A/N: Thank you for all the reviews. I'll be replying to the signed ones shortly. The site is being a pain and taking about 24 hours to email anything to me and I've had a busy week. Next chapter will be up early next week.

Chapter 2

Don was being punished, but he didn't understand why. He had done what his captor had asked him to do, yet he'd been left alone in the dark for what felt like days. Sleeping had taken up some time, but when he was awake all he had was blackness and his thoughts to keep him company. His stomach churned uncomfortably again and he grimaced, pressing his lips tightly together. There was a jackhammer pounding at his skull, his mouth felt like the desert and his stomach like he'd abandoned it. The headache was making him feel nauseous, too. He needed drink and food, in that order. Some Tylenol or aspirin would be appreciated as well.

Yelling hadn't resulted in his captor visiting him. Don was starting to wonder whether the man was even around, whether he had been left to die.

His thoughts took a traitorous turn, constantly berating him on his stupidity. Telling him that taking that promotion had dulled his instincts and made him a useless agent. That if he'd still been out more in the field he would have realised that something was wrong before it was too late. He never would have ended up in this situation in the first place.

When the food and drink (two glasses of water!) somehow miraculously appeared (how had he missed the door opening?) and he had light again, he couldn't have been more grateful or relieved. He hadn't been abandoned. The man wasn't going to let him die.

It didn't do enough to clear his headache, and he'd almost thrown up twice while slowly eating and drinking, taking breaks to let his body adjust, but his body was happier for it.

He hadn't even thought about the possibility that it could be drugged this time...

Don was lying on his side on the floor, his right arm resting uncomfortably underneath him, half-asleep. There was light as he opened his eyes. The last he could remember was eating and drinking...it had been drugged. His gut tightened in fear as he remembered. What had his captor done while he'd been unconscious? Why had he wanted Don unconscious?

Sitting up—Don knew this time that he was alone in the room—he looked around. There was another glass of water, near the door, and he knew he needed it. The two glasses from before had not been enough, although his headache seemed to be gone. But it could wait while he tried to figure out what happened and whether there was anything different. Don put a palm to his chin in thought and then rubbed it across his chin and cheeks. The stubble from before was gone. He'd been shaved. The feeling of sweat and slight grittiness from several days (he guessed) without washing and in the same clothes that he did not fondly remember from hunting fugitives with Coop was gone too, like he'd been washed. There was no longer dirt on the right knee of his jeans. His clothes had been cleaned. A tentative hand run through his hair indicated that it had been washed, too.

Okay, so his captor had drugged him so that he could wash, shave, and clean him and his clothes. That was creepy and weird. Standing up, Don marched over to the bucket. Yep, it was clean again, too, as he'd suspected. What motivation did the man have to do it? The bucket made sense, the rest, not so much. Unless there was a sexual component to it all, his brain helpfully added. That made him shudder. He'd been stripped naked and washed, completely helpless. His captor could have done anything that he wanted. There were drugs that could render him pliant rather than unconscious and he wouldn't remember a damn thing that had happened. Don frantically went through a mental check of his body, concentrating particularly on his groin, ass and mouth—as far as he could tell, everything felt okay. It didn't mean that nothing sexual had happened to him, though. It wasn't a guarantee.

"You son of a bitch!" Don yelled at the camera he was facing. "What did you do?"

Don stood there for several minutes, waiting to see whether the man came to see him, to respond, but he didn't. A part of him wanted to punish his captor by not drinking the water that had been left for him, but the thought was stupid—that would only be punishing himself. Don collected the glass and paced around the room as he slowly drank it. He absently hiked his jeans up when they slipped down slightly. The weight loss from the days that he'd been without food hadn't been enough for him to be able to tighten his belt a notch, but it was still noticeable.

The light went out and Don continued his pacing, ignoring the darkness.

Colby didn't want to believe it, but it was right there in front of him. The note, saying 'I'm sorry'—and it looked like Don's handwriting—the motorcycle, Don's cell, ID and wallet, all dumped at a known suicide spot. No body had been found yet, so it wasn't a given that Don had killed himself, but all the evidence make it look probable.

It didn't make sense, though, to Colby's mind. Don hadn't seemed suicidal, in fact, almost the opposite. He'd settled into his new role as Special Agent in Charge, he was getting married in two months and he'd seemed happy. There'd been none of the usual signs of suicidal behaviour.

Nobody had even considered the idea that Don might have just decided to leave his life behind and disappear or committed suicide when he'd gone missing. The only things that were being considered were mechanical trouble with his motorcycle or foul play. And as the days passed on, now up to six, foul play had become more likely. They'd been able to partially trace his route, once the television and radio appeal aired, although it hadn't gotten them any closer to figuring out what had happened. So this seemed like it was coming out of left field.

Despite it all, Colby just couldn't believe it. If they found a body, he'd have to, but until then, he couldn't. Maybe Robin, Alan or Charlie would know something that would make the idea of suicide make sense, but he didn't think so. And the idea of Don just taking off, abandoning his fiancee and family two months before his wedding? That Colby couldn't buy, either.

It just didn't gel with the Don that Colby knew. And that meant, if he was right, that somebody was using this to throw them off the scent, to stop them for searching for him. That Don had met with foul play. And maybe he was still alive.

Time had ceased to have a lot of meaning to Don. The way that he was losing weight told him that he definitely wasn't being fed regularly enough, meaning he couldn't even use his meals to try to figure out how long he'd been held with any accuracy. His body had also stopped expecting so much food, impeding further any chance that he had of judging the time by his hunger level. He guessed that maybe two weeks had gone by, with his only interaction with his captor being at meal times. Even then, the man barely talked to him. He'd been drugged another two times and woken up to find that he'd been shaved and cleaned. Both times he'd tried to hold onto consciousness while feigning the drug taking effect, in the hope that maybe he'd still be awake when his captor came in the room, but it hadn't worked. He'd still passed out before the man arrived. He'd keep trying until it worked, until he had a chance to do whatever it took to escape.

Other than when he was given food or drink, he'd mostly been left without light, which was further screwing with his internal clock. Each time the light came on it seemed to take longer for his eyes to adjust to the brightness, having to shield them until it was no longer painful. He was worried that if he ever did escape his eyesight would be seriously damaged.

All the time alone without much to do also wasn't helping. He was exercising as much as he could, trying to keep somewhat in shape, even if it was mostly done in the dark. It wouldn't be much use to try to escape if he couldn't physically do it. Pretty much the only other thing that he could do was think. He'd thought through his situation, exploring every possible avenue of escape, over and over. He'd thought about his family, what they were going through. Being apart from Robin was an ache that didn't ease, but instead got stronger the more time marched on.

Fantasies of being back home, plots of movies and books, the couple of old unsolved cases that had gotten so far under his skin that he'd practically memorised the files, singing quietly (or loudly, depending on his mood and how annoying the song was), talking to himself, playing and commentating imaginary baseball and hockey games... Anything and everything to try to keep sane, to fill the hours and hours and hours.

Still, it wasn't enough. People weren't designed to have such little contact with other people and nothing to do for days and weeks on end.

The light suddenly came on and Don put a hand above his eyes to shield them, eyes tearing. He blinked rapidly until the watering stopped and he could lower his hand, wiping the tears away in the same movement. He stayed as he was, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, as the door opened. As always he saw the man's gun before anything else; he still wasn't taking any chances with Don. The tray of food, drink, and toothpaste and brush that was placed on the floor was welcome, but he wasn't going to let his captor know that.

"Thanks," Don said, sarcastically, "but I ordered dinner hours ago. You're late. I hope you weren't looking for a tip."

The man stared at him for a few seconds and Don stared back, challenging his jailor's authority. He wasn't broken yet, not by a long shot. A little cracked maybe, but not broken.

"You aren't allowed to speak any more," his captor finally said. "If you do, I will leave you to starve." There was silence for a few seconds. "No speaking at all, at any time," he reiterated.

Don bit back the automatic 'But' he was going to respond with, a swell of panic crashing through him. He had worried that his sarcastic comments might result in the meals being withdrawn, but until now his captor hadn't even threatened it. Not being able to talk at all, to hear a voice for days on end, particularly if the man wasn't in a talkative mood when he dropped off Don's meal, that would be additional torture. It would add to the sensory deprivation he was already experiencing...that he was already struggling so hard to deal with.

The door closed and he was alone. Don stood up and walked over to the tray, taking it away from the door to eat, and cleaned his teeth afterwards, using a little of the intentionally leftover water to rinse afterwards.

After he'd finished the light went out. Each breath he took was hyper-loud in the stillness. The silence crowded in around him, oppressive and suffocating. Don's jaw clenched as he tried to ignore the quiet, tried to ignore how loud the quiet was.

All he had now was being lost inside his head...and it was a bad place to be.

The door opened abruptly, waking Don. The light was on, but his eyes had quickly adjusted to it. A flood of relief swept through him when he realised that it wasn't his captor standing in the doorway.

Ian Edgerton had come to his rescue. He was saved.

"Well, are you coming or not, Eppes?" Edgerton asked, with the slight quirk of his lips that indicated amusement.

Don stood up. "How did you find me?"

"I've been tracking your captor for a while, and that led me here," Edgerton replied. "Finding you is an unexpected bonus. We all thought you were dead."

Don walked to the door and for some inexplicable reason stopped before he left the room. Something was keeping him there.

"I don't have all day." Edgerton sounded exasperated. "What do you want me to do, leave you here?"

Don abruptly woke to find that he was in darkness. It had just been a dream. Not the first dream of rescue he'd had, although it was the first to feature Edgerton. Closing his eyes, Don tried to fall back to sleep. It was an escape, a chance to be with people, to talk and to hear voices. It didn't matter that they weren't real.

Charlie's hand was on her stomach, rubbing small circles, gentle and loving. They were lying on their bed, both under the covers, neither able to sleep yet. Rest was something that hadn't easily come, not for a month. Not since Don had disappeared.

"We're going to have to tell everybody," Amita said softly. "We can't keep it secret much longer. I think Alan's starting to wonder why I'm sick so often and I'm starting to show."

"I thought we were going to wait until the start of the second trimester," Charlie replied, his hand stopping to rest against her belly. Cradling their child.

"I just think..." Amita sighed. It should have been happy news and only happy news. But it wasn't going to be, because their child's uncle was missing. It was a mixed bag of emotions for her and Charlie and she knew it would be for Alan and Robin as well. "It's too close to when... to Don and Robin's wedding. It's going to be hard enough for everybody... I don't think we should be making it harder with this. Plus, it'll give your dad something good to focus on."

"Don didn't...doesn't," Charlie automatically corrected himself, "even know that he's going to be an uncle."

At the obvious pain in his voice, Amita placed her hand on top of Charlie's, trying to comfort him. A month was a long time. They both knew that the odds of Don being found alive now weren't good. It didn't mean that they didn't hope, but hope could only get them so far. Don's family had rejected the idea that he'd committed suicide or purposely gone missing; it wasn't something that any of them could see Don doing and no body had been found near his motorcycle. The only thing that made sense was Don being abducted by somebody. Somebody who wanted to hurt him. But even with all the work that Charlie had done, that the FBI had done, they still had no leads as to what had happened to Don. "I know."

"I wanted to tell him and Dad so much when we found out," Charlie admitted quietly, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, trying to cover up the welling tears. "But we decided not to, and now Don may—he may never know."

They stayed quiet for a few minutes, both thinking about Don, wondering whether they'd ever see him again, whether their child would ever met its uncle.

"You're right," Charlie said. "We'll tell them this week."

He rolled onto his side, facing her and she shifted to face him, settling herself into his arms. Sleep eventually found them.

Blankness. Nothingness. Emptiness.

Don was surrounded by light, but he might as well have been sitting in the dark for the complete lack of notice he'd given it. The piece of wall he was staring at was as featureless as his mind.

He hadn't been aware that the light had come on, the door opening and a tray of food being left. Or the light eventually turning off when his captor realised that Don wasn't going to move.

Don dozed off, still not aware that he'd completely zoned out for hours. A dream of being rescued ambushed him and he was sitting on the couch with Robin again, her curled up against him, one arm wrapped around his waist. Warm and secure. Loved.

"Don't ever leave me again."

"I won't," Don promised. He rested his chin on the top of her head and hugged her tighter to him. "Never again."

The feel of Robin leaning on him stayed with him as the real world came crashing in and he found himself sitting against the wall in darkness. Still a prisoner.

Something snapped inside of him and he stood up abruptly, screaming at the roof. "What the hell do you want? What do you want? What's the point? Let me go! Let me the fuck go you fucking son of a bitch!" As he moved around the room, too filled with rage to stand still, he found the tray and kicked it against the wall. "Let me go!"

He deflated, collapsing down to a crouch, worn out and tired. What he'd done suddenly dawned on him and he whispered, "No." Agitated, terrified, he scooted back against the wall, curling in on himself like he could pull the angry words back in, pluck them out of the air and hide them behind him, murmuring, "No, no, no, no."

He'd talked. He wasn't allowed to talk.

The man was going to leave him to die of thirst and starvation.

He'd just signed his own death warrant.

TBC...