Hey, hey...a new chapter for your pleasure! I hope you like...

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create).

It had no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.

C. S. Lewis

She was breaking.

There were starting to be movements in the darkness. Shadows that couldn't possibly exist, figures that weren't really there. Sounds that had no place to originate from. Soon choruses were erupting in the tiny room, symphonies and opuses, operatic crescendos and arias of baritones and sopranos, colors and dances and great chasms of fantastic light greeted her throughout the meaningless black.

Perhaps, there was actually sound being pumped into the tiny room. Maybe it was an attempt to further disrupt her, further her descent into despair and hopelessness. She would not give into it.

"Hotch?" She screamed over the impenetrable noise of song and music.

The piercing, ear-splitting noise pounded into her head. She staggered under the weight of it. She had stood up to scream toward the ceiling. She assumed that someone had to be watching her, feeding her, monitoring her. The ceiling, being the only place she couldn't feel must be where everything came from. The music immediately disappeared under the painful burden of the single noise.

She told herself not to cry, whispered it in her head, clutched at it through her fingertips.

She cried.

She tamped down on the choking noises erupting from her throat. It wouldn't help to make a noise and have the awful sound return. Her ears still rang from it, still thumped with the pain of it.

That sickeningly sweet smell returned. Every time the smell was worse, the nausea tripling, quadrupling, the shivering when she awoke would worsen, be more and more uncontrollable.

She would lie on the floor for an age, letting the shudders wrack her body, sheens of sweat would cover her forehead and she would gaze peerlessly into the ceiling or the wall, she never could tell which direction was which anymore. Hoping against hope that someone would save her, someone would stop this endless night, this endless nothing. Her hands, her touch, they were the only thing she could perceive as real. Even the walls were beginning to feel unnatural. Not there.

Were the walls even there anymore?

She tried to reach out and touch them…there was nothing there. Her arm flailed pathetically. A mass of strongness caught it.

She gasped, and then cringed waiting for the noise to blare.

It didn't.

She realized it hadn't been as loud as she thought. The gasp was only inside her own mind, she had been too conditioned against making sound.

She exhaled slowly in disbelief, shuddering as she felt another mass stroke her arm over the shirt she forgot she was wearing.

That's when she noticed that there was a murky redness in her vision. It was familiar and odd. Where had she seen that before?

"Emily?" A rough voice inquired.

This time had been especially brutal. The Observer had been relentless. No questions this time, just violence. The Observer had not only used the cattle prod to exact electrical burns and scorching to his sensitive and ravaged skin but had also used it as a whip or truncheon, battering Hotch across his body. Every so often the live head of the prod would graze him as well as issue a force of kinetic impact. So he knew he had a couple of scorch marks on his upper arms and one nasty one across his jaw. Even now it was still pulsating with a dulling ache. When the suffering was finally over, The Observer helped him put his shirt back on, it was a strange mark of respect or possibly remorse. It had been the only constant source of care aside from the daily food and water.

Before The Observer started the torture sessions, he would make sure Hotch ate the lonely sandwich, and before he left, he would always put Hotch's shirt back on him. He hadn't even begun to postulate the many reasons behind this strange aspect of the ritual. Usually Hotch was so drained that even though he weakly tried to fight The Observer's actions when tying him up, when he was bound with the coarse and roughened ropes, that The Observer was delayed only a little, not enough for even his snap-anger to matter. This time though Hotch could barely open his eyes to watch him and was not in a good enough mental state to realise that the man hadn't tied him up. The Observer left the room; crawling up the ladder and through the man-hole in the ceiling.

A few moments later that suspicious smell was back.

The smell from the aerosol can.

Hotch knew it wasn't chloroform this time.

He was still rendered unconscious.

He woke unexpectedly, and immediately scanned the room. Was it the same room? He couldn't be sure.

There was another person in the room. They were unconscious too. He, as quickly as he could, made for the figure. Rolling it over he realized it was Emily. He almost whooped in joy. To see her, to actually see her, for the first time since their abduction was deliciously wonderful. He couldn't see any physical marks on her face or hands. But felt it would be improper for him to search her anywhere else. He so dearly wanted to check her for any damage, but he knew he would have to wait for her to wake up.

Hotch was worried. She hadn't woken up yet and it had been quite a while.

He contemplated taking a nap but discarded that idea, he wanted to be awake when she woke up. He wanted her to know they were together and he was okay and that they would get through this. He also wanted to find out what she knew about The Observer. What stories had she made up about their relationship? They needed to get their stories straight for whatever he had planned next.

Her arm flew out from her side haphazardly. He didn't know whether she was dreaming or something else, maybe trying to fight off The Observer? He caught her arm with his hand, and steadied it carefully.

She flinched, and moved her mouth in a silent gasp. Then she cringed and brought her hands up to her ears, covering them protectively.

Hotch stared at her incredulously. What was going on?

She eventually let out the breath she was holding. Her eyes remained closed, as if it hadn't crossed her mind to open them. Then her body started shivering. She shook and trembled, a frown marred her face. She looked like she was about to throw up. It was a look he remembered from Hayley's pregnancy, and more recently with JJ during takeoff on the jet. She didn't throw up though. Merely tried to cuddle more into the floor, shrinking from the bigger room. It was not a movement he connected with the strong and capable Agent Prentiss. He wondered what The Observer had done to her.

Without thinking he reached out his arm and ran it slowly, comfortingly, down her arm. She shuddered again, this time he perceived a bit of revulsion and horror. He hadn't meant to scare her.

"Emily?" He asked, knowing she would recognize his voice.

He was surprised when she seemed to dart backwards at the sound of his voice. Her head shook from side to side as if she didn't want to believe he was really there.

"Emily. It's me Hotch." He said again. Reaching out toward her, he grabbed one shoulder and leant into her, his head lowering nearer to her face, he dropped his voice to a whisper and moved his arm protectively around her as he spoke, "It's me. Prentiss…it's me."

"It's me," she heard the voice that sounded like Hotch say. She was having a full blown hallucination. She shook her heard to try and dislodge the fantasies. Hotch was not in this small dark room with her.

"Open your eyes." The voice seemed to be getting angrier, or frustrated, she wasn't sure and she never could tell with Hotch, the real Hotch, anyway. "Prentiss, NOW."

Hotch didn't know exactly what was wrong, he was worried The Observer had done something to her eyes. He wanted to check, make sure everything was okay. He hadn't meant to pull rank or order her about, but he was rewarded when Emily slowly blinked her eyes open.

Light assaulted her, she groaned at the brightness. It hurt and sparkled dangerously in her optic nerve. She quickly closed her eyes again. But she had seen a dark figure resting near her. The Voice.

He saw her flinch. Her eyes probably just needed to adjust to the light. "Emily…you okay."

She nodded in answer, unsure if he was real or not. He reached for her again, his hand resting on her shoulder. His thumb touched her cold skin through the opening of her collar. The contact seemed to be too much for her. She burst into tears. He was surprised. He didn't need fingers to count how many times he'd seen Emily cry. He never had. He'd seen her angry, fierce, determined, happy, laughing, teasing, worried, scared. He had heard the sounds of her being beaten, standing up for herself and others. He'd witnessed an apparent split personality. But he'd never seen her cry.

She was crying…in front of her supervisor. If he was really there.

She felt the weight of his manly hand on her shoulder, and hoped that it was real. Hoped that it wasn't a ghostly hand on her shoulder. That they were together, and that she didn't have to go through this alone anymore. But why was he allowed to speak? She didn't understand that. And why did he get to have light? Why was she the one relegated to darkness? She wanted to reach out and touch, make sure he was there. Would it matter if he was only a figment of her imagination if he made her feel better? She decided it didn't, she could deal with sanity later. The way she always did.

Hotch saw her hand start to move out toward his body. He guessed she was checking to see if he was really there. He shifted his body closer to her, grabbed her hand, pulling into down toward the floor whilst his other arm reached out and folded her body to his chest. As soon as her body touched him, felt the weight of his arm covering her. His legs touching her legs. She relaxed, and cried harder, burying her head and shoulders into his chest. She was silent though, the whole time, he noticed. She had yet to make one sound. He moved slightly and she tucked her head more fully into the crook of his neck. He could feel her every breath.

She hadn't felt this protected in a long time. She reveled in it while noticing that she hadn't stopped crying. Probably cathartic…she resolved to ignore it in favor of relishing human contact. She wasn't big on physical contact, but she needed this, needed to know she was human, that she could accept and convey physical touch.

"Emily," she heard, "are you hurt?"

She shook her head in answer, finding it humorous that her nose brushed against his neck when she did so.

"Can you talk?"

She shook her head again.

He brunched his eyebrows together in confusion. If she wasn't hurt why couldn't she talk?

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Arc