped in a house in an unknown location, surrounded by freezing winds. If he had to guess, he would say that the rest of the team did not even know they were missing, that they would not realize for hours yet. A lot of damage could be done in a few hours.

He bites back the pain as a long thing object is inserted beneath his fingernail. He closes his eyes, afraid that seeing the event transpire will convince him that it's all real. He wants to scream, but he can't. He won't. He has to make it through this, if not for his own sake, then for the sake of his friends.

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Let's take stock of our injuries, folks:

Reid has a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Emily has a concussion, and she's pretty much given half her clothes to Reid. Morgan's being tortured. And it's not going to stop there. Review, tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, what you want to happen, etc. I will take all opinions into account when I write chapter three. Of course, my opinion trumps yours :D. Happy reading!