Chapter 3

Ten minutes and thirty-one seconds.

Thirty-two seconds.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Emily makes an indignant noise then, and Reid stops counting. He's been awake for ten minutes – give or take – longer than she has, which worries him. He isn't sure how long he himself has been out. It could have been minutes, hours, or even days. The thought only sends him into a world of hysterics because he needs to know the exact time. Emily could very well have a grade III concussion, though he's hoping it's only a grade II, and if that's the case, she needs a doctor.

And not to mention the fact that Cyrus is doing God knows what. For all he knows the psychotic man was planning to blow up the place in the next hour. And where is he? He's stuck in a damn closet or something of that nature. So while that man plans to send them all to their death, he's stuck in a dingy looking room. If they die, it will be his fault.

His fault.

But fuck them all. Fuck them for evening putting him in this situation to begin with. Emily could have died if he didn't pick her side, but on the other hand, they can both die now because he isn't out there convincing Cyrus not to blow the chapel to pieces. See. He's in a lose, lose situation, and it's making him sick. Either way he loses, but hadn't he known this from the start?

Just then, Emily starts to cough harshly. It isn't until she starts to jerk violently, that he's aware she's choking on her own vomit. He carefully rolls her onto her side as he doesn't want to hurt her anymore, but the groan she chokes out tells him that he has done just that. So as she empties her stomach, Reid slips his hand under her shirt and runs it up her side. It doesn't take him long to find the bumps of what are sure to be a few broken ribs.

"Why'd you do that?" he practically shouts out her. He hates her for what she did, and though she went willingly, he can't help but feel that this is his fault. "Why'd you take my place?"

"Reid?" she croaks out. She sounds worse than he imagined, which makes him feel guilty. "Where… where…are…we.?"

Reid pales. "You don't remember?" When she doesn't answer him, he feels sick. She doesn't remember. On some level, it's a good thing. Right? At least for her mental health it's sort of good, but physical it's bad. Really bad.

"What happened?" Her voice is as light as a feather, and her labored breathing strikes him like a whip.

"Eh…" he hesitates because he's not sure what to tell her. So quickly, he weighs his pros and cons and decides to tell her a white lie. Not a full lie, but not the complete truth either. "You… you got hurt. But you're going to be okay."

There is a beat of silence before Emily asks her next question. "Where are we?" she repeats, slightly slurred and forced, and Reid frowns. Definitely at least a grade II concussion.

"Emily, I think you have a concussion. A bad one," he tells her, nearly hysteric. Her heavy intakes of breath tell him she won't stay conscious for long. "We need to get you out of here. Okay?"

She doesn't answer him for the longest time. "Wh…what's that noise?"

Other than her hacking, the only noise is silence. "What noise?"

"That…that noise," she forces out between coughs. "Buzzing."

God, he wants to throw up. "You need a doctor," he blurts out. With a concussion, ringing of the ears, prolonged memory loss, vomiting, and dizziness were all signs that you need to see a doctor.

"Where are we?" She asks for the third time.

"Nowhere." And in some ways it's true. They are in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere important. Nowhere she needs to know about. But in many ways it's a lie too because no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise, they are going somewhere, just not where they want to go. But hey, maybe she can come visit him in hell, because he knows for a fact that he isn't going to heaven.

***

This is how it feels when you realize you just made the worst mistake of your life: The pit of your stomach freezes, while your legs go to jelly. There's one single thud of your heart. The shape of her name, sharp as metal filings, gets caught between your teeth even as you try to force it out in a shout. Fear breathes like a monster into your ear: Where did I see her last? What were my last words to her? Were they kind or full of hate? And then, finally, your throat seals shut, as you swallow the fact that you've made a mistake you will never be able to fix.

See, everyone thinks that we make mistakes when we're young, but Hotch knows that we don't make any fewer when we're older. He shouldn't have sent them out to Colorado by themselves. And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes he shouldn't have sent them at all. They should have let the locals handle it, which is why he comes to the conclusion that if they died, it will be his fault.

And he suddenly knows that if she dies, he will die. Maybe not immediately, maybe not with the same blinding rush of pain, but it will happen. You can't live for very long without a heart. He isn't sure when these thoughts started to develop, he can't be sure, but he does know that he has denied them for a long time. Only now has he finally considered it, and damn, he wishes he would have considered it sooner.

You don't get a second chance at life. If she dies, then he will drown in regret. He can't let her die. But things don't look so good. It has been a half hour and only Reid has woken up from sleep's abyss. Emily still has yet to wake, and with each passing second, Hotch wonders how the hell he's going to get them out of there.

The shrill sound of the phone ringing wakes him from his thoughts. Rossi reaches for it, but only Hotch notices the way he holds his breath. "Hello," Rossi answers.

"I want the name of the other FBI agent."

Rossi doesn't even miss a beat. "What other FBI agent?"

"Don't mess with me," Cyrus snaps. "I'll kill one of them. God will forgive me, for they both have sinned."

Hotch sees Rossi look at him, and he nods. He will not have Reid's death on his hands.

"His name is Dr. Spencer Reid," Rossi tells him. "Please, we need to know if they're all right."

"They're fine."

And before Rossi can get another word in, Cyrus hangs up the phone. As if on queue, every eye turns to Hotch for an answer. It's times like these he doesn't want to be the head of the team. Sure, he has Rossi for help on most days, but today his friend is turning to him for all the answers.

Answers he doesn't have.

However, shouts and mumbled whispers save him from having to answer their silent pleas. In the blink of an eye they all have their headphones on and are listening to Reid's and Emily's conversation. She doesn't sound well. Not at all. And as she coughs and chokes up which can only be vomit, Hotch shuts his eyes as if he too were in pain. This can't be happening. It just can't.

"We have to go in there," Morgan whispers harshly. "She needs a doctor."

"Not now." He hates himself for it, but he knows they can't. Emily and Reid aren't the only ones in there, so why does he have to keep telling himself this?

"Hotch," Morgan practically growls. "She will die if we –"

Thankfully, Rossi fights this battle for him. He can't fight with Morgan today because - as much as he hates it - he knows the man is right. But they can't go in. "Hotch is right," Rossi tells Morgan calmly. "We'll wait until dark. If we go in now, they'll see us coming and kill everybody. There are other lives to think about."

Morgan must hate this answer as much as he does because before they can calm him, Morgan is knocking over a table and storming off the site. Hotch doesn't go after him because he knows he'll be back. Just like he came back. And why? Because you can't run from hell.

So while he waits for Morgan to cool off, he turns to Rossi with a plan in mind. As head of the team – whether he likes it or not – he has to make himself strong because it's expected of him. He has to become confident because someone beside him is unsure. He has to turn into the person others need him to be, and this is exactly what he does because it's the only way he's getting Emily and Reid out alive.