Author's Note: Thank you again everyone for the kind notes!
Once more, direct continuation.
Dead Soldiers
Emily bounded forward, racing over the five steps to where Derek was laying on the ground . . . she dropped to her knees.
"Oh God, Derek," she whimpered as her hand fell to his back, "please don't be dead!"
And then Hotch was down there beside her, helping her turn him over. And what was clear then, caused Emily to shriek with rage. Because Derek's one good eye was staring up, lifeless. And the left side of his throat had been ripped open.
It looked like it had been chewed on.
"MOTHERFUCKERS!" She screamed as her hot tears spilled over, burning her icy skin. And when she fell, now sobbing with grief and rage, over Derek's body, she felt Hotch's hand immediately drop to her side. And then his arms were sliding around her waist, and pulling her back to his chest.
"Emily," his voice was raspy and grief filled, "come on," he tugged her up with him, "you're going to get blood on you."
Those words sounded inane even to Hotch's own ears, but he couldn't leave her down there weeping over Derek's dead body.
The sight of it was killing him.
"He couldn't even defend himself!" Emily sobbed back as Hotch pulled her to his chest. "He was hurt and I wasn't here to PROTECT him!"
For almost three years, he'd been her partner. He'd always had her back. And now today when he'd needed her to be there for him . . . she bit down another sob . . . he'd died lying in the road. All alone.
Alone.
Her brain stumbled over the word and her head snapped up.
"Wait," she sniffled while scrubbing her gloved hand under her nose, "why is he alone out here?" She whipped her head around.
"Where are JJ and Spencer?!"
Seeing Derek's bloodied body had momentarily wiped that first mystery from her brain. But it had just come roaring back again.
What the freaking HELL had happened while they were gone?!
"I don't know," Hotch murmured back. Then she saw him wince as she felt his hand slid down from her shoulder, just before his arms fell to his side.
"I have no idea what happened out here."
His last words were a whisper. And realizing then that Hotch's reaction to Derek's death was, though outwardly more subdued, of course no less devastated than her own, Emily felt a wave of shame.
He bottled things up so well, it was easy to forget how deeply he cared. And how deeply he felt things. And Derek had been Hotch's friend, for years before he'd been hers. This wasn't just the loss of a friend for him, though. This was his team.
Their lives had been entrusted to him.
And if JJ and Reid were dead too . . . she swallowed . . . if they'd all been murdered on his watch, on a case that he had chosen, Hotch wasn't coming back from that. Not a chance.
Even now she could see him fading.
That strength and confidence that he normally exuded like the air that he breathed, it was gone. His jaw was slack, and his eyes were watering as he stared over her shoulder and down to Derek's dead body. And though Hotch had shared his tears with her just a few short weeks ago, this reaction from him now, she could see that this was different. This was more than the sadness and loss that she'd seen in him before. This was also grief and guilt, and . . . another tear slipped down Emily's cheek . . . devastation. That's what this was.
Complete devastation.
And she couldn't have that. Not only would it actually be their death knell . . . they still needed to get out of this nightmare, somehow . . . but she couldn't have him suffering that way. Not over these things that he couldn't have anticipated, let alone have EVER hoped to control once they were set in motion.
So with the snow whipping around them, and the temperature still dropping, she stepped forward again, and reached up to slip her arms around his neck. Then she pulled him close.
"Stop blaming yourself for this," she rasped in his ear, "you didn't break protocol. We were in an accident, and we were attacked," her voice started to waver, "but you got me back. And they should have been FINE on their own. When we stepped outside, they were alert and they had their guns, and the shotguns, and all of the extra ammo. Even if someone did come at them, even if a God damn ARMY had come at them, they should have been able to fend off an attack for . . ." her voice faded, "hours."
"Hotch," she continued slowly while leaned back to look up at him . . . his eyes were still watering, "why didn't they fight?" Her gaze shifted over to the SUV.
"There's not one bullet hole that I can see on this side."
She let go of him to run around and check the back.
"And there's nothing here either," she called out.
A split second later, Emily's head snapped up when she saw Hotch coming around the corner.
He was pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Why wouldn't they fight?" She continued, feeling her utter confusion in reading the scene, momentarily overriding her grief. "You said that you heard my shots, so you definitely would have heard theirs too. Hell," she smacked her palm against her forehead, "I would have heard them. And there's no blood out here except for," she blinked away the fresh tears trying to form, "Morgan's."
Hotch turned slightly, his eyes dropping down to once more take in Derek's wounds. For a second he just stared at them, imprinting the terrible images, then his gaze shifted to the bloody snow surrounding Derek's head. And that's where Hotch finally blinked away the last of his icy tears.
Grief was an indulgence that he could not afford. Not if he hoped to get any of his people home alive. And Emily's words had created an unexpected tickle in his brain.
It was hope.
His eyes snapped back up to hers.
"Do you think that they could have left here on their own?" He asked slowly, trying to pull his brain up out of the darkness that it had been sinking into, "that maybe they're hiding somewhere?"
"I don't know," she pressed lightly on his chest to guide him back around the SUV, "but maybe there's something inside that will tell us where they are."
God please, let there be some clue inside! Because she was NOT emotionally equipped to deal with the murders of THREE of her closest friends in the span of an evening! And again, of course Hotch wasn't either. But she seriously did not know what the hell they were going to do if they really were the last two left alive out there. But without any bodies, and the storm was getting worse by the second . . . if not a full blown blizzard, it was damn close to it . . . there was no way that they could be sure of what had happened to the others. So how could they just drive off and leave them to an unknown fate?
They couldn't.
Never.
And as Hotch leaned in through the front door of the Suburban, and she leaned in through the back, Emily was praying to all the deities out there, that there would be some sign of what had gone on in their absence. And actually . . . her eyes widened . . . there was something.
"The shotgun case is open on the backseat," she murmured, "one's missing, and a box of shells is open. The cardboard's torn." Then she took a step up and peered over the seats, "but for what I can see, nothing else looks any different back here than when we left."
"Well," Hotch leaned over to look in the passenger side foot well, "there's nothing up here except Derek's blanket." He pulled back out and shut the driver's side door. Then he gave a furtive look around into the blowing snow before poking his head into the back door.
"How many shells are left?"
"Hold on," Emily quickly dumped out the open box to let the shells fall into her lap, "looks like um," she poked her finger around to do a quick count, "twenty." She looked up at him, "and JJ said the boxes were full and the shotguns were empty, but these are seven shell capacity shotguns. So whoever loaded the missing one," she bit down on her lip, "didn't even take the time to fully load up."
Which really was bizarre on its own, and that was after a series of nothing BUT bizarre decisions!
First it was ludicrous that JJ and Spencer would have run off and deliberately left Morgan alone while he was alive. Yet . . . Emily's stomach twisted . . . there really was no other way for him to have been taken from the vehicle. The others certainly wouldn't have allowed that to happen if they were still there when he was attacked. So presuming that they had chosen to leave him alone for some INSANELY good reason which was escaping Emily at the moment, then why the hell wouldn't they have at least properly loaded up the ONE extra weapon that they'd taken with them? Granted, Reid wasn't the best shot on the range, but he was certainly a professional! He knew how to properly handle all of the weapons that they used. And there was no questioning JJ's firearms ability.
Not since she'd taken that shot through the bullpen glass.
So why wouldn't they have both grabbed a shotgun? Or at least jammed the remaining loose shells into their pockets, if they were in that much of a panic to leave? Really, NOTHING about this scene that they'd left for them made ANY sense at all! And looking over to see Hotch scrubbing his hand across his mouth, Emily seriously doubted that he had any better ideas about what had gone on there, than she did.
Then he pointed down at the remaining two shotguns.
"Load them both up." He turned to look over his shoulder, squinting as the icy wind hit his face dead on, "I'll watch the perimeter." Then he turned back, "I know we're completely out of our depth here, and that procedure and basic common sense says to just go get help and bring it back to start a proper search ASAP, but," he shook his head, "I can't do that. I want to at least check the woods first before we go. But I'm not going back in there," his jaw clenched, "until we're armed to the teeth."
After already getting ambushed, TWICE, choosing to stay and conduct this search on their own was probably the STUPIDEST command decision he'd ever made. One that could easily get both him and Emily killed. And this was after his LAST command decision had ended in Derek's murder.
But still, in his gut, he just couldn't drive way without checking for the others first.
If they were close by, they would have heard Emily screaming over Derek's body, so if they were anywhere, and mobile, it had to be some distance off. Which was yet another bullet in the 'it's time to leave and get help,' column.
But they weren't going anywhere.
"Right," Emily nodded before shifting her attention back to the loose shells she'd already dumped out. With twenty left, that was obviously more than she needed to quickly load up the first shotgun.
Then she leaned forward, while calling out softly, "Hotch, take this."
When he poked his head back inside, she handed him the weapon. Fortunately they had straps on them, so he just slung it over his shoulder.
And with him now a little better armed and gesturing that he was going to walk around the SUV, Emily went back to the task of loading up the other shotgun. Once that was done, she leaned over the seat to dig out the remaining boxes of shells from where she'd last seen them.
Fortunately both of those tasks together took little more than a minute, and then she was climbing over into the back row again to start hauling their ready bags over and down to the front.
Though Hotch hadn't mentioned it, she knew that they'd need all the extra ammo that everyone had been carrying.
So one by one, she began quickly digging into their bags, pulling out the clips and pouches, and throwing them into the now empty shotgun case.
The stack of ammunition was piling up.
But then she got to Derek's bag. It was the second to last, and when she opened it up, the smell of his aftershave immediately hit her olfactory senses.
Her eyes started to water again.
There was no time for that though, so she blinked away the tears and with a deep breath, forced herself to dig down through his clothes to get to the bottom of his bag where the extra clips would be. Fortunately he had some of them on double pouches, so she slipped one of them onto her belt. Then she saw his thigh holster sticking out from under his shaving kit, so she strapped that on too.
Given that the Sig was her primary weapon, it would be better if she could keep that in her hand and the Glock on her leg.
Then the shotgun on her shoulder.
Really . . . her jaw clenched as she zipped his bag back up and moved over to begin digging into Hotch's . . . her rage level was high.
She was ready to spill some blood.
Though a moment later, when she unexpectedly came across something tucked into an outside pocket of that last duffel, her expression instantly softened again. She pulled out the knit item, and again called Hotch to the door.
When he poked his head inside, she leaned over and pulled the hat down over it.
"Saw you had a spare," she said softly while tucking in his ears, "and you need to stay warm."
Hotch bit down on his lip.
"Thanks," he murmured back. Then he jerked his chin towards the holster she now had on her thigh, "that was good you found that. Was it Derek's?"
"Yeah," her gaze fell down to the gun, "yeah, it's his." Then she looked up and nodded, "seems right though, doesn't it? I mean that I wear it to find them."
"Yeah," Hotch swallowed hard as he tried to blink away the new tears forming . . . she'd said, "find" not "look" . . . "yeah it is right." Then he took a breath, and turned to look over his shoulder.
Another blast of snow hit him in the face.
"I need more clips," he called over the wind as he turned to Emily again. But then he saw that she was already holding out four clips in one hand, plus almost a half dozen shells in the other.
"Two each for the Glock and the Sig, and these," she lightly shook her other overloaded hand, "should cover you for now with the shotgun."
After Hotch had slid the Glock pouch onto his belt, he shoved everything else into his jean and jacket pockets. Then his gaze slowly shifted back over to hers.
"I should get Morgan's guns too," he said softly.
It hadn't occurred to him until he saw the holster on Emily's leg, but Morgan was carrying two Glocks, and he didn't need those guns anymore.
And they needed all the weapons they could get.
"No, I'll do it," Emily's eyes started to water again as she leaned forward, "I'll get them."
Again, he was her partner. He was her responsibility.
At least until they got home.
So Hotch stepped back to let her out, and she blinked away the tears as she braced herself against the snow and wind, to hurry back down to their friend's body, still cooling on the side of the road.
How many hours would it take for his core temperature to drop down to air temperature?' she wondered when she stopped at his feet.
It wasn't a conscious thought, just a symptom of this God forsaken job. Always processing the scene. Always figuring out the next thing that would happen.
And all of the terrible things that had happened before.
And some part of her brain did know how to do that math, how to calculate that number, but no part of her was capable of doing it at that moment.
Not for him.
So she tried to push off that horribly morbid thought as she took a breath and leaned down to push back Derek's jacket. Still, even though they had no time to spare, for a second she hesitated.
Because it felt wrong taking his guns away from him.
Worse even than the foolish notion that they were leaving him defenseless . . . they'd already done that . . . but now they were actually stripping the dead. Taking what little he had left in the world.
That was a moral violation.
That thought froze her for another moment, but then she felt Hotch's hand fall to her shoulder . . . she jumped. That at least broke the freeze on her body.
"I've got it," she murmured while leaning over to pull the gun and holster off his hip.
She transferred them to her own.
Then she reached down again, that time to pull his spare Glock from down by his ankle.
When she turned around with that in hand, she passed Hotch back his spare revolver, which she had tucked into her belt. He quickly returned it to his own ankle holster. And though Emily was planning on keeping the last spare gun for herself (that would give her one Sig Sauer, and two Glocks), after gnawing on her lip for a moment, she handed that Glock to Hotch too.
"You're more likely to be shooting first," she said by way of explanation as he took it from her hand, "so better you carry it than me."
If Hotch got down to pulling a THIRD handgun, just to keep firing, it was going to be a true and rare world of shit that they'd have fallen into.
One that they'd be unlikely to survive.
"Thanks," Hotch answered softly while quickly checking the safety, before tucking that last gun under his jacket and into his belt.
It was true that he was more likely to be shooting first. But that was because he always kept the others behind him.
At least as much as he could.
And with the matter of weapons collection now completed, he stepped back to let Emily walk past him.
"Are you done gathering the ammo?" He asked while leaning down to speak into her ear . . . the only way to be heard over the wind.
She shrugged half a shoulder.
"Basically." She answered in the same tone, while stopping in front of the open door, "But I was just thinking I'd grab a couple of evidence bags, and throw the cartridges into them. Obviously they should all still fire even if the snow gets them wet, but ideally we can just keep them dry, that would probably be better."
All of the cartridges were designed with sealants on them, but still, if the ONLY thing in the world keeping them alive out there were working handguns, why risk anything getting fucked up if you didn't have to?
Exactly.
And she could tell from the quick nod that Hotch gave her, that he agreed as well.
"Good idea," his jaw clenched, "break up whatever's left as evenly as you can so we can each get a bag. With the weapons we're already carrying, it'll be heavy, but given how quickly they grabbed you, I'd prefer to keep all of the ammo with us if possible."
The last thing he wanted was to do was leave any of the ammunition behind. Aside from the oxygen in the air, so far that was literally all that had kept him and Emily alive that night. So if they had to stay there another couple minutes to get it all bagged up, well, then that's what they'd do. Because it would be a God damn fucking MIRACLE, if they walked ten feet into the woods and just happened to 'stumble over,' JJ and Reid anyway. So if they were going on what could charitably be described as a Possible Suicide Run, they were at least going to pack for it.
"Will do," Emily nodded while stepping back inside the SUV, "give me like three minutes and I'll be ready." Then she immediately turned back to him.
"But you should come inside now," she continued with a note of concern, "this weather is horrible, and you haven't been out in it for like an hour."
Whether or not he was consciously aware, she could see that he was developing an involuntary shudder.
That was his body fighting to keep his core temperature from dropping.
"I'll be fine," Hotch answered quietly with a faint softening of his expression, "I have a hat now, remember?"
"Hotch," Emily reached over to touch his arm . . . his sleeve now was coated in snow, "please, you're obviously freezing. And even if you keep the door open, it's definitely warmer in here, than out there. And also," she gave him a knowing look, "we don't know how long we're going to be out looking for the others, something else could hold us up, and if you drop from exposure, then we're both dead."
It was a bit of a low blow . . . guilt over his concern for her . . . but it was the most effective weapon she had. One her mother had taught her decades ago. But Christ, the skin on his face was actually turning WHITE! If he wasn't so damn stubborn, he probably would have dropped his Sig into the snow by now.
It would have shivered right out of his hand.
For a second Hotch stared back at Emily, fighting the chatter that wanted to go through his jaw. Finally he bit down hard on his lower lip.
"All right." He answered with a faint nod, "I guess I should warm up for a minute."
Though they needed to get moving, if she still had one more thing to do, it was asinine to not take the next ninety seconds to get out of the storm. And though he knew his will was strong, he also knew that Emily was correct in that his body might actually reach a point where the cold wasn't something he could fight psychologically. And then he'd become a burden to her.
And that was not something he could allow.
So after she'd patted his chest, and disappeared through the open door again, he did another quick walk around the SUV . . . still no sign of anything but snow . . . before hurrying back down to join her inside.
After he'd climbed in and dropped onto the bench seat, he hesitated for a moment about whether or not to close the door. Finally he said fuck it. The broken window on the passenger side was already enough wind exposure. If he couldn't see all angles anyway, he might as well warm up properly.
Once he'd pulled the door shut, he turned to see that Emily was already over in the back again, digging for the box of evidence bags.
So he took the opportunity to drop his gun onto his seat, and pull his gloves off. Then he brought his hands to his mouth, and started huffing on his fingers.
They'd lost feeling down through the second knuckle.
"Tuck them inside your jacket, against your stomach," Emily murmured as she climbed back over the seat, "your core's still warm, even if your extremities aren't."
Hotch looked at her for only a second, before he pulled his vest and jacket up, and his shirt and sweater out. Then he tucked his hand inside.
"Huh," he muttered as the feeling started to come back to his digits, "good call, Prentiss."
And after giving his left hand a few seconds to defrost, he switched to the other, and then back again. He needed to keep his left hand free to grab his gun, if needed. Also, it was most important that the fingers on that hand, the trigger one, had full dexterity again.
And while he was working on that, he saw that Emily was busy sorting the remaining cartridges and shells. She'd just pointed out to him that Reid's bag had an adjustable strap on it.
One that made it into a single strap, backpack.
It was exactly what they needed. Because once again looking around, and considering all that could be taken from them in even a short absence . . . like Morgan's life for instance, Hotch thought with a faint stab of grief and bitterness, which he quickly pushed away . . . it was best not to leave anything behind that they might need to survive. So after unloading Spencer's belongings onto the back seat, Emily began packing that small bag, like their very lives depended on it.
Which they just might.
So in went the last box of unopened shotgun shells, Reid's box of .38s (in the hopes that they'd find him to give them back), one of the big ammo bags Emily had packed for them a few minutes earlier (easier to haul that shit on your back than in your pockets), four bottles of water, the last flashlight, Hotch's night vision binoculars (his pockets were too full of ammo now to carry it), a handful of flex-cuffs (they might actually get lucky and pin one of those fuckers down), and lastly, two evidence bags stuffed full with protein bars, dried fruit, and nuts. Basically enough food to last all four of them . . . God willing there would be four of them . . . for at least two days.
As survivalist bags went, especially for those packed on the fly, it wasn't a half bad one.
When it got to the point where Emily was zipping it closed, Hotch started to reach for his gloves again. But then she picked up something she'd dropped onto the seat. One of the protein bars.
One of his.
"Open your hand." She instructed while ripping open the wrapping.
"Prentiss," he started to shake his head, "I'm not . . ."
"Neither am I," she gently cut him off, "my stomach is actually in knots and I could very well throw this up." She sighed, "but I just realized that we haven't eaten in like seven hours, and we burned off a hell of a lot of calories running through those woods. This is just fuel to keep our bodies going, so," she jerked her chin towards his hand, "open up."
When he did, she snapped the bar in half, and dropped one of the pieces into his palm.
She took a small bite from the remaining portion.
As they both began chewing, Hotch eyed Emily to see if she did indeed, look like she was about to throw up her bite. But seeing that she wasn't clutching her stomach, he figured she was probably okay. So with a few seconds left to think about their next overall plan, he started running down the list of supplies that JJ had read off.
"The two walkie talkies," he murmured around his bite, "we should take them just in case we get separated again, and I think we should get that tire iron JJ said was back there too."
"Tire iron," Emily swallowed and turned to look at him in confusion, "what for?"
Given how many guns they had, that was a strange weapon to think that they might need. But then she saw him shrug.
"I don't know, I just," he shook his head slowly, "I think we should dig it out before we go. Put it in the duffel," he swallowed his last bite, "shouldn't be more than five pounds."
And he saw her shrug an, "okay," and he was just about to open his mouth to ask for one of the leftover waters, when she leaned over to take a bottle out of his bag.
"Here," she handed it over, "we need fluids too."
Then she turned back to get one for herself. And as she was twisting the cap off of her bottle, he saw her wince and close her eyes.
"What's wrong?" He asked worriedly, "are you going to throw up?"
"No, no," she shook her head, "it was just a uh, a weird thought that came to me."
Feeling his stomach start to twist, Hotch knew that he didn't want her to share that thought, but all the same, he also knew that he needed to ask. Because this was a hell that he had driven them into.
It was all on him.
So he took his own breath, before putting the water bottle between his knees, and reaching over to catch Emily's fingers with his free hand.
"What's the weird thought?" He asked on an exhale.
She turned to him with a sad smile.
"That Morgan's lying dead out on the road, and here we are eating a snack. That is weird, isn't it?"
"Emily . . ."
With his own pained wince, Hotch started to cut in, but she just squeezed his fingers.
"I'm okay," her voice started to get husky, "I promise. Again, it's just fuel," she bit her lip, "but that's not something his body needs any more. All those protein bars he packed," she gestured towards his bag, and the food she hadn't dared to touch, "they're just going to sit there," her eyes started to sting, "because he's not going to have any more snacks."
For a second there was a pause, and then Emily came back softly.
"Sausage pizza, that was his favorite."
"Yeah," Hotch whispered, "yeah it was. But for years, no matter where we got it from, he'd never eat the crust. He always threw it back in the box. Used to drive Gideon crazy, so finally one day I just asked Derek, 'why don't you eat the damn crust? Why do you always throw it back?'" Hotch's lip quirked up, "and he looked at me for a second, then he grinned," Hotch's eyes snapped over to Emily's, "you know that sly grin of his, and he said that he threw them back in the box, because it drove Jason up the wall. And, quote, 'dude needs to lighten the fuck up.'"
Emily snorted, and started to laugh . . . but in the end she ended up just choking down a sob. And as she slapped her free hand over her mouth, her wet eyes snapped over to Hotch's.
"I'm sorry," her face twisted as she shook her head, "I keep trying, but," she sucked in a ragged breath, "I just can't keep it pushed down."
Usually her little boxes worked so well for her, even in tragedy . . . but not tonight.
Nothing was working tonight.
"You shouldn't have to push it down," Hotch bit back tightly, "you should be able to grieve for your friend." Then his voice faded slightly, "we both should. And we will . . . we just have to do it a little later."
He turned to look over at her, to really take in her posture, and the tension in her face.
"Are you up for this?" He asked softly, "really?"
"Yeah," she sucked in a deep breath as her brow darkened, "absolutely. I'm ready."
Though it seemed like time was spinning away from them, in reality only maybe eight minutes had passed since they'd stumbled out of the woods. Time enough for the world to change.
But not time enough for it to stop.
So they recapped the water bottles, and Emily grabbed the last three things from the storage area. Then with a little maneuvering and adjustments on their vests, they got the last two small bags of ammo (Hotch had halved the remaining big one, while Emily was busy in back) inside their jackets, and strapped against their bodies. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but the vests were tight enough for everything to stay in place. They wouldn't have to leave any of it behind.
And that was all that mattered.
And after Emily, wisely, zipped a protein bar into each of their inside jacket pockets ("just in case we lose the backpack,") they scooped up their flashlights and shotguns, stuffed a walkie talkie each in with each protein bar, and headed out into the storm again.
The wind was actually getting so bad by then, that when Hotch pushed the door open, the wind ripped it from his hand. Fortunately though, it wasn't quite strong enough to rip it off the hinges.
Not yet anyway.
It was another reminder though that this search they were about to undertake, was a foolhardy and dangerous one. Still, foolhardy or not, as Emily stepped out next to him, wincing at the snow pelting her face, he knew that they were going none the less.
He leaned over to press his lips to her ear.
"Twenty yards straight in," he whispered with a gesture directly across from them, "ten yards down, then back out here. Repeat until we've covered a full quarter square mile each side of the road, or the storm gets too bad to go on. And if we get attacked again, straight back out to the SUV, and we're leaving, got it?"
It was a fucking miracle that after two violent run-ins with this cult, so far the only injury between the two of them, was just the faint abrasion on Emily's cheek.
And that was the kind of luck that ran out quickly.
The next confrontation, it was likely that one, or both of them, would be joining Morgan in the hereafter. And though Hotch would very much like to see his friend again, today wasn't the day for it. And he could see Emily's wince as she half nodded, half shivered, before whispering back, "agreed."
It would be agony to leave without the others, but as the rule goes . . . you're no good to anyone else if you're dead.
So with that, and it now close to ten minutes since they'd last stumbled out of the forest, Hotch and Emily set off trudging across the snow swept road, and into the trees once again. As they stepped through the tree line, Hotch sent up a silent prayer.
God help us . . . please.
A/N 2: Funny writing the first draft here, there was a nice continuous urgency to them getting out of there and onto the search, and then on the first cleanup, (because I'm more focused on details then which slows down my own perception of the scene) it felt like they were just hanging out FOREVER! I'm like, Hotch needs to warm up or he's going to DIE, but does it seem ridiculous that they still haven't left!? Then I read it for final and I was like, okay, it's actually only like five minutes where they did all that crap. It just took five cumulative hours to write it :)
I also liked writing the twist here of Emily's guilt over not protecting Derek, when usually it's always the men that are written as having that alpha need to protect the women. In law enforcement though, that feeling would go both ways, for both genders looking after their partners, and you hardly ever see it mentioned.
And yes I know, we've seen Emily wearing her own thigh holster before too. Let's say she didn't pack hers on this trip :)
I did briefly consider covering Morgan's body with his blanket again, but it obviously would have just blown away with the wind. And they couldn't really put him back into the SUV, while they were still digging around and packing up. That would have been so creepy and weird climbing around his body. So that's why he's still lying in the road, though that does in principle seem rather undignified. Nothing to be done about it yet.
Thanks everyone! And I think I can get one more of these repost chapters up before Christmas :)