the fault, dear brutus, is not in our stars
but in ourselves...
William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar (1.3.140-141)

Next morning the sky was a blinding azure, and no cloud dared to mar the expansive perfection. In a black SUV heading north much too fast for safety, Derek Morgan and Aaron Hotchner weren't really appreciating the day's beauty. They were too focused, too single-minded, and the only thing either man cared about was finding the killer who had taken their fellow agents.

Morgan drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Fiddled with the radio. Whipped around traffic at break-neck speeds. "How long do you think he'll wait?"

Hotch was studying the file in deep concentration, trying to ignore Morgan's erratic driving as best he could. He looked up slowly, forehead only barely smoothing as he focused on the other agent's question. "I don't know. It depends on how fast he figures out Reid and EJ have no intention of accepting his ultimatum."

"He abducted two FBI agents. They know his game. Don't you think he figured they wouldn't accept even before he took them?"

Hotch's expressive brows lowered, came together. "Yes," he said.

"So why them? Why Reid and Jack? Gideon said it was part of his escalation, and I agree, but there are a lot of ways he could have escalated without doin' this."

He turned to look out the window. "What do you think Reid's problem has been since his abduction? Why has he been acting so erratic, and why has he been so rude to EJ?"

It seemed like a change of subject, but Morgan knew it wasn't. His jaw clenched; his forehead creased. He hadn't wanted to ponder that question too closely, but now Hotch was throwing it out there. He had no choice. "Jack said…"

He sighed. Smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel a couple of times. Glanced at Hotch. Back at the road. "She said he was hiding something from her. She was worried about what it could be."

Hotch lowered his head. Rubbed his temples. "Did she offer you any theories?"

"No."

"But she knew."

"She suspected."

"And what do you suspect, Agent Morgan?" he said in a quiet, careful voice as he turned to look at his friend and colleague.

Morgan ground his teeth. "Tobias Hankel was a hydromorphone addict. He gave the drug to Reid when he was holding him."

"Such an addiction would go a long way toward explaining Reid's behavior."

"He's too smart for that shit. He'd never—"

"I said it, Morgan: we trained him to use his mind. We didn't train him on how to cope with an ordeal like that one. Gideon or I should have stepped in before things went this far. He's a sensitive kid; I think we all forget that sometimes."

"He won't shoot her, Hotch. I don't care how messed up he is; Reid would never hurt someone in cold blood. Especially not her."

"No. I don't think he will. What worries me is how the UNSUB will react when he doesn't."

Morgan pressed his foot to the gas pedal a bit harder. The big engine roared, and the SUV sped forward. "This Warren kid better have something for us. I'm not goin' to any goddamn funerals."

"We're not going to let it come to that. I don't care if we have to search every inch of St. Augustine and Anastasia Island, we're getting them back."

"Damn straight," Morgan said.

"Talk to me, Jack."

They were stretched out on the floor of their cell, her head by his feet and vice versa. His arms were behind his head and she had her back to him so that she faced the door.

"About what?" she said.

"Anything. I don't care. I need distraction. Hey, remember before we went to Houston and Garcia was reading everyone's horoscopes and you said we're both Scorpios?"

"And you bit my head off about astrology being fake? Yeah, I remember."

He squirmed. "Sorry about that."

"C'est la vie. Anyway, what about it?"

"I don't—I mean—I do think astrology is fake, because there's no scientific evidence that the planetary alignments the day you were born have any influence over your personality at all."

She sighed and turned onto her back. Shifted her weight in a futile attempt to get comfortable. "It's not like I believe in it. Exactly. I just think it's neat. And in my experience, I've found that sometimes people's personalities do match with their signs. I mean, human beings love to see patterns where none exist, so I'm sure that's all it is, but." She shrugged. "Call me a sucker."

"I don't think you're a sucker," he said.

"Okay, well thanks. Did you bring this up just to remind me of your negative views on astrology?"

"Well…no." He cleared his throat. "I was just wondering what it means. Scorpio, that is. I know it's the scorpion, so does it mean…venomous? Or something?"

"What? Reid, no. It's just—Scorpios are guarded, like scorpions. They're a water sign, meaning they're very in tune with their emotions, and that makes them feel vulnerable. So they put up barriers."

"Huh," he said. He didn't feel all that in tune with his emotions most days, but the barriers part was true enough.

"They can be moody. Unpredictable. Secretive. Fiercely loyal. Passionate about everything they do. They're curious and intuitive, and they love a good mystery." She paused. "And then there's the sex thing."

His brow creased. "The…sex thing?"

"Scorpios are known as the the most sensual sign. The lovers of the zodiac. It's said if a Scorpio doesn't have a way of expending their sexual energy, they'll find something else to throw themselves into just as passionately. They're incapable of keeping it all bottled up."

"Oh," he said. "That doesn't sound like me at all."

She let out a soft laugh. "Maybe you just haven't found the right inspiration. And most Scorpios prefer serious, trusting relationships to short little flings. Hard to have one of them in this line of work."

Another pause, this one loaded in a way he didn't understand. "You know, Scorpios can also be obsessive," she said. "To the point of addiction, if their energy isn't channeled constructively. It turns inward rather that outward and it becomes self-destructive."

"Ahh…" A thoughtful scowl twisted his face. "You're a Scorpio too," he said.

"Mmhm," she agreed, mildly. "Like I said, sometimes people's personalities really do match their sign."

Secretive, he thought. He wondered about her secrets, just as he was sure she wondered about his. He'd kept the truth about his mom from the team. And of course the drugs. Knowing they were watching as Charles Hankel (it had physically been Tobias, but not mentally; Tobias had helped him in the only way he could) tortured him had been, in many ways, worse than the torture itself.

His thoughts were disjointed; memories appeared in jumbled, chaotic flashes that he struggled to make coherent. He pressed fingers to his temple and rubbed. "I wonder if he's planning to feed us."

"Being hungry makes us more likely to do what he wants," she said.

He drew in a breath. "Okay, next topic. Tell me about your family; we've never talked about them before."

"Um." That was an awkward subject. She'd rather listen to him talk shit about astrology some more. "There's not much to say, really. I had a normal childhood—mom, dad, dog—the American dream."

He gave her a curious look. "What happened?"

"How do you know something happened?"

"I'm a profiler. The powers of my mind are staggering. Don't snort at me!"

"Don't say ridiculous things!"

He conceded that with a grimace. Then, "But something did happen?"

She hesitated. "Yes. Something did."

"You sent your mom flowers on Mother's Day."

"Nothing gets past you, boy genius. Yes, my mom and I are…relearning how to be, I guess."

A silence fell as he waited for her to continue.

"I've had my ability all my life. When I was a kid it was really easy, just stray thoughts now and then popping into my head. No big deal…though…my parents were already a little afraid of me. Kids at school, too." She paused to clear her throat. "When I hit puberty, things went kinda haywire."

"That's what usually happens, isn't it?"

"Hhmm." She cast him a quick glance. "Do you remember in The X-Men when the little mutants would come into their powers, and Professor X would show up and whisk them away to Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters?"

He lifted his head to look at her. "A bald man in a wheelchair took you from your family to a mutant school?"

"Not exactly," she said, mouth quirking. "I'd been on the Agency's radar for a while. When my moods began to have an effect on the moods of people around me, they decided I was powerful enough to warrant their attention.

"It wasn't like they kidnapped me or anything so drastic. My parents didn't know how to handle me; in the Agency program I could be around other kids like me, or sometimes…kids like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes. Super geniuses. Real off-the-charts stuff. You would have been right at home there."

He shifted uncomfortably. "My mom would've…I don't know what she would've done, but it wouldn't have been pretty."

"It wasn't a prison or anything. My parents came to visit. We were allowed to go home for holidays. But it was weird, you know, because we had to keep everything so top secret. Most of us chose to stay. It was easier."

He let the quiet grow a moment before he broke it again. "So what happened to your dad?"

She tapped her foot against his elbow. It was a sign of how much it upset her, despite her easy tone. "My parents split when I was fifteen. My dad was never fully comfortable around me after he realized the extent of my ability; he and I don't speak these days."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not…if I let it, it would bother me. So I don't."

"Your mom was okay, though? I mean, with…you." She wasn't her ability, and he hoped she knew that. It was beyond him at the moment to put it into words.

"Eventually," she said. "Her mother could do it, too."

"Oh…"

"Yeah. Hey, Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"You know if you tell anyone all of this, I'll have to kill you."

"That's not funny, Jack."

Jamal Warren was nervous. Skin a few shades darker than Morgan's glistened with sweat. Brown eyes darted from Hotch to Morgan and back again. He cracked his knuckles one by one.

"Mr. Warren, we need to know what happened to you last year. You dropped out of Colben after a two-week disappearance. Your previous school records were good," Hotch said. He kept his tone quiet, non-confrontational.

"Did you know a girl named Amanda George? She was at Colben the same time you were," Morgan said.
He started at the mention of Amanda's name. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I don't want any trouble," he said after a moment.

Hotch held up pictures of Reid and Jackson. "We believe the same man who abducted you and Amanda is now holding these people. We need your help to find them."

"They cops?" he said with narrowed eyes.

"FBI agents," Morgan confirmed. "Members of our team. Mr. Warren, this guy has already killed three couples in the past few weeks."

"Couples?" he said, brows flicking upward. "You mean he's killing both of them?"

"Did he give you the same ultimatum, sir? He told you if you killed Amanda he'd let you go."

Warren staggered a little, as though Hotch had struck him. He pressed a hand to his face and his eyes darted from the picture Morgan held, to the agents' faces, and back again. "I had no choice," he said. "He didn't…Amanda said…I had no choice!"

Morgan held up a hand. "We're not here to arrest you or cast blame. We just want to know what happened."

"You're a big man, Mr. Warren. How did he subdue you?"

"I wasn't big back then. I've spent the last year lifting, bulking up. I keep expecting him to come back for me; I wanna be ready." He took a long breath, and they watched him reach a decision. "You guys better come in," he said, stepping back and opening the door wider.

His apartment was sparsely furnished, like he was only there temporarily. Perfect for someone who might need to move fast. Warren took another breath before perching on a chair and gesturing for Hotch and Morgan to take the couch. Morgan sat, but Hotch remained standing.

"Tell us what happened, Mr. Warren," Morgan said.

"It was a little over a year ago," he began, rubbing sweating palms against well-worn jeans. "Amanda and I hadn't been dating long. We met in Chem. I sucked at it, and she helped me out a lot."

"Where did you go when you went out?" Hotch said.

"To the park or the beach. We weren't into clubs and stuff."

The two agents shared a glance.

"We were at the park one afternoon, surfing and hiking. Some guy asked me to help him change a flat. It was a little weird, because he was a lot bigger than me, but I said sure."

"What happened next?" Morgan said when he went quiet.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes far away. "I'm not sure. I knelt down beside the car, and the next thing I remember is waking up with Amanda in the cell."

"Cell?" Hotch said.

"Yeah. Small; concrete floor, cinderblock walls, metal door. He said if one of us shot the other, the one who did it could go free." He paused, overcome; struggled to continue. "After a week he took away our food. We decided to draw straws. She got the short one. She said it was okay. She said…she told me to do it."

"You didn't fight? You weren't angry with her when you shot her?" Morgan said with a meaningful glance up at Hotch.

"No, nothin' like that. She said she was glad it was me." He buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders shook.

They gave him some time before Morgan said, "Do you remember anything about what he looked like?"

"I don't know. Big, white. Dark hair. Dark glasses, even inside."

"Would you be able to sit with a police sketch artist?"

He hesitated, but then nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

"You need to know, Mr. Warren, that what happened wasn't your fault. This man is a predator, and you and Amanda were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You did what you had to do to survive," Hotch said.

"I tell myself that, but it don't help much."

"I know, man," Morgan said. "But Amanda cared about you enough to sacrifice her life so you could live. Don't waste that chance."

The agents offered him their cards, shook hands, and took their leave much wiser than when they'd arrived.

She had noticed the sweats, the shakes. Already. So soon. But, of course, she had no real idea of how much time had passed. All she knew—all they both knew—was that it couldn't get as bad as it had the first time. She'd already told him: I need you here. It was even truer now than when she'd first said it.

He reached for his kit quickly, furtively, but she just turned her head. An intervention could wait for less dire circumstances. She heard the zipper, the muffled tinkles…then a quiet, pained gasp. Something was different. Her head whipped around.

"Reid, what's wrong?" she said.

He had the kit in his hands and was staring into it with a horrified expression on his finely-made face. He didn't answer, so she moved closer and gave his shoulder a quick, darting touch. "Spencer, talk to me."

He shook his head as though to clear it. "They're empty," he whispered in a hollow, shocked voice.

"What's empty?" She leaned closer and peered into the small bag.

"The bottles." He pulled one out and held it up to the light. "They're all empty."

She blinked. "Did you…um…I mean…"

He gave her a withering look. "Do you honestly think I'd come to Florida with less than half a bottle? There were two full vials in here this morning."

She took the empty container from him, her face creasing in consternation. "He must've emptied them. He gave you just enough for one dose."

He looked up at her from his position on the concrete floor. The deep-set hazel eyes were wide, rimmed in darkness. "Jack, I don't—"

"No!" She dropped the empty bottle. It shattered, and she knelt, heedless, among the glass. "No, Spencer. He's not winning here."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. "He'll wait until it gets bad. Worse than before."

"He should've given us more than one bullet," she whispered back with a wry twist to her full mouth.

"It's not funny, Jack!"

She shrugged a little, face going still. "It's either laugh or lose my mind, kid."

He let out a short, strangled breath. Leaned back against the wall. Their gazes locked and held for a few heartbeats before she looked away. For want of something to do with her hands, she used his discarded sweater vest to begin sweeping up the glass.

"I really don't want to shoot you," he said to her bowed head.

"Ditto," she said without looking up. She stopped gathering the tiny, glittering shards, afraid that her shaking hands would slip and she would slice herself open. Sat back on her heels and pressed her palms against her thighs.

"I'm scared," she whispered. "I probably shouldn't let him know that—but I am."

"It's okay," he said. "I am too. We can get through this. We just have to stick together."

Her mouth twisted ruefully. "How many times has that been said in this room, do you think?"

"It doesn't matter." He shook out his hands to stop their trembling. Flexed his fingers. "It doesn't matter, because we're—not them. We know his plan. And we're smarter than he is."

She lifted a brow. "I'm not sure our brains are gonna get us out of this one."

"We'll only get one chance," he murmured, reaching out to take one of her small hands in his long-fingered one. "I won't be completely with it."

She nodded slowly. Her gaze drifted down to rest on their linked fingers. "He's big," she said. "I'm—not. Neither of us is."

A smile flickered and died across his face. "You're tough. And quick."

"We don't have any weapons besides the gun. He won't come in here if I have it."

"We have something else." He squeezed her hand, and an image flashed from his mind into hers.

She gasped, green eyes flicking back up to meet his. Suddenly her smile bloomed, brightening the bleak dungeon, and she laughed a low, rippling little chuckle. "Okay, boy genius, gimme your plan."

He grinned and began thinking it through, step by step.

it's gonna end up being 1 more chapter on this one, friends.