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Chapter Text

He stood there shivering, his fingers tucked into his underarms. The rain fell steadily, soaking him and his clothing. His hair was wet, clinging to his forehead.

"I didn't know where else to go," he murmured softly, beseeching her with large, broken eyes. He shivered again, and she wasn't sure if it was because of the rain, or the tears that mixed with it.

"Spence," she spoke, voice cracking. "Come on." She opened her door wide, maneuvering him into her home.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out, standing just past the entrance to the house. Rainwater dripped from his soaked clothing and hair onto her floor. "I shouldn't have-"

"It's okay," she assures quietly, guilt settling heavy into her stomach. She knows exactly why Spencer Reid is here tonight, crying and breaking. "It's okay, Spence."

He lifts hurting eyes to her, unfathomable suffering there, suffering that JJ knows he doesn't have to feel. There's no way to tell him that, though, not without putting another friend in danger.

"She can't be gone," he whispers, his voice cracking. He folds his arms around his midsection, trying to hold the shattered pieces of himself together. "It doesn't make any sense."

"I know," she murmurs, dragging him into a hug. He's wet, and immediately the cotton shirt she's wearing is soaked, too. She can feel the chill of the water seeping onto her skin. "It's gonna be okay."

"I didn't even get to say goodbye," he says miserably, and then he's wrapping his arms around her, too, desperately. She hugs him tighter, as if that could absolve her of her guilt.

"I'm sorry, Spence," she mumbles. "I'm sorry."

Because she knows. She knows.

Emily Prentiss is alive and well, safe in Paris, and she can't tell a single member of her team beside Hotch.

Spencer's misery is all for nothing, because Lauren Reynolds did not die at the hands of Ian Doyle.

There's nothing she can do as she moves him down onto her couch, not caring in the slightest that he's soaked to the bone. He's trembling, and sobbing, and she's crying too, because she could fix all his pain with two words.

Emily's alive.

Spencer buries his head in her shoulder, and she runs her fingers through his hair, feeling the tangled mess of it. He isn't taking care of himself.

Will eyes her apprehensively from the hall, motioning quietly to Reid, and she shakes her head, ushering him away. This is all her fault, and the least she can do is be there for her best friend.

Later on, after he's sobbed himself nearly to sleep, and she's forced him to change out of the soaking clothes he's in, offering him a pair of Will's pajamas pants that in any other situation would be laughably short, she forbids him to leave.

He falls into a discontented sleep there, and she throws his clothing into the dryer. It isn't the last time Spencer comes to her house in tears.

But it's the first time she feels like utter garbage for lying to him.

*****

Hotch watches his agent, but more importantly, his friend, beat the punching bag into submission.

It rounds around and around on it's axis, every savage punch from Derek earning an almost pained whoosh from the sack.

He isn't surprised to see the agent here, mercilessly pounding his rage out against the bag, no doubt imagining the face of another.

Eyes darting to the clock in the upper right corner of the training grounds, he notes its past 3 A.M. Far too late to be alone and angry.

Morgan is so caught up in his furious fantasy, he doesn't hear Hotch's shoes against the gymnasium floor until the Unit Chief is practically on top of him. Only then does Derek snap around, his fists held high and the punching bag swinging behind him. There's tears on his cheeks, and Hotch has to fight the urge to look away.

This isn't about him. It isn't about Jennifer, or Rossi or Reid or anyone else. It isn't about Morgan. The absolute only goal from this facade is keeping Emily Prentiss safe.

It's why he's lying to a man who he greatly admires and trusts.

"Hey," Derek cries, holding out an arm to stop the sack with a hard thud. "You scared me, man." There's a gruffness to his voice that Hotch knows entirely too well. It's hoarse from the depth of his suffering.

"You're here late," Hotch remarks. He lets his eyes sweep the room for emphasis. There's not another soul in here.

"I had some things to work through," Derek replies coolly.

This time Hotch does have to close his eyes. Because what Derek is working through, never happened. Emily Prentiss did make it off that table, and she's safe.

"It's my fault," Derek chokes out, his voice breaking on the last syllable. Frustrated, he turns his face away. Every pane of his body is a stained glass masterpiece of suffering. Derek Morgan could shatter.

"No," Hotch argues. "It isn't." He reaches a hand out to Derek's shoulder, and the agent jerks away.

"I should've saved her," he snaps, cocking a heavy fist back. It hits the bag loudly.

You did, Hotch longs to say. He desperately wishes he could tell the struggling man that his pain is for nought.

To do that, though, would place another agent's safety in jeopardy. Morgan would understand why Hotch just can't do that.

He does the only thing he can think of instead. He slides his suit coat off, and unfastens his tie, dropping both to the linoleum floor.

And then he begins to beat away his frustrations, too.

*****

Liam O'Brian had known the moment that bitch Lauren Reynolds opened that guncase, showing off a crisp M4A1 carbine. The gun was too nice, too clean. None of his other suppliers could get anything close to that nice.

He'd known right then and there that Lauren Reynolds couldn't be trusted.

It was an attribute of his suspicious Irish nature, he'd always figured. It's why he and Doyle got along so well. They just tended to know things.

But that bitch had gotten into Ian's head, twisting it all around in some warped idea of love. Doyle had fallen for it, and Liam had been left to pick up the pieces.

It was that same nature that told him Emily Prentiss was not dead, as much as Ian wanted to believe it.

Liam was a stubborn sonofabitch, and he wouldn't stop until he knew for sure. Lauren Reynolds had already torn down an entire empire. He sure as hell wouldn't let her get another chance.

It's what led him to surveil the blonde BAU bitch. That tickling little Irish suspicion. And it's how he heard the tiniest little word, but the one that would mean the most to his boss.

As the woman, Jennifer Jareau, stuck the phone to her ear, standing outside of Duchino's Grille, he heard her utter the word.

She'd looked around quickly before even answering it, her eyes narrowed. Of course she'd missed him. A man casually sitting at a restaurant outdoor table would garner no attention.

Answering the phone, she spoke the one word that could continue to enrage Liam O'Brian.

"Emily."

Chapter Text

"Hotch, I'm worried about them," JJ says, voice strained.

The door to his office is closed, and his eyes continue to dart there of their own accord, afraid of being overheard.

"I am, too," he allows, sighing.

"I know we have to keep this secret," she tells him, and he can see the tears glistening in her eyes, and he knows that this is eating her from within, "But there must be something we can do."

She sits across from him, her skirt pressed and her hair tied neatly back. It's a sharp contrast to the conflict on her face.

"You know that this needs to stay between us."

It's the third week in a row that Spence has made his way to her house, night by night, sobbing into her shoulder. It's wearing her down. She could fix this. "I- I'm worried about Spence." It's a whisper, and she can barely meet Hotch's eyes. It feels like a betrayal, to offer his name up like this, but there has to be something she can do.

"Morgan's been working himself to exhaustion nearly every night." Hotch rubs the bridge of his nose. "Garcia cries at work when she thinks no one is watching."

"Isn't there anything we can do?" JJ asks. If she'd realized the weight of bearing a secret this large, she isn't sure she'd ever had agreed. She feels like Atlas, tasked with keeping the world safe. In doing so, she's letting down her best friends.

"I can order an assessment," Hotch says after a beat. "I'll ask Strauss to let me do it instead of bringing somebody in from the outside."

"Will that help?" JJ questions. The tears glistening in her eyes threaten to spill over, and she blinks them back furiously.

"For now," he says, shooting her a steely glare, "It will have to do."

*****

"There's no way," Ian growls, and Liam knows enough about the dangerous glint in his eye to step back. "I killed her."

The room they reside in is far more threadbare then Liam is used to, the motel being cheap enough and dirty enough to accept cash and stay off the radar. It doesn't mean either of the men are happy to be here.

"I killed her," he repeats, clenching the glass of whiskey in his hand, "And at her very last, she refused to tell me where Declan was. I was there, Liam."

Liam swallows. "I tailed the blonde one-"

"Jareau," Doyle mumbles, taking a long swig of the whiskey.

"She called Reynolds," he explains, dropping into the seat across from Doyle. The motel's provided table was small and sticky. "I heard them talking on the phone. Reynolds, Prentiss, whoever the bitch is. She's alive."

Ian Doyle is frighteningly quiet for a moment, gaze trained on the amber liquid in his glass. He twirls the glass absent-mindedly, watching the miniature typhoon that forms there. Then, he raises the glass to his lips, swallowing the contents in three large gulps.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he finally turns to Liam. "I believe you."

"We'll get her." Without prompting, Liam tips the jar to Doyle's cup, refilling the honeyed water. "We can lay another trap-"

"No," Doyle cuts him off effectively. "I want Lauren. And I want her now. I've got something different in mind."

"What's that, boss?" Liam asks.

"Her team," Ian Doyle meets Liam's eyes, the gleam of a plan forming there. His lips quirk up in a sinister smile. "They know. At least Jareau does. We need one of them."

"You want to take one?"

"They'll give me the information I want," Doyle insures, "One way or another."

He downs another glass.

*****

Much to Liam's chagrin, Agent Jareau is a lot harder to catch than anticipated.

She's hardly ever alone, always in the company of a group. Surveillance for a couple weeks has not provided him a chance to snatch the bitch.

He knows that Doyle, patient as he is, will be getting impatient.

Luckily, though, the constant vigilance has convinced O'Brian of one useful fact; he's convinced Dr. Spencer Reid is in on the gig.

Nearly every night, the young man makes his way to the blonde bitch's house, spending countless hours there. Hours most likely spent discussing details that are better kept private.

The location of Emily fuckin' Prentiss.

Chuckling to himself, watching through his binoculars as the blonde woman opens the door, ushering the younger agent inside yet again. He's found a much easier target.

*****

"No ifs, ands, buts or nonsense," Garcia commanded. She placed her hands on her hips, planting her feet squarely in front of Morgan's desk. "You're coming."

"Babygirl," he said, shaking his head. He leaned back in his seat, placing his arms on his stomach. "No offense, but I'm not feeling like much of a party-"

"Nope," she cut him off, popping the 'p'. Her bright blue hair fluffies bounced with her slightest movement. "No excuses. You're coming."

Derek sighed, a defense traveling to his lips, when Penelope turned those no-fair, puppy dog eyes on him.

"Please, Derek," she asks, her lip jutting out the slightest bit. "It's- she'd want us to learn to be happy again."

He closed his eyes miserably, imagining Prentiss as she once was. Happy, animated, alive.

"Fine," he concurs, earning an excited squeal from Garcia. She bounces on her feet, heels clacking loudly against the floor. "But Reid's gotta go, too."

"What?" The genius asks, head shooting up. He has his current read spread out on his desk, and he flashes those perpetually wide eyes at them. "Going where?"

"Deal," Garcia says, shooting him a devious smile. She kisses her finger tips, placing them against his cheek. He has to chuckle.

"Now, Reid," she starts, stalking to the confused young genius's desk, "No ifs, ands, buts or nonsense…."

*****

Unsurprisingly, it took a lot to convince Reid to agree to go to the Gold Fox Brewery. The kid wasn't big on drinking on the best of days, and well...these weren't the best of days.

Also unsurprisingly, it's Garcia's gentle prodding that convinces him to go. She's got a way of making you feel needed someplace.

"I should be home," Reid grumbles. He's got his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and Morgan has no doubt it's filled with books. How the scrawny kid carries all that weight around, Morgan will never know.

"Come on," JJ says, slinging her arm through his. "Live a little, Spence." She flashes him an encouraging smile, and Morgan is glad she's here. They could all use whatever joy JJ could spare.

"No complaints!" Garcia chastises, another rule for the night. "We're going out, and we're going to have a scrumptious time together."

They walk along the street, Garcia leading her three charges to the bar. It's an activity that seems terribly empty without Emily here, but Derek is willing to try for Penelope.

"You got it, Mama," Derek chuckles, tossing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. "Scrumptious. Just like that pretty little mouth of yours."

"Oooh, Derek, you naughty boy," she teases, elbowing him gently in the ribs. "You're going to get me all fired up."

"I always feel like I'm interrupting something with you two," JJ laughs.

Penelope swings around to her, a playful smile on her face. "Oh you are, Femme Fatale. I just like you enough to let it slide."

And somehow, even without Emily here, Derek is still able to smile.

*****

He'd had no intention of dancing that night. The rhythm in his body wasn't exactly funky these days, and he'd been totally content to drink some beers with his friends, and appease Little Miss Garcia over there.

Derek Morgan should have known better. The second that Penelope pulled him to the dance floor, playfully shaking her thang, manually moving his hips, he'd had to laugh.

And he'd completely lost himself to the thrumming of the music, his body grooving of his own accord. Maybe it was the beer, or the night, but it was all too easy to imagine Emily there with them.

She'd have forced JJ to the floor as well, twirling the blonde agent around until both were laughing. Hell, Prentiss could probably even have gotten Reid to the dance floor.

Instead of downheartedly musing on a Pepsi, sitting mutely at a table. JJ sat next to him, casting him worried glances. Her own beer sat untouched.

It seemed to jerk Morgan right out of his funky mood, his gyrating slowing to a stop. This felt wrong without Emily.

"Hey," Penelope said, placing a hand against his arm. The bangles on her arm jangle loudly. "You okay?" The music was loud, and she nearly had to shout over it.

He shook his head. "Ian Doyle," he grit out, and she shrunk instantly back, her eyes wide. "He's still out there." Derek cast an angry arm towards the outside world. "And I'm in here. Dancing." He practically sneered at the word.

He could see JJ try to cajole Reid into activity beside her, inciting him into a conversation. It failed horribly, and Reid stood to his feet, throwing his bag across his shoulder. He walked to the door, shoulders slumped and head down. JJ watched dejectedly.

"I'm gonna go check on Reid," he shouted down to her ear, trying to compose himself.

"You boys better come back cherry-cheeked and wide eyed," she ordered gently, patting his arm once.

"I'll try, babygirl," he promised. This was a night of appeasement, and Garcia deserved some happiness.

He bypassed JJ, following Reid out into the dark.

*****

He watched as the young agent came out of the bar, head down and unaware of the danger around him. Ducking down lower in the van seat, Liam visualized how easy the grab-and-go would be.

He had himself and another of Ian's men, a lower life street dealer who'd proven himself loyal. Still, Liam wasn't happy about being paired with a wet-nosed brat who had yet to truly prove himself. The kid bounced eagerly in the passenger seat next to him.

"Let's get him," the kid muttered. "He's alone-"

"Wait," Liam cautioned, holding a hand up in the dark of the car. "We have one shot, we can't mess this up."

"We won't!" The kid, Daniel, insisted. He was full of youthful energy, unable to sit still. "There's two of us!"

"Shut your mouth," Liam cautioned, forcing the kid's head down lower as the doctor walked closer and closer. If they were seen now, it could ruin everything.

"Doyle wants him soon!" Daniel asserted, and dammit, Liam knew the kid was right. Ian Doyle was getting impatient.

"Fine!" Liam snapped, fighting the urge to whap the kid in the back of the head. It'd be satisfying, but it'd most likely give away their location. "On the count of three-"

But the wet-nosed kid hadn't yet been taught to listen, and had already slammed the car door open.

The agent's head jerked up, his hand already traveling to the gun contained within the confines of his bag on reflex, but Daniel was slamming into him hard.

What that kid lacked in knowledge, Liam knew he made up for in size. Daniel was huge.

With a grunt, Daniel knocked the doctor to the ground, their limbs splayed out every which way. Cursing, rushing out of the van himself, Liam could see both of the men's hands seeking purchase. The agent was desperately trying to reach his gun.

Sighing, cursing the stupidity of Daniel, Liam withdrew his own gun from the holster on his hip.

"Freeze!" He ordered the struggling agent, cocking the gun and aiming it at him.

Of course, Liam realized he should have been checking the surroundings. A voice coming up behind him asked, "Reid?"

*****

When Spencer wanted to move, Derek mused, he could really pack a punch. He was probably already halfway back to his apartment at the rate those legs could carry him, and Morgan turned that direction as well.

He might not be able to convince the kid to come back to the bar. If anything, he'd at least walk him home. The thought of Reid being alone in the dark made his skin crawl.

There was movement in front of him, and Morgan called out, "Reid?" The dark obscured much of the scene, but Derek had a chance to frown as what appeared to be a scuffle swam into his focus.

Before his brain could truly interpret the confusing images in front of him, Reid was crying out, and Morgan realized with a jolt what the scuffle was.

Two forms were struggling on the sidewalk, and one of them was Reid. "Run!" He cried. The man on top of him lobbed a devastating punch to Reid's face, and there was an eerie crunch.

Morgan's hands jumped to his gun, tucked safely into the waistband of his jeans, but a voice next to his ear caught him off-guard. The all-too familiar feel of cold steel pressed against his temple and he froze.

"Don't do it," the voice cautioned, keeping the barrel securely against Morgan's head. Morgan cast his eyes to the side, garnering only the slightest view of the man.

He was older, with what looked like graying hair. There was a crooked smile upon his face.

"What do you want?" Morgan ground out. He kept his hands carefully open in front of him, and his gaze darted back to Reid.

The kid had his hands pressed against his nose, trying to staunch the blood there. The man on top of him now had a gun as well, chest heaving, pointing it at Reid.

"Should've pulled that out to begin with," the man holding the gun to Morgan's head snapped.

"What do you want?" Morgan demanded again. He might be able to take the gun away from the man, but that would leave Reid completely vulnerable. He couldn't do that.

"Him," the man snapped again, exasperation in his voice. "Though now I guess I get you both."

The last thing Morgan had a chance to register was Reid's strangled cry, and the butt of the gun crashing against his temple.

Darkness embraced him.

*****

"Do you think they went home?" Penelope glanced both sides down the street, begging her boys to materialize. She wrung her hands nervously, the sounds of the bar still thumping out here. She didn't feel quite so cheerful out here.

"I- I don't know," JJ said. Her eyes were narrowed suspiciously, and she already had her phone prepared, dialing Reid's number.

Straight to voice-mail.

"This is bad, isn't it?" Garcia asked, panic beginning to rise. "Something's happened, hasn't it?" The night, which had seemed so full of possibilities before, now seemed foreboding.

"I'm not sure," JJ answered, dialing Morgan's number next. She clutched Garcia's arm. Morgan's voice-mail came through.

"Oh god." Penelope's hand traveled to her mouth, eyes wide in fear. "JJ-"

A group of girls strolled by them, laughing and giggling as they stumbled to the Gold Fox Brewery. JJ cast her narrowed eyes upon them.

"I'm calling Hotch," she informed. "Can- can you track their phones?"

But Penelope's heart had ceased to beat, and she held a trembling finger out in front of her. Nearly impossible to see, except for the single shard of a streetlight lamp reflecting off of them, were two smashed phones.

"Reid's gone," JJ whispered, her face going pale.

"Morgan's- oh god. They're both gone."

Chapter Text

Morgan came to with painstaking slowness, his head throbbing incessantly. He let out a groan, cursing whatever nonsense Garcia had gotten him into, and then a soft voice brought him to sudden, and crushing reality.

"Morgan?" Reid is sitting across from him, his arms and ankles tied to the legs of a chair. His face is covered in copious amounts of blood, and he sniffles slightly, the bleeding of his nose providing irritation.

He realizes at the same moment that's tied as well, and he furiously tugs his arms. The rope binding him upright is thick and tough, refusing to give.

"Where the hell are we?" Morgan asks, the pounding of his head making it hard to focus. He lets his eyes wander their newfound prison.

"It's some kind of warehouse," Reid supplies, his voice thick with blood. "Abandoned, I'd hypothesize."

Morgan curses, sawing his arms back and forth in an effort to loosen his trappings. The warehouse is large, and dimly lit. It's nearly impossible to ascertain what is manufactured here with the empty crates piled all around them.

"You okay, kid?" Morgan asks, and Reid smiles sheepishly, the smile painted ghoulish with the blood dripping down his chin.

"I'm fine," Reid assures quickly, but Morgan can see the barely concealed panic dancing behind those eyes.

"Okay." Morgan forces himself to take three deep breaths, centering himself. He needs to be focused to get him and Reid out of whatever this is. "Let's profile. What do we know?"

"There was something familiar about them," Reid answers. "I just don't know what." He looks hopelessly frustrated.

"Let's think. Who might have an agenda against us?"

"The list is plausibly massive," Reid argues, wincing as he shakes his head. "There has to be a better way."

"There's no need for that, gentlemen," a chillingly familiar voice calls, echoing throughout their chamber. The accent is thick enough to cause Derek's blood to boil. He knows exactly the man that's going to step around those empty crates.

"Doyle," Reid whispers, and he comes forth, his arms spread in mock greeting. He's flanked on either side by his men, and a devious smile pierces his face.

"Hello, Agents."

*****

"I'm checking now," Garcia informs Hotch, her fingers dancing noisily over her keyboard. Morgan and Reid's smashed phones sit amongst her cat knick-knacks, a gruesome reminder of their missing status.

She pulls up the feed, grainy video footage from outside Golden Fox Brewery. Her heart seems to kick into overdrive as Reid appears onscreen.

"There he is," Hotch murmurs quietly, standing over his shoulder. He has his hand covering his mouth, his eyebrows drawn together in worry.

"God," JJ cries from beside him, watching as Reid is tackled to the ground. There's a struggle, and then Morgan is there, and another man's holding a gun to his head.

"There's two of them," Rossi remarks. He doesn't let his eyes leave the screen for a single moment.

They watch as Morgan is knocked unconscious, collapsing into the mystery man's arms. Garcia gasps loudly, jerking her head away. She cannot bear to see this.

Reid follows next, and then they're both being stuffed into the back of the black van.

"Garcia," Hotch orders, trying to gain control over the fear that's settled into her onclave. "Run the faces through all your databases. See if you can find a match."

"Of course, sir," she whispers, the tears spilling down her cheeks. Her keys clack in answer.

"We can't see the license plate," JJ muttered furiously. "They're parked the wrong way." She runs a ragged hand through her hair, her face still painted for their night at Golden Fox.

"It's a black SUV, though," Rossi argues. "That much we know."

"Garcia, anything?" Hotch leans over her shoulder again, watching the computer fly through things past his understanding.

"Not yet." She struggles to keep her voice calm. "I have to run it through VICAPP and old files and- Oh."

The chiming of her tech draws the attention of everyone.

"I have a match," she whispers tersely, fingers bringing up information only she could find. "The man's name is Liam O'Brian. He defected from the IRA and- oh god." Penelope has to fight the bile rising it's way to her upper throat. "It says he's a known partner of Ian Doyle."

"Ian Doyle?" Rossi asked, eyebrows arching to the ceiling. "What could he possibly want with our agents?"

To entranced in their own private hells, the look that JJ and Hotch shared is unnoticed.

*****

"Where is she?" Doyle demands, crouching down to Reid.

Morgan's fury rises, and he barks out a protective, "Get the hell away from him!" He yanks hopelessly on his binds again, already feeling the skin rubbing raw, and then one of Doyle's men drops his hand to Morgan's shoulder, glaring a warning at him.

"Gladly," Doyle says, his back to Morgan. He keeps his eyes locked on Reid, who shuffles nervously as far as the chair allows. "Once he tells me where she is."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Spencer snaps, and there's fire there, too. Emily is dead because of this bastard.

"Emily," Ian replies calmly, and it has Morgan sneering.

"Don't you say her name!" Derek cries, struggling again. He pays no heed to the warning hand on his shoulder. "You bastard!"

"Dr. Reid," Doyle says, in that same infuriatingly calm way. "Tell me where she is, and your deaths won't have to hurt."

Reid jumps at that, his eyes flicking to Morgan. The hand bracing against Derek's shoulder grows impatient with his struggling, and a hard hit to the side of his head sends his vision rolling.

He can hear Reid gasp, "Don't. Don't hurt him," and Morgan tries to right the spinning world.

"Tell me." Doyle stays crouched down. "I know you know."

"She's dead," Spencer whispers bitterly. He forces his eyes to meet Doyle's. "You killed her."

Another slap reverberates through the warehouse, and this time it's Reid's head that is jerked to the side. He looks at Doyle's raised hand, his cheek smarting and his chest heaving. His nose pounds.

"I'll kill you," Morgan swears, watching the scene with hopeless vows. His fingers clench into fists. "Leave him alone."

"I won't tolerate lying, Dr. Reid," Doyle responds coldly.

"I'm not lying," Reid argues. "You're suffering a delusional break."

Doyle barks out a laugh, motioning one of the men forward. "Are you calling my man a liar?" He asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Reid's eyes dart between the two threatening men, and then finally to Morgan. "Maybe he's misconstrued a situation," Reid offers.

He doesn't even have time to brace himself against the punch that flies his way, courteously of Ian's man.

Morgan cries out, watching as Reid painfully spits out a glob of bloody saliva.

"Don't you call me a liar!" The man snarls, digging his fingers into Reid's hair. He yanks his head back up, earning a yelp from the young agent. 'Now, tell Doyle the truth."

Reid's eyes roll back to Doyle. "I don't know what you want," he croaks out.

"Prentiss is dead!" Morgan nearly shouts. "You killed her! You sonofabitch!" He can't bear to watch this. He's already lost one friend to the unimaginable bastard, he can't bear to lose a brother.

"That's not true, though, is it, Dr. Reid?" Doyle rises to his feet, sighing. "It looks like we need to do this the hard way."

"No, no." Reid begs, shooting panicked looks at Morgan. "We don't have to do things the- the hard way."

"Where is she?" Doyle asks. He glowers at Reid.

"She's dead," he whispers again, brokenly. "We buried her." His fingers tap restlessly against the chair.

Doyle smiles. "Very well, then. The hard way it is."

Reid pales. "There's nothing I can tell you," he pleads.

"Perhaps you'll be more willing to talk," Doyle muses to himself, finally turning around to face Morgan. "If it's your friend who's suffering, Dr. Reid."

Reid turns wide eyes to Morgan. "Maybe I can help you," he bargains. "Don't do anything impetuous."

"She knows where Declan is," Doyle responds. "And I will find her, and she will pay."

He motions to his two goonies. "Go and get the tools." Without a word, they turn, disappearing behind the warehouse's crates.

"This'll be fun," he jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at Morgan.

Morgan spits at his shoe.

*****

"I think we need to call Emily," JJ says, voice nearly cracking. She swallows the thickness of her throat back down, leveling a hard glare at Hotch. "She'd want to know."

"It's a risk, JJ," he mutters, running a hand across his face. There's already dark bags beneath his eyes, the stress prematurely tiring him.

"She'd want to know," JJ argues. "Please, Hotch. They took two of our team."

She holds her hands up helplessly, the tears gleaming in her eyes threatening to fall. She refuses to lose them.

Hotch's office door is closed, and if Rossi wasn't suspicious then, he is now. This entire plan is falling to shreds as it is.

"If we call her," Hotch replies, voice stern, "We can't undo it. We can't take it back. She'll be in danger unless we catch Doyle."

JJ clutches the phone in her hand. All she can think about is Morgan and Reid hurting. The fallout from this could be monumental.

Without saying another word, she dials the phone. It rings twice, and then that confidential voice comes through.

"Yes?"

"Emily." JJ's looks to Hotch, who closes his eyes. "We have a problem."

*****

Paris was the City of Light. There was magic here, in the dazzling boulevards and bridges, sorcery in the way the delectable food tasted, and still Emily found herself unbearably depressed.

She was lonely. She missed her family and her life, and Paris offered her no romance any longer. She'd outgrown this place as surely as she had Ian Doyle, and she yearned to return home.

Twice, during her isolation, she'd heard from JJ. The first was strictly professional, informing her that Doyle was still free and Declan was still hidden. They'd ended the call swiftly.

The second had been far more personal. JJ had called, near tears, explaining the lying she had to do. She hadn't gone into details, but she'd told Emily enough to know that her guilt was eating her. To be safe, they hadn't spoken since then.

So when her phone started to buzz, displaying that caller ID, she was desperate to answer. Any scrap of the life she couldn't have right now, she wanted.

"Yes?" She asks, cautious as always. She eyed the bustling Paris street around her warily. She sat at a small café, clutching a steamy cup of tea.

"Emily." JJ's voice is tense, and she knows immediately something is happening. "We have a problem."

Her heartbeat stuttering into overdrive, Emily's already up and moving, leaving the table and tea behind. If Doyle is afoot, she is ready to go. "What's happening?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line, furthering cementing Prentiss's fear.

"It's Doyle." JJ's voice is thick. "He's taken Morgan and- and Reid." Her voice breaks then.

"He- took them?" Prentiss demands, head spinning. Her team was supposed to be safe this way. Lauren Reynolds was dead. Doyle was supposed to leave her family alone.

"We think maybe he knows you're alive," JJ continues miserably. "And maybe he thinks- thinks they know." She's barely keeping it together.

"God," Prentiss cries. "He'll torture them-"

There's a dry sob from JJ. "We need you."

Emily spares one last look to the dazzling streets of Paris, the Eiffel Tower gleaming in the background.

"I'll be there."

*****

"I don't know anything," Spencer begged, watching Doyle's man roll a silver wheeled tray in. He parks the tray by Spencer, and Morgan can hear the kid's breathing hitch.

"Lies," Ian Doyle states calmly, letting his fingers run across the assortment of tools in front of him.

"There's nothing I can tell you!" Reid insists, eyes flying between Doyle's torture table and Morgan. "Hurting him won't tell you anything!"

"We'll start simple enough," Doyle says, hand finally landing on the long black stick, it's end forked in two. He holds it up, and Morgan fits back a snarl. It's a cattle prod.

He struggles uselessly against his binds, his already raw skin crying out. "Get that thing away from me!" He bites out.

"That's up to Dr. Reid," Doyle replies, tapping the stick against his hand. "All he has to do is tell me the location of Emily Prentiss."

"You've lost it, man," Derek growls. "You're out of your mind." He can do nothing but watch, tied stiffly to the chair, as Doyle approaches.

"Are you going to save your friend, agent?" Doyle asks, swinging the prod around. He flashes a cocky smile at Morgan.

"I don't know!" Reid cries, panic overtaking his voice. "Emily is dead! Please!" He's fruitlessly struggling with his own rope, his face awash in agony for Morgan.

"Stop lying!" Doyle's man cries. "I've seen you. Every night you go to that blonde bitch's house!"

"JJ?" Reid asks, confused. "She doesn't have anything to do with this."

The man lets out a barking laugh. "She's the reason I figured out Lauren- Emily's Prentiss's little secret. She's alive, and she's been feeding that information to you!" He stands off to the side, a threat promised.

"Alright, Liam," Doyle cautions, his lip quirking in irritation. "Either the good doctor here is going to tell us, or his friend gets the shock of a lifetime."

Reid's tortured eyes slide back to Morgan, and he swallows down his bile. At the very least, Morgan figures he can put on a brave face. "It's alright, pretty boy," he assures. "I'll be fine." His hands tighten, the veins on his arms popping out.

"Don't!" Reid cries again, watching as Doyle raises the cattle prod, that smug grin slitting his face. And then he jams it into Morgan's ribs, and he's powerless to stop the agonized yell that breaks from his lips.

The shock is sudden and all encompassing, lighting his body on fire from within. He jerks uncontrollably.

"Tsk tsk," Doyle teases, peering at Reid over his shoulder. "I can't believe you're going to let me do this again." And then the prod is rammed into Morgan's side again, and somehow, it hurts more this time.

"Stop!" Reid orders, his voice close to breaking. He watches Morgan's body jump and wrath uncontrollably, his chest heaving. "I'll- I'll tell you," he mumbles emptily, and Morgan's pained eyes dart to his.

"Oh yeah?" Doyle asks, pausing the forked tip of the prod a few inches from Derek's chest. "And how do I know you'll be telling the truth?"

Reid fights to keep his hands from trembling. He needs to bluff his way out of this. He needs to create some kind of diversion that will last long enough for their team to find them.

"You'll just have to trust me," he mutters, knowing that anything he tells them will be a lie. Emily is dead. He was there when they buried her.

"That," Doyle says, waiting until Reid's eyes have darted back to his, "is not something I'm capable of."

He shoves the prod back into Morgan, holding it there for an excruciating five seconds, ignoring the screams of both agents.

When he pulls it back, Reid is trembling, profusely apologizing and begging Doyle to leave Morgan alone.

Morgan can do nothing but screw his eyes shut, riding out the wave of pain.

"Tell me, Dr. Reid," he hears Doyle order again, swallowing down a pained moan. Reid babbles on, his words hardly making sense to Derek.

"Very well," Doyle intones, and Derek's body clenches on instinct.

And then the prod hits him again.

Chapter Text

When he swims back to consciousness, he's only aware of the way his body seems to burn. Flames lick up his skin, and he wonders if he's a charred husk of the man he remembers.

Understanding slowly seeps in, filling the cracks in his mind. When the pieces finally slip into place, Morgan nearly wishes they hadn't.

He groans, trying to flex his aching muscles. There's only so much he can do bound, and he can feel the strain of it wearing him down.

"I'm so sorry, Morgan," Spencer whispers dejectedly. His eyes are wide with guilt, the dried blood still seeming to obscure his face.

"It's fine, pretty boy," Derek mumbles, rolling his neck. It's the only joint of his that is provided any sense of relief. "Just a couple burns, is all."

Only one of Daniel's men remains nearby. He's the younger one, and he stands in stoicism, his arms behind his back like a soldier.

"What happened?" Morgan mumbles. The details of his torture are hazy.

"I'm sorry," Reid whispers, his voice crestfallen. "I should have been able to stop them before- before they did that to you!"

"Hey, now, none of that," Morgan orders. "There's nothing you could've done, Reid."

"You've been unconscious for a while." Spencer bites his top lip. "I was worried. Electroshock can impair brain waves."

"Well, I feel fine," Morgan states, as if perpetually burning skin and aching muscles constituted fine. "Where'd they go?"

Haunted eyes meet his, and Derek feels anxiety bubbling up. It's another thing to add to his list of uncomfortableness. "Reid?"

"I lied," Spencer whispered, voice hushed. His gaze darts to Doyle's man, just out of earshot and then back to Morgan. "I told them Emily was in Budapest."

"Why?" Morgan demands. If it's the bold faced lie that Reid is claiming it is, they're going to be in trouble.

"To buy time," Reid tries to explain, desperation in his voice. "They wouldn't stop, Morgan. I was afraid they would kill you." His eyes are pleading, begging Morgan to understand, and Derek can do nothing but close his eyes and sigh.

"We better hope the team finds us before they come back," he warns. Spencer flexes his fingers, rolling his neck in the same way as Morgan had.

"I know." Spencer's voice is dejected. "The odds of us making it out of this are astronomically low."

"You ain't getting out of here," Doyle's man laughs. He keeps his stoic stance, but passes them both leering smiles. "You're gonna tell 'em exactly what he wants to know, and then he's getting rid of you." The young man makes a mock gun with his hand, mining pulling the trigger against his own forehead.

"We'll see about that," Morgan snaps back. An unexpected aftershock hits him, causing his leg to spasm.

"Are you okay?" Reid asks, his eyes trailing over Morgan's jerking leg.

"Fine," Morgan grumbles, shaking his head as though it can clear the electricity from his body. "Kid, Doyle seems convinced that you know something- about Emily." He has to physically swallow the lump that forms at the mention of her name.

"I don't," he swears. "Morgan, I have no idea what he's talking about. He keeps dragging JJ into this."

Derek takes a deep breath. "Is there any possibility that- that JJ does know something?" He asks, carefully phrasing his words. Speaking Emily's name in a sentence with the word alive feels like too big of a thing to hope for. He avoids bringing hope to an area that is hopeless.

"She's not a liar," Reid insists again. "She wouldn't lie to us about this."

The kid is so resolute, Derek doesn't bother to argue the point.

But seeds of doubt have been sown.

*****

"Alright I've compiled a list of all properties connected in any way to Liam O'Brian or Ian Doyle." With a tap, pages and pictures and articles are displayed on her screen. "I'm not sure any will be of real help, though."

"Why?" Rossi's eyes travel over the buildings. Most industrial, some appear to have fallen into disrepair. An article seems to blare the word laundromat at him.

"Well, sir, most of these properties aren't even in the US-"

"He wouldn't have been able to fly them out," Rossi interrupts. It earns him an irritated glare from the tech genius.

"Exactly." She raises her eyebrows, challenging him to interject again. Wisely, he decides to remain silent. "That eliminates over half the list. The rest are business that he had been using to launder money from weapons deals. They've all been sold to new owners."

"Which leaves us with what?"

"Well, nothing." Her face falls even further, the story of fear written in every line. "Unofficially, me and-and Morgan-" Her voice chokes up, "Have been looking into Doyle. We've found zero. Nada. Zilch. He's been on the map."

"Alright." Rossi sighs, reaching out to pat her head softly. "Keep looking, we'll find something."

The blue hair floof falls softly to the ground, jostled free of it's job. She stares at it.

She decides to let it remain.

*****

The footsteps that echo their way through the warehouse are not calm and self-assured. There's an anger to the way they reverberate, and Reid instinctively knows they've run out of time.

His lie has been discovered, and his eyes dart to Morgan's.

"It'll be fine," Morgan assures, voice choked. He tightens his bound hands into fists. "It'll be fine, kid."

The footsteps grew closer and closer, and then Ian Doyle is there, flanked by his man, Liam. The scowl on his face only serves to prove Reid's hypothesis.

"Do you know what a lie is?" He questions, voice chillingly cold. He saunters over to Reid, who flinches back.

As if on impulse, Reid responds, "A lie is an assertion that is believed to be false, typically used with the purpose of deceiving someone."

Doyle's men stand back, flanking out on either side of Morgan. Liam lays a pre-warning hand on his shoulder, and Morgan feels a chill.

"Leave him alone!" He orders, hissing as Liam's fingers fig into his skin.

"Maybe you are a genius," Doyle teases, cruelly. He stops in front of Reid, planting his legs far apart. Morgan strains to see the kid around the man's figure.

Reid's voice is soft. "Certifiably, I have an IQ of 187-"

"Shut up, Reid," Morgan cautions desperately, attempting to shake the plunging fingers off his shoulder. They seem to dig in deeper.

"Yeah-yeah, sorry." Reid's eyes manage to find him around the form of Doyle, wide with apprehension.

"How about another question?" Doyle squats down, effectively blocking Morgan's view again. He curses inwardly. "What happens to people who lie to me?"

Reid gulps. "Based on what we know of you- it's not good?" His tone rises at the end, an unwilling question.

The younger of Doyle's men snickers beside Morgan, and he feels his stomach flip-flop.

"Not good," Doyle agrees. "One last question, Dr. Reid." He flashes a cocky smile, the vestiges of irritation still visible there. "Do you feel empathy?"

The question takes Reid aback, and his eyebrow knit together. "Do I feel- empathy?" He repeats.

"Can the great Dr. Reid not feel empathy?" Doyle opens his arms wide, causing Reid to jerk back. "Hmm? Is that why you don't care when I hurt your so-called friends?"

Reid's eyes jump back to Morgan through the gap in Doyle's posture. "Of course! I just- I don't know where she is!"

"She's fucking dead! Morgan spits.

Doyle clicks his teeth. "Well, it looks like I'm going to have to try that much harder to get the answers I need." He rises to his feet, knees popping as he does so. "Daniel, fetch me the brass."

"Don't," Reid begs, eyes following the young man as meanders to Doyle's silver torture tray. "Don't hurt him. I don't know! I don't know!"

"Don't worry," Doyle cooes softly, reaching a hand out to thread through Reid's hair. He leans away, but it does no good. Doyle roughly yanks him forward again. "I think perhaps your, hmm, quirks, leave you unable to feel empathy."

The insult is clear, and Reid's eyes narrow. "Quirks?"

"Get your hands off of him!" Morgan orders. It falls on death ears, and his futile struggling earns him a hard smack along the head.

"This time, Dr. Reid," he flashes the bound genius a smile, "It's your turn."

Chapter Text

"What's going on?" Penelope whispers. The conference room is eerily quiet, and it feels wrong to disturb that with mere words.

Rossi sits next to her, the only other soul in the room, and he shrugs uncomfortably. "I don't know, kiddo."

Penelope's eyes track to the door. Shut. The screen is off. The curtains are drawn. Whatever Hotch has called them into this little room for is a big deal.

Finally, the door opens. Hotch walks in, followed closely by JJ. The look on their faces frightens Penelope more.

"Oh god," she says, unable to contain her fear. Her hand covers her mouth, her eyes already filling with tears. "Is- someone else dead?"

She can't bear it. The thought of losing someone else. Especially Morgan or Reid.

"No, no," JJ cautions quickly. "It's- It's not like that, Pen." But there's that look on her face still. Apprehension and uncertainty. It does little to calm Garcia's racing heart.

"What's going on, Aaron?" Rossi asks.

"I made a decision that affected this team." He lets his eyes meet both of the unaware agents, his arms crossed in front of him. "As you know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. But, the doctors were able to stabilize her."

That has Penelope's head snapping up, her eyes opening wide.

"She was airlifted from Boston undercover," he continues, desperate to get the truth out there before the explosion that was surely coming. "Her identity was strictly need to know. She was reassigned to Paris and given several new identities. None of which we had access to. For her security."

"She's alive?" Penelope's thudding heart seems to freeze, and she can hardly breathe. Emily is alive.

"I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed at me." He's ready for the onslaught, prepared to beat back the tide of fury if he needs to. The team deserves that at least.

But Penelope's face is still slack with shock, and Rossi simply watches him, a poker face in place.

"It was for her safety," JJ reinforces. There are miserable tears trailing down her cheeks, and she's casting beseeching eyes to Penelope.

The clack of shoes garners their attention, and Penelope's gaze is drawn inexplicably to the noise. And then she's there.

Emily, standing in the doorway. A femme Fatale with blackened clothes and a guilty disposition. She's standing there, in the doorway, bag slung over her shoulder.

Alive. Emily Prentiss is alive.

"Oh my God," Garcia chokes out, tears and snot running of their own accord. She can't bring herself to rise from her seat, her eyes drinking in the vision that is her friend.

"I'm so sorry," Prentiss says, her own voice filled with emotion and that finally does it.

Penelope jumps up from her seat, arms opening as she engulfs Emily in a well needed hug. They melt into each other.

"You're alive," Garcia whispers, letting her hands splay out across her back. Emily is flesh and blood, and she's miraculously here.

"I'm so sorry, PG," she whispers back, her hands patting Gacia's back comfortably. "Not a day went by when I didn't think of you guys."

"Right now," JJ cuts in, her voice gentle. "We have a problem."

Penelope pulls away. Her boys need her. She links her hand in with Prentiss's, unwilling to let go. She's never letting go ever again.

"Let's find them," Emily agrees.

And hearing her voice is the sweetest music Garcia could ever hope to hear.

*****

Morgan's eyes nearly pop out of his head as he watches Doyle slide a brass knuckle onto each of his hands. They glint threateningly in the dim warehouse light.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Morgan dictates, heartedly. "Don't you dare touch him!"

"Or what?" Doyle casts him a look, one eyebrow raised. His lips quirk in a small smile. "What will you do, Agent Morgan?"

The young man standing beside Morgan snickers again, and there's an excited blush to his cheeks. Morgan boils, a volcano forbidden from eruption.

"I really don't know where she is," Reid insists. His eyes are wide in fear, his hands struggling against the ropes. There's no escape.

"We'll see," Doyle replies ominously. "They all break. Eventually." He comes to stand in front of Reid, tall and foreboding. There's nowhere Reid can go to get away. He's hopelessly trapped.

"Leave him alone," Morgan begs again. That bastard turns the chair around so Morgan can watch. He's got a perfect view of Reid, and the kid looks at him with fearful eyes.

Morgan has only a moment to think damnit, and then the first hit lands.

Spencer's heart jerks back, a sickening crunch sounding.

"Stop!" Tears out of Morgan's throat.

Doyle doesn't stop. Another hit flies, landing squarely against Reid's cheek. Blood splatters, and the kid lets out a groan.

"Where is she?" Doyle hisses, his fingers threading through Reid's hair to yank the agent back into commission.

Morgan's heart cinches. The kid's face was already bloody, via nose, but now blood pours steadily out through a cut above his eye. His lip is already swelling.

"Don't know," he maintains, and Doyle cocks a fist back.

A strangled protest barely leaves Morgan before the punch hits, another painful crack feeling the room.

"Where," Doyle pants, rapid firing punches against Reid, "Is. The. Bitch?"

"You'll kill him!" Morgan chokes out, tears escaping their prison to run freely down his cheeks. His own nails dig into the skin of his palms, desperate to escape and cause their own havoc.

Doyle continues to punch, the brass knuckles tearing and crunching and causing far more damage than a human fist should be able to. Reid's head is battered from side to side.

Doyle stops, his chest heavy, fists falling against his sides.

Reid's head is slouched forward, a thin line of saliva and blood pooling from his mouth. His hair obscures his face, and Morgan has the terrifying thought that Reid is dead.

Murdered right in front of him. Two of his best friends were killed by this bastard. The thought has a strangled sob escaping his throat, and he calls out a haggard, "Reid?"

The kid's head lifts up, slowly, painfully. Oh god, Morgan thinks.

"I'm fine," Reid slurs emptily, his voice thick with blood. His face is a war ground. Swollen lips, bruising eyes, and bleeding cuts. Morgan can see a ruptured blood vessel in one eye, the whites there painted a gruesome red.

"We don't know where she is!" Morgan seethes, turning hate-filled eyes to Doyle. "Damn it, you sonofabitch! We don't know!"

Chest still heaving, Doyle doesn't even bother to turn to look at Morgan. He keeps his gaze locked on Reid.

"Maybe," he finally allows. "Maybe you don't. Regardless, I'm going to leave Lauren," he sneers at the name, "A message."

This time, when the brass knuckles arch through the air, they aren't aimed for Reid's face.

It's his stomach that goes to war now.

*****

"Kid?" Morgan asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the slumped over figure. "Reid?"

He didn't respond, his head lolling to one side. Not a groan or a grunt or anything. Either he was unconscious or….

Morgan physically shook the thought away. Reid was going to be okay. They were going to get out of this.

Doyle calmly took the offered towel from his younger associate, wiping the brass knuckles of their blood. Reid's blood. Morgan saw red as fathomless as the color painting the kid's face.

"You sonofabitch," he said. "I'll kill you."

Doyle turned towards him, continuing to polish the brass. "I much doubt that, agent."

"Let us go!" He demanded, eyes straining to see Reid's chest rise and fall. As long as he was breathing, he was alive. The telltale movement made Morgan exhale loudly in relief.

"You know that's not something I can do." Doyle handed the bloody rag back, depositing the brass back to it's tray. "You can thank your lovely friend Emily for what you're going through."

"Our team will find you," he countered bitterly. "They'll get you." Raw wrists rubbed hopelessly against his shackles.

"I'll allow you to rest for now," Doyle offered, as though it was a big favor. "Daniel," he nodded to the eager young man, "Watch them."

With that, he turned and strolled out of view, disappearing behind the warehouse's plethora of boxes.

It left Morgan with nothing to do but call out to Reid, and listen for the sounds of his pained breathing.

Chapter Text

"He hasn't attempted to contact you?" Prentiss repeated slowly. Hotch nodded, confirming his words.

"Nothing," Penelope agreed, depositing a steaming cup of coffee in front of Emily. She had trouble keeping herself from reaching out to brush Emily's skin again. It felt surreal to have her here, sitting around their round table again.

"What does that mean?" JJ questioned. She'd taken up Reid's mantle, jotting down the thoughts of the team as they came. Though her writing was neater, Garcia missed Boy Wonder with a fierceness.

Their round table wasn't complete without Knights Boy Genius and Chocolate Adonis.

Emiky took a deep breath. "It means he thinks they have the answers he wants."

Garcia gasps. "Does he think- he thinks they know where you are?"

The marker in JJ's hand crushes against the board, eliciting a loud squeal. She turns to them, her face awash in worry. "They don't," she whispers. "They have no idea you're even alive, Em."

"It means we'll have to find them," Rossi interjects, noting the emotion clear on JJ's face. "Quickly."

"It's also good news," Hotch adds, earning a sharp look from JJ. He chooses his next words carefully. "If he's interrogating them, it means they're alive."

"Being tortured," she responded bitterly, only minorly regretting her words at Garcia's second gasp.

"They're strong," Rossi attempts to reassure.

JJ closes her eyes, her stomach quelling miserably. If only she had told Reid, maybe- maybe he'd be okay. "I- I need a minute."

She rushed towards the door, avoiding the worried glances of her team.

What remained of it, anyway.

*****

The cold water did little to assuage her fears. She took another handful of the running water, splashing it across her face again.

She was aware of the bathroom door opening behind her, but she wasn't ready to face the person there. Another splash, another douse of freezing water that did nothing.

"Jayje?" Prentiss asked softly, a hand following into JJ's shoulder. "You wanna talk about it?"

Finally, she let her eyes rise to meet Prentiss's in the mirror. Both were red rimmed and filled with suffering.

"Is this my fault?" She asked brokenly, water dripping off her face. Wet hair plastered to the side of her head.

Emily's eyebrows shot up. "What could ever make you think that?" She didn't remove her comforting hand, doubling down with a squeeze.

"I didn't tell him." JJ's face twisted in guilt. "Either of them. Maybe if I told them that you were alive this whole situation-"

"JJ," Emily cautioned, turning the blonde around to face her. "Don't. Don't play the what if game. You've only done what you think is right."

JJ's eyes fall to the floor. "I've been hurting people. I've been lying. To Spence."

"I can't imagine," Emily offered quietly. "But we're going to get them back. And everything- it's going to be okay."

Her face is still wet, and JJ runs a hand across it, wiping away moisture from the sink and tears. "We have to."

"I think I know what we need to do." Emily took a breath. "I need to find a way to contact Doyle."

*****

Morgan had never been so happy to hear a groan of pain.

His head whipped towards Reid, relief surging through his veins. The kid lifted his head up, bleary surveying the room.

"Morgan?" He asks, voice thick. Morgan's heart tightens. He looks horrible, his face bloody and bruised.

"Hey, pretty boy, how you doin'?"

Reid answers by spitting out a glob of bloody saliva. "Had better days." His head falls back, as though the task of supporting it's weight is too much.

Morgan chuckles darkly. "Yeah, I bet." He watches as Reid closes his eyes, breathing painfully. He's halfway convinced Reid has fallen asleep again before he speaks.

"How are you? Your burns?"

"Barely there, honestly. I'm fine." He can still feel the odd twinge of a current, the slight heat of the burn, but Reid doesn't need to know that.

"Electrical burns can look minor at first," Reid informs, each word sounding like a gasp. "If tissues along the electrical path are damaged it could take ten days to appear on the skin-"

"Alright," Morgan cuts him off. "Don't bust a lung there, kid. You having trouble breathin'?"

"It's most likely a cracked rib," Reid responds sheepishly. He meets Morgan's eyes as best as he can, the damned burst vessel in his left causing a lump to form in Morgan's throat. "The muscles we use for breathing pull on the ribs-"

"Yeah, yeah," Morgan cuts him off again, unable to listen to his pained wheezing anymore. "Remember, take it easy?"

Daniel, watches them from feet away. He eyes them suspiciously, but doesn't intervene in their conversation.

"Anything happen?" He leans forward in his chair, hissing painfully.

"No." Morgan yearns to rise from this goddamn chair, break his bonds, and march him and Reid out of here. Instead, he's trapped, watching his friend suffer. "Doyle- he hasn't come back."

"Probably a good thing, right?"

"Yeah." Morgan watches Reid for a moment. He struggles to breathe, struggles to remain still. If his muscles feel like Morgan, cramped and sore, Morgan knows he's hurting. "Hey, Reid?"

"Yeah?"

Morgan hesitates. "Why- why have you been going to JJ's?" It's not his business, but he can't refrain from asking.

Reid pauses, pained eyes darting to Morgan. "I didn't wanna be alone," he finally says.

"You're not alone," Morgan assures quietly. He can feel Daniel's gaze on them, and it unsettles him. "I'm here for you."

"I know," Reid says softly, and then it's no more than a couple minutes before his eyes seem to close of their own accord.

He's gone again, leaving Morgan with the company of a madman's henchman.

Chapter Text

Prentiss nursed the beer in front of her, nervously trying to drown her concerns. The last time she'd been at this bar, it started a cacophony of discord for her.

Faley's death. Doyle finding her. Torturing her. Faking her own demise.

Shivering despite the warmth of the place, she takes another chug.

The bar is crowded, filled with the multitude of people oozing for a party on a Saturday night. Loud voices and thumping music wash over her, keeping her already on edge senses alert.

"We're here," Hotch assures, and she relaxes the smallest amount at the voice in her ear. A small earpiece, too small for an untrained eye to see. It offers her some security.

So does JJ, sitting across the bar from her. Lazily almost, she tosses darts on the board there. It's a familiar presence in a sea of unknowns, and it brings Prentiss the tiniest sliver of peace.

Having those you love close when you visit old haunts was a mercy.

The dimmed lights make it hard to discern faces. Couples grind against each other, moving to music and singles shoot shots back. Prentiss knows, regardless of what she can see, that someone here will know Doyle.

Her sitting here, at this familiar bar, is a message to Ian. She's alive, she's back, and she's declaring war.

It's a promise that will make it's way back to the man.

Nerves getting the best of her, she supposes again. Memories assuage her here.

"You okay, kiddo?" Rossi's voice comes through, and she knows he's somewnere out there, keeping watch. None of Doyle's associates will get her tonight.

"Peachy," he grumbles back sarcastically.

Temporary safety is all she feels allowed to ask for.

*****

"I believe you've had enough rest." Doyle yanks Reid's head up, eliciting a pained hiss. "Wake up now, Dr. Reid."

"Stop," Morgan begs. He watches as Doyle forces Reid's head to the back of the chair. The kid's eyes open, swollen and bruised and weary.

"Why?" Reid asks. Doyle releases his hair, and Spencer head thankfully stays up. His eyelids flutter, a telltale sign of torment.

"I've received intel," Doyle informs them both. "From a very trusted source."

His men stand off to the side, as per usual. Liam's arms are crossed, a self satisfied smirk on his face. Daniel's own features betray his excitement.

"What fuckin' intel?" Morgan demands.

Ian sends him a toothy grin, teeth glinting like the monster he is. "I have a phone call to make. Please, excuse me."

He fumbles in his pockets, retrieving a small black flip phone. Reid watches him with apprehension, body leaning as far as possible away.

"A phone call? Are you serious, man?" It's become a nervous tick Morgan in here, rubbing his wrists bloody on the ropes. One day, he surmises, they will break and set him free.

Pressing the phone to his ear, Doyle holds up a finger. That smile is still plastered to his face.

If Morgan strains, he can hear a muffled voice answer. Doyle's face brightens at the cadence of it.

"Ah, hello. Emily."

Reid's head jerks to Doyle, his vision swimming at the sudden pain. "Emily?" He whispers.

"No," Morgan argues. "No, no, no. She's dead. We buried her." He's shaking his head vehemently, and Doyle's smile never wavers.

"Yes, I do have your team here." Doyle pauses, letting the voice speak. There's no way, Morgan thinks, no way that could actually be Prentiss.

"I want my son," Doyle sneers. "Where is Declan?"

Whatever presumed Prentiss responds infuriates the man. His face twists, and the gun kept holstered on his belt is drawn, coming to aim at Reid's forehead. "Not even to save the life of Doctor Reid?"

Morgan cries out in protest, his heart dropping to his stomach. Not Reid. Not Spencer. It will absolutely destroy him, shattering whatever remains of his soul to watch Reid die. "Get that gun away from him!"

"A trade?" Doyle muses, gun still pressed firmly against Reid's skin. The kid's hands are squeezed tightly, and he screws his eyes shut.

"Which one?" Doyle asks, and Morgan's heart stutters. This can't be happening. This can't be the end.

"Kid, look at me," Morgan orders. His voice shakes. "No matter what happens, it's gonna be okay." Reid's frightened eyes met his, that damn nozzle still searing into his skin.

"Choose," Doyle orders, and then after the voice speaks, "Very well."

There's panic lighting across every one of Morgan's nerves, firing him up in terrifying ways. "Don't!" He begs, body poised for that loud, harsh sound that indicates the end of a life. That sound that will end with blood and pain and death.

And then Doyle does the unexpected, drawing the gun off of Reid's forehead. The kid visibly relaxes, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion.

Doyle holsters his gun, turning towards Morgan.

The relief is quickly replaced with fear, and Morgan forces himself to stare back captor down. Doyle is going to get what's coming to him.

"Here," he says, reaching the phone out. He presses it against Morgan's ear. "It's her."

It's goddamn impossible, Morgan knows, and yet his body trembles against the feel of the plastic. Breath stuttering, he offers a small, "Prent- Prentiss?"

The voice of a ghost comes back, and reality seems to fall away from Morgan.

"Derek." The dead speaks.

*****

When the phone rings, an ominous jingle, Prentiss knows exactly who it is. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself for the voice she knows she's going to hear.

With one last look to Penelope, poised at her keyboard and ready to trace, Emily presses the green button. Slowly, she flips the switch to the speakerphone.

"Doyle?"

"Ah, hello." His voice is exactly as she remembered it on the fateful day. Full of loathing and sarcasm. It sends an involuntary shiver down her back. "Emily."

Hotch, Rossi and JJ move in closer, remaining on their feet and orbiting close. Garcia's small room is crowded, but she pays it no mind as she furiously clacks away.

"You have my team?" Prentiss demands.

"Yes. I do have your team here."

Images of both Morgan and Reid hurt flood her mind, and she has to physically visualize stuffing them into a small box and tying a bow around it. She has to stay focused if she wants to stand a chance against Doyle.

After all, he's already bested her once.

"Let them go, Ian. This is between you and me."

"I want my son." His voice rises in anger. "Where is Declan?"

"I can't tell you that." She meets Hotch's eyes, and he gives her a reassuring nod.

"Not even to save the life of Doctor Reid?" His tone is patronizing, and she immediately swallows the bile that rises to her throat.

"Don't." She prays her voice doesn't betray the depth of her emotion. She feels jagged, her body cutting itself on it's own worry. She can't lose Morgan or Reid. "I'll trade myself for them."

Hotch is shaking his head across from her, shooting her a disapproving glare. Emily doesn't care. She will do what it takes to save them.

"A trade?" Doyle asks.

"Yes. A trade. Let me talk to them." She closes her eyes, hoping that Doyle will allow at least that.

"Which one?" He asks, voice teasing. God, she hates it, and she hates him.

"Both!" She chokes out. Rossi's hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and she gathers energy from it.

"Choose."

She groans in frustration, earning a laugh from Doyle.

"Morgan," she grits out between her teeth. "Let me talk to him."

"Very well." There's a bit of rustling on Doyle's end, and then Morgan's voice comes through. It's the sweetest melody she's ever heard.

"Prent- Prentiss?"

"Derek."

She's utterly relieved to hear his voice. It's been so long since she's heard him speak.

"I- I don't understand." Morgan's voice is utterly devastated, and she closes her eyes in guilt. It's her fault the suffering is there. "I don't fucking understand."

"There's no time to explain," she coaxes gently. She can hear him taking deep breaths on the other end of the line.

"Reid?" JJ asks. "How's Reid?"

There's a special quality about Morgan, Prentiss can hear it in every gasp he takes. He's piecing himself back together, a stained glass window that refuses to shatter. "He's hurt," he finally says.

JJ gasps. "How badly?"

"Where are you?" Hotch interrupts, leaning down over the phone. "Any identifying structures?"

"It's a warehous-" Morgan starts, and then his voice is abruptly cut off, replaced by the demon that haunts her dreams on occasion.

"That's enough talking," Doyle explains, voice irritated. "Do we have a deal, Prentiss?"

"Triangulate with warehouses, Garcia," Hotch orders. She's been clicking away this whole team, her magic fingers seeming unable to conjure anything.

"Yes, sir," she replies, voice tight.

"I'll trade myself," she offers. "But not Declan. I won't betray him like that." She swallows, panic crawling up her throat.

The line is silent for a moment. "Then only one of your fellow agents will survive," he remarks coolly.

"Doyle, don't-" She starts, and then the dial tone cuts her off. Doyle has hung up.

"Garcia, anything?" JJ questions, desperation clear on her.

Dismayed, Penelope swings her chair around. The tears on her cheeks are answer enough.

She shakes her head no.

Chapter Text

"She's- she's alive," Derek remarks as Doyle hands the phone to Liam. The man tosses it to the ground, effectively smashing it with his boot. The sound of shattering makes Spencer jump, but nothing can permeate the shock that is Morgan's mind.

Emily Prentiss is alive. He just spoke to her. Like some kind of necromancy, she's been summoned from the grave.

"Are you sure?" Reid implores, desperately. "Voice recognition can be nearly impossible to deduce over phone lines-"

"Oh, it's absolutely her," Doyle interrupts, humor in his voice. "That's the Emily I know. Are you sure you want to continue with this narrative of innocence, Doctor?"

"She's really….alive?" He directs the question at Morgan, confusion plain on his face.

"Yeah, kid. She is." It doesn't make sense, and Morgan's brain can't compute the facts. He carried her casket. How was her voice on that phone?

"And," Doyle interjects yet again, "She's agreed to trade places with one of you."

"No chance!" Morgan snaps. He wouldn't dare allow Emily to spend another minute with this madman. If she is truly alive, he's going to do everything he can to keep her that way.

"Unfortunately," Doyle replies, tapping a finger against the top of Reid's head, "She refuses to tell me where Declan is."

"You don't want to hurt your son, do you?" Reid offers quietly, wincing with each pointed tap to his head. "You know lifestyle is not the best environment for him."

"He's my son!" Doyle bites back. "I can decide what is best for Declan."

Meeting Morgan's glare, Doyle smiles. "This is truly bad news for you, agents. I believe we need to send Prentiss a message."

"What?" Morgan demands, his heart kicking up. "What message?"

"Whom should we use to send it?" Doyle muses aloud, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The sonofabitch is enjoying this. He makes his way back to the damned tray, his fingers slowly traveling over the tools there.

"Me," Reid supplies quickly and quietly, avoiding Morgan's incensed eyes.

"Not a chance in hell, man," he argues, muscles tense. "No way, Reid." He struggles fruitlessly against his bindings again. Doyle selects a weapon, a large, wicked blade.

Reid's bruised eyes go wide.

"Doctor Reid," Doyle addresses, voice amused. "I think we will use you after all." He pats Reid on the back.

"No, no, no," Morgan chokes out. "Not him. Use me. Use me."

Reid gulps, eyes locked on the knife. Doyle let's his fingers dance along the edge, feeling the sharpness there.

"Don't!" Morgan cries. Wherever this is going, it's bad. His body screams at him to act.

"This will probably hurt," Doyle informs Reid. He turns the knife idly in his grasp, and Reid pulls uselessly against his bindings.

"I don't think this is necessary," Reid argues quickly. His words are breathy, his pupils dilated in fear. "You don't have to do this-"

"I'm gonna need some help, Liam," Doyle bulldozes over his words. He crouches down beside Reid, that sharp blade still held in his hand.

"Leave him alone!" Morgan rips his arms this way and that, begging the ropes to give. He can see where Doyle's eyes are, and the thought terrifies him.

Obediently, Liam makes his way to Reid. Involuntarily, Reid flinches away. The man towers over him, awaiting a command.

"My sincerest apologies." Doyle smiles cruelly, and then gestures to Reid's tightly clenched hand. "Please, extend your fingers."

His face blanches white, and he shakes his head vehemently. "Don't- Don't do that. A message is completely unnecessary. I'm sure the BAU can arrange-"

Doyle sighs, meeting Liam's eyes. "Spread his fingers, please, Liam."

"Get the hell away from him!" Morgan jerks his body back, attempting to flip the chair. He hits the back with a thud, and it doesn't budge. He screams obscenities at Doyle, hoping to capture his attention.

Morgan feels utterly powerless as he watches Liam force Reid's hand to unfurl, pressing it firmly against the arm of the chair.

"Which finger?" Liam asks, grunting as he struggles to keep each of Reid's extremities from curling back underneath his palm.

Doyle shrugs, a humorous glint in his eye. "You tell me, Doctor."

Reid's frantic eyes flash to him. "What?"

Doyle is close enough to feel his breath. "Which finger would you prefer us to remove? You're a genius after all. Which do you need the least?" He brings the knife up to barely touch Reid's skin, and the agent yelps.

"I'm going to kill you!" Morgan vows, banging his head against the chair. He can't escape, goddamnit.

"First finger on the left hand," Reid answers quietly. Liam forces that finger down, holding it there despite Morgan's vocal protests.

Reid's hand trembles. He shoots Doyle pleading eyes. "Don't," he asks.

"Nothing personal, Doctor Reid." He brings the knife down, a smooth arc of danger.

It slices Reid's finger halfway through, blood immediately welling.

Morgan cries out, flinching. Reid looks dazed, staring at his half severed finger, and Morgan can tell the pain hasn't hit yet.

And then it does, like a tidal wave washing over him, and Reid screams, trying to jerk his injured hand back.

Liam holds it tightly, laughing, and Doyle yanks the knife back. He surveys the damage done while Reid makes agonized sounds.

"Kid, you're okay, you're okay," Morgan assures quickly and emptily. There's so much blood, painting the chair and now the floor. Red and violent and terrifying.

"Gonna have to whack it again, boss," Liam informs good-naturedly.

"Hold him still," Doyle orders, bringing the knife back up. Reid struggles, babbling nonsense as his abused finger continues to bleed.

"Please, stop!" Morgan begs, but the knife falls.

With the second sharp slice, Reid's finger is freed of it's home.

"Got it," Liam notifies. He reaches down and grabs the bloody appendage, holding it up to the warehouse light.

Morgan gags, the sight of that severed, bloody finger sending his stomach heaving. That's Reid's goddamn finger.

"Kid?" He chokes out. "Reid?"

He's panting, small whimpers snaking past his lips. His eyes are glazed over, staring at the ceiling. Blood gurgles steadily out of his severed finger, pooling everywhere.

"Get that to the BAU," Doyle informs. He wipes the bloody knife off on Reid's pants, and the kid doesn't even respond.

Daniel takes the bloody finger, wrapping it in a black cloth. He shoves it into his pocket, and turns and leaves.

"Reid?" Morgan tries again. "REID!"

He doesn't answer, and Morgan gags again.

Reid's going to bleed out in a crummy warehouse, and Morgan is going to have to watch.

Chapter Text

"Reid? Reid, answer me, man!" Morgan begs.

Spencer continues to make quiet discontented noises, his eyelids flickering. He's pulled his remaining fingers protectively back into his palm, the absent one still steadily bleeding.

"I think you're going into shock, Reid," Morgan continues, fear settling heavily into his gut. "I need you to snap out of it."

Liam grunts out a laugh, leaning against the boxes. He surveys the scene with humor.

Still, Reid doesn't answer. His eyes are bleary and confused, and it seems to take all of his energy just to keep them open.

"He needs medical help!" Morgan demands, snapping his head to Liam. "He's going to bleed out!"

The way that Liam shrugs would have set Morgan off if he could only goddamn move.

"Well, let's hope your little bitch friend answers Doyle quick then." Liam arches an eyebrow.

Screaming, Morgan jerks against the rope. It hasn't given yet, and it doesn't now. "Just- just stop the bleeding!" He begs. "Put some pressure against it!"

Liam laughs, shaking his head. "Boss didn't give me permission for that," he chuckles, "And since he's retired to his room, I'm unable to ask."

"Go to hell!" Morgan is raging, tossing poisonous words in hope they land.

With trepidation, Morgan watches as Reid's eyes finally slide all the way shut.

And stay there.

*****

"Morgan said warehouse," Prentiss offers, watching as Penelope's screens change to her whim. "How many are there around this area?"

"Too many," Garcia mutters. Her fingers continue to dance noisily across her keyboard, accessing information and code Prentiss doesn't understand. Still, she watches undeterred over her shoulder.

"We need a way to thin the list out," Hotch adds, body still as a statue by the door to Garcia's haven.

"He probably has them within a 50 mile radius," JJ says. Her hair is frazzled, much like her features, and her leg taps restlessly.

"Hell, probably even a 30 mile radius," Rossi surmises. "He'd need to stay close to the action."

"How many does that leave, Garcia?" Hotch questions.

"Still- still 20, sir. This is a highly industrial area-"

"Any abandoned?" He interrupts, thoughts spinning. If they can lower it down to a couple warehouses, they can search.

"Five," Garcia practically whispers, her fingers finally stilling. She turns around in her chair, meeting Hotch's eyes. "Five of the warehouses are abandoned."

"Send us the list," Emily orders. "We'll go and check each of the damned-"

They're interrupted by a nervous knock on the door, fingers tapping against wood. Each or their bodies tense, prepared for war. They've been through too much to ever consider a visitor a pleasantry.

Hotch is the closet, and perhaps the most well-suited. He rips the door open, his face a stoic tour de force of seriousness.

"Yes?" He demands, eyeing the quaking young man standing by the threshold.

It's not an easy feat to meet the eyes of a man like Hotch, rolling always with the force of an ocean hindered. Especially now, when stormy seas are raging. And this young one doesn't succeed in the feat, keeping his eyes downcast to the ground.

"I have this, for you guys," he mutters, holding out a brown package. His face is still pockmarked with youth, his hair frizzled. The throes of puberty haven't quite released the young man.

"A package?" JJ asks, icy fear slithering into her heart. Receiving a package on a case is never, ever a good thing.

Hotch gingerly takes the package, letting his eye roam over it. Simple, and basic, with only one name written across it. "It's addressed to Prentiss."

"Where'd you get this, son?" Rossi demands, his approach causing the pockmarked men to take a step back. He holds his hands up in acquiest.

"Got paid $50 to deliver it. That's all I know."

"Think it's safe?" Hotch questions Emily, turning the small, palm sized package over in his hands.

She pulls a face. "I doubt it's a bomb," she answers, trepidation sitting heavy in her stomach. "He doesn't want to kill us until he has Declan. But," she warns, unable to prevent her eyes from snapping to Garcia, "I doubt it's going to be pleasant."

"Oh god," Garcia whispers, catching Emily's look. "I can't- I don't think I can handle whatever is in there."

"Hey, I got nothing to do with it!" The pockmarked man's hands are still up in surrender, eyes wide. "Just, it's $50 you know? I need the money."

"You're going to give a statement," Rossi orders, eyes traveling to where Hotch is fingering the tape holding the brown package together.

"Awww, man, come on-" the messenger pouts, rolling his head around. "I ain't got nothing to do with it-"

"Don't open that here," Garcia cuts in, glowering at the package. "Whatever's in there, I don't wanna see it. Most importantly, I don't want the bad feng shui and karma." Her voice cracks.

Hotch nods in understanding. "My office," he orders the team. He clutches the foreboding item in his hands gently. "You." He directs his head towards the quaking man. "Wait in the bullpen. We'll take your statement and you're free to go."

He bulldozes through the door, package in tow.

*****

A quiet moan brings Derek out of the dark tunnel of his thoughts, forcing him into the equally dark present.

"Reid?" He croaks, head snapping in the direction of the younger agent. Reid has been out for hours now, his blood flow slowing but his eyes refusing to open. It speaks to the direness of their situation that Morgan feels jubilation at the kid's obvious pain.

Pain means he's alive to feel it.

"Morgan?" He asks, voice soft. His head lolling in Morgan's direction, eyelids fluttering as he tries to open them.

"I'm here," he assures quickly. He can feel the amused gaze of Liam watching him, and he has to fight to not spit words of acid at the man.

"Where?" Reid's eyes finally open, before slamming shut again. He flexes his fingers, hissing in pain at the sudden pain in his hand.

"The warehouse," Morgan answers bitterly. He watches as Reid's chest rises and falls, the kid seeming to calibrate to the pain of waking. "I thought- thought you were dead, kid."

That finally brings Reid's eyes open, hazy and bruised. "I'm unlikely to lose enough blood to cause exsanguination," he comforts matter-of-factly, his voice breathy with pain. "The platelets in my blood are secreting a protein that will form with my red blood cells, causing the blood to clot. There aren't any major arteries or veins that are likely to bleed out-"

"Alright, Reid," Morgan interrupts, fearing each word will cost the kid another minute of his life. "So you won't be bleeding out?"

"It's unlikely," Reid affirms. He moans miserably again, head falling back against the chair.

"Kid?" Morgan questions, his voice catching.

"More pain fiber per inch of skin on our fingers than anyone else in the body," he supplies softly.

"Meaning?"

"It hurts, Morgan." There's a snapping to Reid's voice that compounds the fact it must hurt like a sonofabitch. The only time Reid gets snarky is under duress of pain. Morgan's heart constricts.

"We're gonna get out of this," Morgan assures, earning him a small chuckle from Liam. Turning to glare daggers at the man, Morgan's mouth sneers into a grimace.

"Sure," Reid agrees hollowly. "Of course."

******

With dread, Hotch let's his fingers slide between the small brown package and the clear tape keeping it bound together. Whatever is hidden within this mysterious box, Hotch knows it won't be good.

He lets his eyes travel over those assembled here. His office door is shut, and they seem to exist in a void here.

Rossi meets his eyes evenly, nodding his head once. Hotch can see his own apprehension mirrored in those dark eyes.

Emily seems to be holding together well, the stitching that formed her stronger them most. She understands the severity of that package in Hotch's hands, unable to tear her gaze from it.

JJ is fracturing, and she has been ever since their teammates were taken. She refuses to meet anyone's eyes, training hers instead on the item in Hotch's hands. She's lost more than just their missing teammates. She's lost her sanity, watching it slip messing through her fingers.

Hell, they all have.

Unable to prolong the inevitable any longer, the finger residing in the flap between tape and paper slides, tearing it open. Hotch's heart beats like a wild horse, and he has to collect himself before flipping the paper open, exposing their gift.

Their gruesome, unbelievable gift.

It takes everything in Hotch not to drop the package, spilling the lone content to the floor. Takes everything not to retch and shudder.

There's a finger residing here, whose owner can only be one.

"Oh god," JJ sobs brokenly, and she does gag, bending over at the waist. Her hair falls to cover her face, and Prentiss slides Hotch's small garbage can towards her without a word, dropping a comforting hand to her back.

"It's Reid's," Rossi confirms unnecessarily, his face far more pallid than usual. He dabs at his mouth with his tie, closing his eyes.

"Yes." Hotch is in a play, and here he must play the fearless leader. The superhero who keeps it together for his team. He gulps, forcing down bile. He must keep it together.

"We should- uh, store it." Emily keeps a steady hand on JJ's back. She's collapsed to the floor, can clutched miserably in her hands as she continues to wretch.

Hotch's eyes snap to her. "Store it?"

"In case- in case it can be reattached," she offers quietly.

"There's a short time for reattachment," Rossi adds. His eyes are slightly glassy.

"12 hours." JJ wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. There'd been nothing to throw up, Hotch knows. None of them have eaten or slept in a long time now. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin pale and sweaty. "Spence's facts. We have 12 goddamn hours."

"Less now," Emily says. "How long ago did he lose it?"

JJ moans, seeming to curl inwards on herself. "Oh my God. We have to find them."

She raises her eyes to Hotch, filled with a level of suffering he knows too well. Now it's JJ, a stained glass masterpiece depicting pain, who threatens to shatter.

"We will," he assures, wrapping the digit back up. "Garcia gave us five warehouses. We're checking all of them."

"Damn right," Emily vows.

Chapter Text

Doyle stalks back into their small dungeon, appearing like a creature out of the lagoon. His brash countenance is twisted into worry now, and then elevates Morgan's sour mood tremendously.

"What's going on?" He questions, arching an eyebrow. "Something happenin' out there?"

Spinning on him, quicker than Morgan's sluggish reflexes can discern, Doyle lands a solid slap against Morgan's cheek. It sends his head flying back, smacking into the back of his chair.

It means nothing, absolutely nothing, to Morgan, and he rights himself, shooting Doyle a bloody smile. "Something's definitely going on. What is it, Doyle? My team? Is the cavalry arriving?"

Doyle hisses. "Liam, Daniel. There's activity. At Quantico. I think they've found us."

Daniel starts,eyes immediately darting around. "You serious? How?"

"My team is so much smarter than you give them credit for!" Morgan throws the words at him.

Reid watches the situation carefully, focusing on breathing. It's hard enough to garnish enough oxygen to live, much less to speak. Every breath sends a spark of pain through his abdomen. "You've been caught, Doyle. You should surrender."

"Never!" Ian snarls, turning to Reid. The genius instantly shrinks back, and Morgan's already incensed mood heightens.

"They've caught you man," Derek chuckles. "It's over." His wrists are raw, and his muscles are sore to the point of collapse, but he's relieved. This nightmare is almost over.

"Not yet, agents." Doyle sends a look to his men, a thoughtful hand under his chin. "We shoot one, we take one."

"What?" Morgan and Reid startle at the same time.

"Which?" Liam asks.

"No fuckin' way," Morgan retorts, his earlier joy dissipating instantly. He should've anticipated this. He's tired and hurt and so unbearably thirsty. "No."

Ian Doyle looks between both of them, his eyes finally pausing on Morgan. It sends a sliver of fear into his heart. "Shoot him. Bring the doctor."

Reid makes a strangled noise, wide eyes finding Morgan. "Don't! Don't shoot him! Please!"

"It's nothing personal," Doyle jokes, a smug smirk lighting up his face. Next to him, Liam procures a gun from the waistband of his jeans, and Morgan's vision seems to tunnel around it. He's going to die.

"There's a better solution!" Reid bargains desperately, the words seeming to fly of their own accord. He can barely feel the pain in his ribs now.

"It'll be okay, pretty boy," Morgan offers, his tongue feeling numb. Hell, his whole body feels numb, that gun in Liam's hands a shining beacon of pain to come. Somehow, this will work out. It, at the very least, buys Reid more time.

"Shoot him. Knock the doctor out. I'll be waiting at the truck." With those parting words, Doyle turns and disappears behind the neverending sea of crates.

"You heard the boss," Liam chuckles, raising the gun to aim it. Morgan can almost feel the heat of it on his chest, burning a hole to his insides. He tries to squirm away, but he remains bound and immobile.

"Don't! There's still another chance!" Reid argues, hopelessly fighting against his own ropes. His face is twisted in pain, his eyes frantic, and he doesn't notice as Daniel comes up behind him. With a solid pistol whip, just once across the back of his head, Reid is out. His head rolls forward, his desperate pleas halted.

Morgan, oddly, is thankful. Reid shouldn't have to see this. He stares Liam in the face, the heat of the gun still boring into him.

"Just so you know," Liam states calmly, wielding his power cruelly, "This is personal."

He fires three shots.

Morgan is unconscious after the first.

*****

"Empty." Prentiss confirms into her earpiece, breathy with exertion. This is her second warehouse, each being clear and cold and filled with cobwebs. There are no signs of her friends here.

Rossi nods silently, affirming her words. Somewhere in this vast abandoned building a pipe leaks, steadily dropping with a splash.

"Alright," Hotch's voice comes back through, staticed with their distance. "Ours is empty as well."

She can imagine them standing in empty warehouses just like this one, devoid of hope. Hoping that JJ and Hotch are holding it together is all she can do right now. She needs to stay focused on their task.

"That leaves only one," Rossi commentates, holding up a single digit for emphasis. It makes her flash back to Reid's solo finger, on ice somewhere in Quantico. It makes her shiver despite herself.

"Reynolds Street," Hotch informs. "It's our next destination."

Through the comms, JJ swears. "No goddamn way it's called that."

Rossi chuckles wryly, and Emily cocks her head in his direction incredulously. He shrugs.

"What can I say?" He murmurs. "I'm a sucker for irony."

*****

There is only one overarching thought that permeates the agony he's become; he's cold. He never even knew it was possible to be this cold. It feels like an oxymoron, to be so unbearably cold that you burn.

It seems like something a friend of his might be able to explain to him…..

The thought slithers away from him, leaving only the pain and cold.

He groans audibly, reaching a delicate finger to probe his chest. It seems to be where the agony lives, and he hisses at the touch. He pulls away bloody fingers, and he realizes with a jolt he's bleeding.

He's Derek Morgan, and he's bleeding to death in a crummy warehouse.

With a moan, he's rolling himself onto his stomach. His wounds, gunshots he reminds himself, scream at the movement and the cold brush of the warehouse's cement floor. It nearly knocks him out, the pain of it hitting like a train.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to survey the dim space. He can see his chair, ropes finally cut. It comes back to him then, fuzzy with suffering; Liam firing three shots off into his chest and stomach. He lost consciousness for a moment, coming back to feel himself pushed roughly our of the chair and onto the floor. Daniel had laughed, seeing him squirm in agony on the floor like a fish. Reid- Reid had already been gone.

With dawning horror, Morgan's head jerks to Reid's chair. Empty; like his. Pretty boy has been taken.

Reid's gone, and Morgan blood is currently cooling off on the warehouse floor. He isn't even sure where he's hit, just that his shirt is soaked with blood and he's freezing to death.

With a roar, he tries to force his arms to drag him. Where, he isn't sure. Boxes seem to loom above him, wicked faraway gods. He'll find the door one way or another.

His body cries out, weakened. He can feel his consciousness slipping away, falling from him like his own lifeblood. Desperately, he tries to hold onto it, refusing to die. Doyle will not be his end.

There's nothing he can do. He falls away, adding his very own red paint to Reid's.

*****

The kick Hotch lobbed at the locked warehouse was both theatrical and heartbreaking. It reminded JJ far too heavily of Morgan, and she found it hard to focus as her and her fellow agents poured in after Hotch.

The warehouse was vast, with high ceilings and many entry points via loading dock. As closed and locked tight. Crates and cardboard boxes covering every square inch, turning the building into a makeshift maze.

"Keep your eyes open," Hotch ordered gruffly, veering to the left and disappearing into the maze.

Rossi followed suit, sliding away into the darkness of the left. With a small nod, her raven hair swishing, Emily was gone as well.

JJ kept her gun steady, pointed into the darkened areas of the building. Whatever horrors awaited her, she planned to blast them away.

What about bodies? Her thoughts turned insidious, attacking her. What if you find their bodies?

She nearly sobbed, premature grief worming it's way through her. Reid and Morgan were fine. They were here to save them, and then JJ was swearing off lies.

At least to Spence. She wasn't going to lie to him again.

The crates seemed to reach every square inch, and JJ maneuvered herself through them silently.

When the body appeared in front of her, seeming to swim out of the darkness, she gasped, her body freezing. Fear overtook her for a moment, before the figure splayed out on the floor finally came into focus.

Morgan, he brain screamed, and then she rushing towards him, dropping her knees into the bloody ground. Panic made her heart beat quicken, and she reached out to fingers to feel for a pulse on his neck.

Relief surged through her as she found the weak beat of his heart, and she quickly radioed in on her piece.

"He's here!" She choked out, her hands roaming across his back to find the blood. Gingerly, she tried to flip him over to see his face, to ascertain his life. He moaned softly, eyes still closed.

"Oh god, Derek," she cried, surveying the wreckage of his front. Blood was everywhere.

Reid was not in sight.

Chapter Text

"Where would they take him?" JJ asked miserably, her hands clasped in her lap. She'd washed them several times, but she could still feel Morgan's blood on her skin.

"Would they try to run?" Hotch directed his question at Prentiss, their apparent Doyle expert. He stood stiffly by the hospital waiting room's coffee machine, waiting on his brew to finish. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than ever, dark reminders of the sleep they would not be getting.

Prentiss shakes her head. "They wouldn't run. Far, at least. Doyle doesn't have what he wants. Me." She scoffs the last word, letting her head drop into her hands. She's sitting across from JJ, her vest tossed into the seat to her left.

"They won't get you," Garcia vows, sipping her arm around Prentiss's. She sits on her other side, tears crawling constantly down her face as they await news of Morgan.

"They still have Spence," JJ snaps, regretting it the moment it's out. Garcia draws back, her eyes filling with sorrowful tears.

"We'll get him back," Rossi assures the room. He holds a Styrofoam cup in his hands, drinking his own cup of hospital coffee. It's bitter, and he winces with each unpleasant taste.

"When?" JJ bites back, her eyes darting to the constantly clicking clock in the corner of the room. Every second that passes is another that Reid is gone, suspended in limbo somewhere with Doyle. "After it's too late and-" She can't say it, her eyes slamming closed.

She blocks out the false cherriness of the yellow walls and flower decor, blocks out the quiet sniffling of Garcia, even blocks out the words Rossi tries to speak.

Her last memory of Reid is their night at Gold Fox Brewery.

It's not a good one.

He'd been miserable all night, half-heartedly sipping on a Pepsi. She'd trier for an hour to get him to open up, to relax, and then she'd let him run out of the club as soon as she'd seen tears rise in his eyes. She should have followed him.

Hell, she should have told him about Emily.

"We have three hours left," Hotch informs, closing his eyes. The coffee beeps behind him, and he ignored it for the team being. He doesn't have to finish his sentence. Reid's finger cannot sit on ice forever.

"Where, Emily?" JJ practically begs, turning her haunted eyes towards her. Garcia has buried her face into Prentiss's shoulder, the thoughts of Reid's severed digit far too much for the cheerful tech analyst to consider. "There has to be somewhere."

"I don't know, JJ," Emily replies earnestly. JJ knows it isn't fair, she's acting absurd, but anger rises her to her feet, sending heat licking up her spine.

"Think of something!" She growls. "You have to know of somewhere!"

"I'm sorry, JJ." Prentiss shoots her a sad look, Garcia still stuck to her.

It's too much for JJ, and with a withering look to every agent gathered in that room, she books it.

Abbreviated from the phrase originating in the 1930's, bookity-it.

Thanks to her missing best friend and resident genius, she knows exactly where that phrase comes from.

She's crying before she even reaches the bathroom.

*****

When he awakes, the first thing he feels is the agonizing soreness of his body. His hand throbs painfully with every beat of his heart, and he can blearily remember that somewhere along the line he's lost his finger.

Following the pain in quick suit, though, comes the texture of the duct tape wrapping around his mouth to encircle his head. A few hairs are caught in its stickiness, and the feel of it is vexing against his skin.

He groans pitifully, the sound muffled by the tape keeping his voice quiet. He tries to open his eyes, being assaulted by the light of his new accommodations. He tries to take stock of himself and his environment with his eyes closed.

He's hands are still bound, though this time they're pulled above his head, fastened to something above him. He's prone, laying down, and it's a position that seems to make his wounded ribs ache more.

"We've been compromised!"

It has his eyes flying open, as far as the swelling will allow, and trying to locate the angry voice.

The world is blurry, and he has to wait for a moment as it focuses.

"Morgan?" He tries to mumble through his gag, the word coming out jumbled. It causes the memories to hit him, assaulting him in a way far more painful than his physical wounds. Morgan is dead, just like Emily.

It has him trying to shoot to his feet, letting out a panicked hiss as every part of his abused body cries out. He falls back onto the surprisingly hard bed.

Bed?

"Stay down, Dr. Reid," another voice orders.

He manages to look around, and realizes with a start that he's in an entirely different place. The light is brighter here, though still soft, showing him a room that is undoubtedly a motel.

A small TV sits on a beaten down dresser, blinds are closed blocking out the outside world, and Spencer is tied to the bedpost of one of the two beds in the room.

Sitting at the small, provided table is both Liam and Doyle, arguing softly amongst themselves.

Reid tests the strength of his new bindings, moaning miserably at the shock of pain that travels up his body as he jerks on them. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

"We need to cut and run!" Liam argues heatedly. "They're onto us, and we should dispose of the doctor and make a break for it, boss."

Dispose. It sends a slight shiver up his spine, but he's too exhausted to do anything. He's tied up again, beaten, hungry and dehydrated.

"I will not leave," Doyle informs the other man, voice cold, "Until I have Declan and have finished off Emily Prentiss for good."

"You're putting us in danger!" Liam retorts. He slams a glass down onto the table, and Reid jumps at the sound. He watches the argument warily.

"I will do what it takes to bring her down." Doyle's voice remains cool, but there's a dangerous anger underneath it.

Spencer's eyes begin to shut, fluttering softly, and he fights to keep himself awake. He needs to hear and plan and find a way out of this.

Liam hears the warning as well, and huffs softly. His eyebrows pinch together in distaste. "Whatever you say, boss."

Without another word he's out of his seat, snagging his jacket off of the bed opposite Spencer. He slips it on, avoiding Doyle's questioning eyes.

"I'm going out," he finally informs, slamming the door as he goes.

Spencer's exhaustion takes over, and he's unable to hold back the tide of sleep.

Doyle watches him lose the battle for wakefulness.

*****

"Derek Morgan?" The woman asked, nearly humorly, since no one but the agents resided in the hospital's waiting room. Her silvered hair was tied back, but the wrinkles around her face indicative of frowns rather than smiles. Her eyes traveled across the clipboard in her hands.

"Yes!" Garcia jumped from her seat, nearly wrenching Prentiss up with her. "Yes, yes, yes. That's us. We're his family. That is- we're Morgan's family."

The nurse shoots her an appraising look, seeming to frown at the appraisal. "It was touch and go," she started, and Rossi wasn't surprised her voice was nasally. It seemed fitting, he mused.

"But?" Garcia insisted, tears glistening on her cheeks.

"He's going to survive," the woman replied, and every agent in the room let out a collective sigh.

"What's his medical diagnoses?" Hotch insisted.

"Shot three times. Once in the shoulder, and twice in the stomach. He lost 40% of his blood volume."

Gasping, with wide eyes, Garcia covered her mouth. Morgan would survive, but her boy was hurt. Terribly.

"He needed a blood transfusion, along with surgery to remove the two bullets that didn't make a clean cut." The nurse summed up her speech, her face passive.

"Can- can we see him?" Prentiss egged.

Seeming put off, the nurse eyed them all. A strand of her perfectly restrained silvered hair had come free, hanging loosely around her cheek. "Very well. But only one. He's still out from surgery."

Garcia looked towards the door. The same one that JJ had made her escape through hours ago now it seemed.

Morgan wasn't the only friend in need.

"Go," she implored Emily, seeing the desperate look in her eyes. "You haven't seen him in so long. I'll- I'll go check on JJ."

"You," Prentisa offers Garcia a kiss to both cheeks, "Are an angel, Penny."

*****

In the solace of Quantico's black SUV, she watched the time tick away until there was none to spare. Regardless of anything else now, Spencer's finger could not be reattached. It was all her fault.

JJ let her head fall against the steering wheel, unable to hold back her frustrated tears any longer. It was her fault that Reid was still missing, sans finger, and Morgan was fighting for his life on an operation table. Perhaps if she'd told them, either of them, the truth, they could have had something to offer to Doyle.

The thought drags a choking sob out of her, and she has to wrap her arms around her stomach to hold her fracturing self together. Why won't this nightmare end?

A knock on the door pulls her head up, casting suspicious blurry eyes at the window. She's expecting Hotch, maybe, to lecture at her, or even Emily.

But it's Garcia.

She has her hand up, ready to knock again. Her hair is crazier then usual, frizzed up in aces JJ isn't used to seeing.

"Can I come in, Jayje?"

Quickly, JJ wipes her face, rubbing her snot into the sleeve of her shirt. "Yeah," she replies, voice thick with grief. "Yeah, I guess."

Softly, almost, the door to the SUV opens and Penelope Garcia slides in. Her bright purple ensemble is a sharp contrast to the dull tan interior of the vehicle.

"You okay?" She asks gently.

JJ shakes her head miserably, the tears coming forth of their own accord. "No," she chokes out. "This is my fault."

The statement seems to take Garcia back, who cocks her head. "How in the world could you think that, sweetheart?"

"I-I, keep this from you guys. I didn't tell anyone! Hell, I didn't even tell you, Penelope!" Her words are breathy, broken by dry sobs, and she has to turn her head away. She can't bear to meet the kind eyes staring back at her.

A gentle hand finds her, working it's fingers into place. Garcia squeezes her hand gently, attempting to transfer relief via touch. "That's not true, JJ. No one blames you for any of this."

"They can't- they can't-" JJ has to pause, her words refusing to come. Patiently, Garcia waits, refusing to remove her hand. "They can't attach his finger anymore. It's too late!"

She points despondently to the dash, the blue neon numbers there, and then the sobs come back. Huge waves of despair crashing against her, wracking her body.

Garcia wrangles her into an awkward hug, folding JJ into her shoulder. The sobs keep coming, and Garcia holds her, patting her back softly.

"We'll find him," she assures. "We'll find him, Jayje."

She rides the wave of desperation with JJ, handling the tallest crests and the deepest falls. Until, finally, the painful cries seem to slow.

"I feel like I failed, Penelope," JJ whispers miserably. Her voice is gone, sobbed until it's scratchy and sore. "Spence and Morgan."

"Then you need some good news, Mon ami," Garcia says, her voice still soft, her fingers sti tracing gentle words across JJ's skin. "Morgan made it out of surgery. He's going to make it."

"Oh, thank God," JJ replies, voice cracking with relief this time.

"Hotch is going to regroup everyone. Think you're up for it?" Garcia asks it with no judgement.

"Yeah." JJ isn't entirely sure the statement is true. She pulls herself from Garcia's arms, wiping away her tears again. She's going to help find Reid, regardless. "I'm ready."

Chapter Text

Morgan lays frighteningly still, a white sheet pulled up to his waist. Tubes enter his nose and mouth, and his skin is unnaturally shiny.

Emily approaches him cautiously. It's been so long since she's seen her team, her family, and she realizes quickly it breaks her heart to be reunited like this.

She can feel her perfectly compartmentalized box shredding, the emotions she'd held at bay coming forth. A lone tear escapes her eye, trailing down her cheek.

She stands above Morgan, just watching him breathe for a moment. The machines next to him beep steadily, a sign of life.

Reaching a hand down to cup his, she finds him clammy. It brings more tears to her eyes, and her breath hitches.

"I'm so sorry, Derek," she murmurs softly. He looks awful, stitched and bandaged in this bed. "I'm so sorry."

Then, miraculously, the hand holding hers squeezes.

It feels like a second chance.

******

The second time Reid awakens, just as pained filled as the last, he sees that the lights in the room are off.

He's bathed in near darkness, only the light from the TV illuminating the room. It's a TV show he actually enjoys, a late night soap opera that he occasionally watches with Garcia and JJ.

And, once upon a time, with Emily.

He shoves the thought from his mind, forcing his eyes to take in the room. Doyle is on the opposite bed, limbs splayed wide. He snores softly.

On the floor, using a single pillow and sheet, is Liam. His snores are far louder then Doyle, drowning out the quiet noises of the TV. Reid wonders if it's that disquiet that woke him.

Daniel is nowhere in sight. Reid double checks, looking for a sliver of light under the bathroom door, and he finds none. It's a fair assumption that Daniel is not in this room.

Quietly, he tugs against the ropes. He hisses at the pain, but resolves to try again. As far as chances go, this is his best shot.

Doyle stirs, turning over in his sleep. Reid freezes, his heart hammering. He watches the man for a moment, waiting until he quiets again.

And then he pulls hard on his binds, biting his lip against the pain. It opens up the cut already there, blood anew, but he screws his eyes shut and tugs again.

And there's some give. The rope tied around his wrist slides up slightly, pressing against the knuckle of his thumb. He has to fight back a cry of elation.

He pulls again, the rope sliding farther up. The empty place his finger used to be bleeds slightly, providing lubrication. It throbs painfully with the exertion, and Reid lets out a reluctant moan.

And then the rope is slipping over his fingers. He pulls his hands free, unable to do anything but cradle them against his chest for a moment. He breathes heavily, the movement of freeing himself enough to steal his breath.

The snoring continues as Reid lays there, trying to gather his already sapped strength. He reminds himself there is still a chance, no matter how minuscule, that Morgan is alive and needs help. He has to act now.

It finally raises him from the bed, moving to a painful sit. He braces his stomach with his good hand, forcing his breathing to remain quiet.

Surveying the room for a minute, he visualizes the act of making it to the door. He'd need to do it quietly, bypassing the sleeping figure of Liam on the ground. He'll need to do it without his wheezing giving him away.

He closes his eyes at the improbabilities of it. When he opens them again, he formulates a new plan. Within reach, sitting on the aged nightstand, is a phone.

His eyes jerk to Doyle, still asleep. The man's face has lost it's sarcastic tilt in slumber, and he doesn't stir.

He slips the fingers of his good hand under the tape secured around his head. He inches his way across it, loosening it slowly from his skin. Hairs are plucked from their rooted, and he winced at it.

Finally, with enough space in between to fit his hand, he yanked the tape roughly off. He hisses at as the last remaining stickiness pulls against his skin and hair. He tosses it to the door beside the bed.

Cautiously, and ever so slowly, Reid reaches his uninjured hand out to the handset of the phone. His fingers curl around the base, and his eyes flicker back to Doyle. Asleep.

He pulls the phone towards him, wincing at the slight click as it releases from the base. The cord uncoils, matching the phone's movement.

He clutches the phone desperately in his hand, reaching out to dial numbers with the middle finger of his other hand. It is the only finger there he has to work with, and he leaves blood fingerprints on each number he hits.

The clicking of each digit sounds like bombs to his ears, and his gaze keeps jumping to Doyle and Liam.

Finally, the phone picks up the number, dialing it softly in his ear.

He holds his breath, praying the muffled noise doesn't wake either man. This is statistically his only chance.

It seems to ring forever, and just as Spencer's spirits begin to sink, he hears a familiar voice pick up.

"This is Penelope Garcia," she says, voice far too loud, even muffled against his ear. "And I'm regrettably a little bit busy here, so if you don't have any pertinent chit-chat sir or ma'am-"

"Shhh!" He begs hastily. There's the slightest shift in Doyle's snoring.

"Who is this?" Garcia asks after a pause, her voice far subdued.

"Reid," he whispers. "Track- track this phone."

"Oh god. Oh god, it's Reid." She isn't speaking to him, and he imagines his team out looking for him and Morgan.

Morgan.

"Morgan!" He whispers furiously. "He's been shot! You have to find Morgan!"

"We have him, baby boy," Garcia promptly assures him, and it feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Morgan is alive.

"Are you okay?" Garcia continues. Her voice is desperate. "Obviously you're not okay, of course you're not-"

Spencer's eyes flick back to Doyle, and his heart literally skips a beat at the open eyes he finds staring back at him.

He yelps, nearly dropping the phone receiver.

"Reid?" Garcia demands, frightened. "What's wrong?"

"Motel," he says, voice still quiet despite the rising form of Doyle. "Garcia, I'm at a motel."

It's the last words he gets to utter before Doyle is on his feet, ripping the phone out of Reid's hands by it's cord.

"You're supposed to be asleep, Doctor," he intones coolly. Without taking his eyes off of Reid, he brings the phone to his own ear. "I'm afraid Doctor Reid here has used his free phone call."

Garcia says something, her voice high pitched and far away, and Reid gulps. Doyle slams the phone back into the receiver, the noise startling both him and Liam, who jerks awake.

"Boss?" He asks, voice groggy with sleep.

"We need to leave," he orders his henchmen, who obediently rises to his feet. "Have Daniel fetch the car."

He turns to Reid, frozen on the bed. His mouth curls in an unappealing smile. "You shouldn't have done that."

*****

Penelope Garcia's fear is, and has always been, losing a loved one. Out of all the pictures and gruesome things she sees day-to-day, the only thing that haunts her nightmares regularly are the pictures of death befalling her family.

Her parents' accident. So many of her dreams featured twisted metal and broken bodies. Faces she recognized and would mourn forever.

And she knew, staring down at Morgan's battered form, she'd be dreaming of him, too.

She pulled a hospital chair to his bedside, leaning back to rest her feet on his mattress. Her laptop was open on her lap, scouring through any possible connections to Doyle or Liam O'Brian.

She had her Melted Chocolate back, now she needed Boy Wonder.

The rest of the team was back at Quantico. As hard as it had been to see Emily leave, to feel that familiar absence of her, Garcia knew she had to let her go. They needed her to help find Reid.

And she knew equally her place was here, with Morgan. He wouldn't wake up alone, not if she had anything to do about it.

Absent-mindedly, she reached a hand out to stroke his smooth head, her eyes still absorbed in her laptop screen. Perhaps Doyle expanded his radius-

"Well, hey there, Mama."

She squealed, her laptop nearly tumbling to the floor. Her eyes flew to Morgan's once sleeping form, finding his eyes open and filled with amusement.

"Derek!" She resisted the urge to fall into his arms, his bandaged stomach a grim reminder. Instead she leaned over to plant relieved kisses against his cheek. "Oh my sweet, you live and breathe!"

"Of course, babygirl," he murmured back, his voice gruff. "I could never leave you." His arms rose to encircle her in a firm hug, his broad hands across her back.

She responded, wrapping hers around his neck. "I love you, Derek Morgan." It felt like a prayer, a promise. Those she loved could not perish. She'd cast a spell to heal him.

"Love you too, princess. Where is everyone?"

It had her pulling back to look into his eyes, though she kept her fingers carefully against the skin of his neck. His heartbeat threaded against her fingers, marked by the soft beeping beside his bed.

"They're- they're looking for Reid," she uttered quietly, watching the change on his face. The good-natured amusement fled, leaving a tight determination.

"Let's go then," he muttered darkly, slinging his white sheet away. He attempted to sit up, hissing at the movement.

"Not so fast, Sir Lancelot," Garcia ordered, using a manicured hand to push him gently back to the bed. "You've been shot three times. You're not going anywhere."

"We have to go find Reid!" He snapped back. He didn't resist her gentle prodding, falling back into bed.

"You-" She pointed a finger at his chest, "Only just recently had your oxygen tubes removed. You're going nowhere, but maybe back to Sleepytime Land."

He opened his mouth to argue, his eyebrows drawn together in consternation. Garcia covered his mouth with her hand, shaking her head.

"You're staying here, Smoochums. With me." Her tone left no room for disagreement, and he finally sighed against her, body relaxing.

"Fine. What's happened since- since?" He questioned. His breathing was shallow, and she could see the pain written across his face.

"Babydoll, maybe you should-" She started, her phone cutting her off. It shrilled at her, to the tone of Baby Got Back.

Morgan cocked an eyebrow, chuckling slightly. She sat up, digging around in her pockets for the annoying device.

Frowning, she double checked the number. It wasn't anyone she recognized, and she swore to Isis, Goddess of the Nile, if someone was interrupting her very precious time with Morgan-

"This is Penelope Garcia,"she says, answering the phone with a flourish. "And I'm regrettably a little bit busy here, so if you don't have any pertinent chit-chat sir or ma'am-"

"Shhhh!" She pauses at the chastization.

"Who is this?" She asks cautiously, meeting Morgan's wary eyes. He holds his hands in demands of the phone, and she bats them away.

"Reid." The voice is a whisper, but God, she recognizes it. It's undeniably Boy Genius. "Track-track this phone."

With a gasp, phone pressed to her ear, she scrambled for her laptop. It's been maneuvered to the edge of the bed, and she ignores Morgan's burning questions in lieu of grabbing it.

"Who is it?" Morgan demands sharply. "Garcia, baby girl, answer me right now-

"Oh god." She can't stop her shock. "Oh god, It's Reid."

He gasps softly. "Reid? Where is he? Is he okay?" Again, Morgan attempts to sit up and again he fails, groaning irritably as his body fails him.

She's opened her laptop, typing furiously against the keyboard. It's her own personal laptop, nowhere near as fast as her one at Quantico. She begs it silently to move faster.

"Morgan!" Reid's subdued voice comes through again. "He's been shot! You have to find Morgan!"

Her eyes flash to him, ignoring the worrying question mark that is his face. "We have him, baby boy," she assures quickly, hearing the panic in Reid's quiet voice. "Are you okay? Obviously you're not okay, of course you're not-"

There's a shocked yelp through the phone, and it sends her adrenaline spiking. "Reid? What's wrong?"

She can feel the desperation radiating off of Morgan's body.

"Motel," Reid says quickly. "Garcia, I'm at a motel." He emphasizes the last word, and she quickly tries to refine her search. She just needs another minute-

"I'm afraid Doctor Reid here has used his free phone call," a chillingly familiar voice cuts in, instanously stopping her heart. Her fingers fumble on the keys.

"Don't," she says quickly, begging for a slice of mercy. "Don't hurt him, please. Doyle, don't hurt him."

The name has Morgan sitting ramrod straight, his eyes opening wide. His mouth opens like a fish, no words coming forth.

And then the line disconnects. Frantic, her eyes fall back to her laptop. Please, please, let her have an address-

As though proud of itself, the screen flashes failed to trace. They have no idea where Reid is.

She cries out, chucking the phone. Morgan jumps, his breathing heavy and panicked.

"What happened, Garcia?" He demands.

"I-I, it was Doyle!" She replies furiously, treating her keys to rough treatment as she slams her fingers across them. Her tech has let her down. "He was there, god, Morgan I don't have a location. I don't have anything! They're going to hurt him-"

The panic is overflowing her, turning her blood to adrenaline. She has to find him. There has to be a secret backdoor her programs missed, some way to crack a code into his location-

"What did he say?" Morgan pleads. "Garcia, baby, what did he say?" He's sitting up, painfully bracing his body against his hands.

"Motel," Garcia whispers brokenly. "He said he was at a motel, but there's hundreds of them in this area!"

"Let's refine that search then," Morgan offers. There's a struggle for control under his skin, and he's fighting to stay level headed. "Search for occupants with names like Ian Doyle or Liam O'Brian."

"No, no, no," Garcia bites back. "They'd know we could track that."

"Daniel!" Morgan bursts out, eyes wide. "Search for Daniel. They'd use him to book the rooms. Garcia, trust me."

She types it in, her heart thumping uncontrollably. "There's seven Daniels booked for nights tonight around the Quantico area. Last name?" She practically begs.

"Bring up pictures," he orders, eyes immediately jumping to her screens.

The computer responds obediently to her touch, bringing up an assortment of mugshots and driver's license photos. She lines them up, an electronic I.D. line.

Morgan's eyes survey them for only a moment, recognization lighting in them. "Him," he hisses, pointing a finger to the wet-nosed runt in the middle of the screen. "It's that sonofabitch."

Needing no extra confirmation, Garcia swings the laptop back to herself. She clicks away, bringing up the information on one Daniel Constaero. She doesn't care about his high school grades, nor his criminal rap sheet. There's only one thing she's here for.

"Staying at the Welcome Motel. Booked for a week."

He meets her gaze. "Call Hotch."

Chapter Text

"Got it," Hotch said, flipping his phone shut. He met the questioning gazes of his gathered agents. "We have a motel. Let's go."

"Where?" JJ demanded, but she was already out of her chair in the conference room.

"Welcome Motel," he replies, feet already carrying him to the door. Coffees are left behind, relics of unsolved answers.

"How far are we?" Emily questions. Her long legs keep perfect pace with Hotch, matching him step for step first out of the conference room then the bullpen.

"Close," Rossi interjects. "Like what, five or ten minutes?" He presses the down button on the elevator, and the harried agents are forced to wait.

"Regardless," Hotch shoots each of them a signature steely stare, "They've mostly likely fled the motel. Our best bet is finding them somewhere within the area."

The ding that sounds alerts the arrival of their ride, and they all quickly pile in.

"One last thing," Hotch murmurs, his voice suddenly soft. "They caught Reid making a phone call. We- we can't be sure what condition he'll be in."

The silence that befalls them is oppressive.

*****

Roughly, Liam forces him out of the hotel room. His feet drag against the pavement, unable to find purchase as the man pulls him along.

The movement sends painful fire racing through his body, but he can scarcely fight back with Liam's broad arms linked under his shoulders and his arms bound behind his back.

Tape has been resecured around his head, tighter now with more layers. He can do nothing but groan unintelligibly as Liam tosses him into the backseat on the crew's vehicle.

Daniel is in the driver's seat, and turns to glower at Reid as shimmies his way into the passenger seat beside Reid. A small pistol rests threateningly in his lap. Liam flops into the passenger seat.

Reid mumbles through the tape, and no one turns to bat an eye at him as Daniel squeals out of the motel's parking lot. Reid turns to watch as the red neon vacancy sign disappears. A disappointed lump forms in his gut. He was so close to escape.

"What now, boss?" Liam demands, poking his head into the back seat. "Can we dispose of him now?"

"You've really pissed me off, agent," Doyle responds, his voice ice. He keeps his gaze focused on the dark road in front of the SUV, his finger tracing the barrel of his gun.

Spencer mumbles an automatic apology, though he's sure no one can understand.

"Boss," Daniel starts, "Maybe we should just fuckin' dump him. I mean the feds are on our tail."

Doyle is frighteningly quiet.

"We can mutilate him!" Liam continues. "That'll leave a message."

Spencer closes his eyes at the terrifying image. No matter what happens, he hopes that it isn't something that will horrify his mom. Or JJ. Or Morgan.

"Chop him into pieces!" Daniel agrees, fracturing Reid's hope. He moans miserably into his gag.

"Shut up, the lot of you!" Doyle grits out, leaning his body forward to wallop Daniel on the side of the head. The car swerves slightly.

"Well," Liam starts carefully, eying Doyle in the rear view mirror, "What do you wanna do then?"

"First off," Doyle states, moving the gun to rest against Spencer's thigh. The passing headlights cast eerie shadows on his face. "I think Dr. Reid here needs to know what happens when you cross me." He smiles deviously.

Reid argues pointlessly, his voice unheard. He shakes his head dramatically, brown hair swirling with the movement. It sends more pain radiating through him, but he's nearly beyond the pain now.

"Sure, boss." Liam mirrors the sadistic smile. "How?"

And then, miraculously, red and blue flashing lights hit them from behind.

"It's fuckin' cops!" Daniel cries, his voice spooked. He looks toward Doyle for direction. "Should I run for it?"

"On the contrary," Doyle replies, calmly. "Pull over."

"Boss?" Liam questions, just as fearful. He keeps looking behind at the trailing cruiser.

"Pull over," Doyle affirms. He shoots Reid a cocky look. "Kill the cop."

Once again, Reid's desperate pleas go unheard.

*****

The news comes over the SUV's radio.

Officer down on Bradhurst Rd., fugitives fleeing the scene, backup requested…..

"Hear that?" Rossi asked, inclining his head towards the dash. He sat in the passenger seat, decked out with Kevlar and an earpiece.

"Absolutely." Without warning, Hotch veers the car onto the side, kicking up gravel and gas as he squeals the car in a full 180. Rossi braces himself against the side of the car.

Behind him, following in an identical sleek black vehicle, Emily slams the breaks. JJ watches as Hotch spins the car around, expertly maneuvering back onto the road. He flies past them, and without prompting, Emily follows.

Wherever Hotch is leading, it's going to Doyle.

As if in confirmation, Rossi's voice comes through their earpieces. "Got an officer down on Bradhurst Rd. Headed that way."

"Got it." Emily accelerates the car, keeping pace with the speeding vehicle in front of her. Both women wear their hair pinned back, ready for war. "You good, JJ?"

"Absolutely." She keeps her eyes locked on the taillights of Hotch's SUV. "Let's get Spence back."

Without warning, Hotch careens the car left, hitting Bradhurst Rd with speed. Dust obscures his lights momentarily as Emily speeds down the same road.

The road is lined on either side by open fields, harvested of whatever crop they had been growing. Off in the distance, a farmhouse rests peacefully.

JJ's scans the horizon, desperate to see beyond Hotch's car to the future. Somewhere on this road is Reid.

"Eyes peeled," Rossi comes through again. JJ rolls her eyes. As if they could do anything else right now.

And then there's lights. Another vehicle heading towards them with their brights on.

"This might be them." Hotch's voice this time. "Last known vehicle is a black SUV."

As if a sign, the vehicle speeds past them. It's dark, but JJ can tell instantly the vehicle mirrors their own.

"Doyle," Emily whispers behind her, watching for a moment as headlights of the vehicle shrink. Then, in synchronization, both BAU vehicles jump into action.

Times speeds impossibly as Emily slams the car around, bouncing JJ against the seat violently.

Hotch does the same, and Rossi has the experience to brace and hope for the best.

*****

"It's the goddamn FBI!" Daniel shrieks, watching the two black shapes in the rearview mirror. They gather in speed, and he pushes the pedal to the floor.

Reid realizes that even Doyle looks nervous, sweating and glancing behind them.

Spencer wants to tell them it's the end of the line, that they're caught, but he is still rendered silent.

"Goddamnit, Doyle!" Liam explodes, smacking the dash of the car repeatedly. "How are we supposed to get out of this?"

"Very carefully," he responds, but Reid can catch the lithe of doubt in his voice. He clutches the gun tightly in both hands.

Reid mumbles incomprehensibly, struggling against his tied hands. Doyle shoots him a dark look before jerking the gun against his temple. Reid stills instantly.

"You'll be the key," Doyle tells him. "They'll either let me go, or I'll splatter that genius brain of yours across the pavement."

If he'd had the ability to speak, Reid would have told him exactly how low his chances of success were.

"Us," Liam hisses, turning in his seat. He glares at Doyle. "They'll let us go."

There's a moment of silence as the two men stare the other down, sparks of discord lighting in their eyes. Reid holds himself remarkably still, the cold of steel pressed against his skin.

And then the world erupts into bright chaos, the car spinning wildly out of control.

*****

"You almost got 'em, Aaron," Rossi remarks, watching the expert craftsmanship of Hotch's driving. He's a professional, tried and true through many car chases.

Doyle's car seems to fly over the pavement, barely touching the road, and yet it's no match for the speed of a man hell-bent on rescue.

Watching the shape of Doyle's SUV grow nearer and nearer, Rossi grabs hold of the door, preparing himself for the inevitable.

When Hotch hits the other car, tapping the back fender skillfully, Rossi is already prepared for the fallout. The pit maneuver sends Doyle's car spinning, his driver unable to handle the traction.

Rossi sends a quick prayer up to Mother Mary and Jesus for Reid's safety. The car in front of them careens across the road, tires squealing loudly. Hotch slams his own breaks to avoid another collision, and then Doyle's car hurtles past them, into a tree on the side of the road.

It hits with a loud crash, and Rosso winces despite himself. The impact was monumental.

"Go, go, go!" He hisses. Hotch slams the gas pedal down, flying to the wreck. Rossi's feet are on the ground before the SUV comes to a full stop, his gun drawn and directed at the sight of the wreckage.

The smell of pine is heavy in the air, knocked free by the hood of the SUV. The car's hood is smashed, a caricature of what it once was.

"Put your hands up and out of the car!" Rossi orders sharply, straining his eyes to see into the dark stained windows. Hotch is on his left, gun drawn, the girls on his right. There will be no escape.

"Reid?" JJ calls out, eyes searching.

Slowly, the driver's door opens. Rossi's body is on high alert, and he watches for signs of deception intently. Hands appear, held out in a gesture of innocence.

"I- I don't wanna be shot," a voice says, followed by a young face peeking out of the wreck of the car. His eyes are wide with fear.

"Exit the vehicle!" Hotch orders, voice deep and stiff. His feet are planted firmly in the soil.

The young man does as he is bid, exiting the SUV and walking backwards to them. He's cuffed, Emily wrenching a little aggressively on his arms, and effectively dealt with.

"Next!" Emily calls out.

Liam O'Brian comes next, his hands held high and his face twisted into a sneer. He exudes anger, his body stiff as Emily cuffs his arms behind him.

"Ian Doyle!" Hotch calls. "Exit the vehicle."

Rossi waits with bated breath, his gun pointed to the backseat. The door slowly opens, creaking as it does. It's been wrecked somehow in the crash.

Though he expected the sight, was positive that Reid would he used as collateral in this stand off, the sight still shocks him to the core. Beside him, JJ gasps loudly.

Doyle has his arm wrapped around Reid's neck, a gun pointed at his temple. He's using Reid as a shield, allowing everyone a clear view of the young man.

His face is swollen, covered in deep, purpling bruises and dried blood. Clear tape is wrapped around his mouth, obscuring any of the genius's famous word vomit. It's a ghastly sight, concluding with the gun securing placed against his head.

"Let him go!" JJ seethes.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Doyle's gaze darts between each of the agents, finally resting on Emily's. There's madness there. "You're going to let me go, or else-"

"Or else nothing, Doyle." Emily's voice doesn't waver, and Rossi feels a swell of pride. "You're going to let him go. You've lost."

"Not quite, dear." Doyle tightens his hold on Reid, forearm tightening around his neck. Reid lets out a strangled cry. "I'd sooner die than surrender."

"That can be arranged." Rossi angles his gun leftward, aiming for the sliver of Doyle's head he can see.

"If I'm going to die," Doyle hisses, eyes wild. "I'm going to take your doctor with me." Rossi can clearly see the resolve there, the finality of Doyle's words in the man's pupils.

"Don't-" JJ starts desperately, and then Doyle moves slightly, head turning to whisper a goodbye in Reid's ear. His finger, nearly in slow motion, starts to pull the trigger. There's just enough of Doyle's forehead there-

Rossi pulls the trigger.

He doesn't even think twice about it.

Chapter Text

The force of the shot knocks Doyle backwards, blood and brain spraying across the window of the wrecked vehicle. He falls against the car, his hold on Reid loosening instantly. The gun in Doyle's hand chatters to the ground.

JJ rushes forward, catching Reid as he tumbles away from Doyle. His eyes are wide, opened as much as the swelling can allow, and he mumbles incomprehensibly through the gag at them.

She can see Rossi moving towards Doyle, reaching down to pick up the fallen gun. He bends to check for a pulse, shaking his head at Hotch's questioning stare. JJ knew there would be no pulse. The nickel sized hole that appeared in Doyle's head as Rossi fired was proof of that.

What she didn't expect was how little she would care about the man's death.

"I got you," she murmured to Reid, helping to steady him on his feet. Her heart cinches painfully, unable to tear her eyes away from the damage across his face and body. His hands are bound tightly behind him, hiding his hands.

He mumbles at her animatedly, trying to gesture with unusable hands.

"Alright, alright, hold on!" She tries to tear the tape from his mouth away.

"Here." Hotch is beside them now, his gun holstered. He offers her a small pocket knife, fitting square in the middle of his palm. "An ambulance is on the way."

More incomprehensible muttering from Reid. JJ begins to carefully cut the tape away, wincing at every bruise and scrape there. She blinks furious tears away.

Somewhere in the background she can hear Emily and Rossi loading up their surviving unsubs, but she pays them no heed. Her task is simple; free Reid.

With one final slice, and a careful tug, she pulls away the tape. There's dried blood stuck to the sticky residue, and she tosses it aside with disgust. How could things have gone so wrong?

"The cop!" Spencer exclaims the moment the tape is gone. He is breathy, his words seeming to sap his oxygen. "They shot a cop, I tried to stop them but I couldn't-" His eyes are wide and pained, and she simply wraps him in a hug.

Tightly, she pulls him against her. Exhausted, his body seems to lean on hers. His hands are still restrained, and he simply relaxes his face into the crook between her neck and shoulder.

"God, Spence," she whispers. She has to close her eyes, incomparable relief hitting her all at once.

"My hands," he offers weakly after a moment, and she reluctantly pulls away.

"Alright," she tells him, reaching up to pat his cheek softly. He is so hurt, it breaks her heart to look at him.

And then she notices his eyes are no longer on hers, but across the road where Emily is forcibly shoving Liam O'Brian into their SUV. His eyes grow impossibly larger, his body freezing to stone.

"Emily," he whispers.

Next to them, prepared to catch Spencer should his body give, Hotch shares a meaningful look with JJ. He carefully takes the pocket knife back from JJ, using it to slice through the tape on his arms. She can see the slight widening of Hotch's eyes as he takes in Reid's injured hands.

Reid remains shell-shocked, eyes never leaving Emily Prentiss.

JJ reaches out a hand to rub his shoulder, and it speaks to Reid's absolute disbelief that he doesn't move at all. She tries to smile at him, but Reid doesn't even glance her way. "She's alive."

*****

"Relax, sir," the paramedic says, side-eyeing Reid as he attempts to start a drip line in the crook of Reid's elbow. Doing the complete opposite, Spencer curls his arm away.

"Doctor," JJ quickly corrects, shooting Spencer a comforting smile. He's spread out, somewhat unwillingly, on the stretcher, a young EMT buzzing around him with an IV ready to place.

"Doctor," the paramedic amends, shooting a look to where JJ sits. She's leaning over, holding onto Reid's good hand. Her eyes slide over the one with the missing digit, unable to fathom the depravity of it. "I need you to hold still so I can-"

"No narcotics," he interrupts quickly, trying to sit up. "I don't want any narcotics-"

"They'll help with the pain." The EMT shoots him a soft smile, body bracing as the driver shifts the car into drive.

"I do not want any," Reid insists, voice firmer. "I feel fine, do not administrator any narcotics-"

"Alright, alright," the EMT soothes, gently pushing Reid down. He places the drip line down.

"Relax, Spence," JJ speaks softly, reaching out her free hand to brush the tangled hair away from his face. It's crusted over with sweat and blood. Her opposite hands clutches his tightly, afraid to let go. The ambulance light is bright, leaving no doubt to the damage done to his face.

His eyes drift to hers. One is nearly entirely red, burst blood vessels, casting a sinister view.

"Did you know?" He asks softly.

Her heart constricts, her eyes slamming shut. It's too soon, he's too hurt to be trying to examine Emily right now. But his eyes don't leave her, beseeching desperately, even through the haze of pain.

"Yeah," she finally offers weakly. The ambulance hits a bump, knocking the occupants briefly. The EMT is wrapping Reid's bad hand in clean white bandages, and JJ is thankful to have the bloody mess of it out of sight. "Yeah, I knew."

"You knew she was alive?" His voice is even softer this time. "And you didn't tell me."

"I wanted to," she insists quickly. "But I couldn't." She watches the way his face changes, from shock to disbelief to complete and utter betrayal. She wants to cry at the suddenness of it.

"Couldn't?" He implores quietly, pulling his hand away from hers. "Or wouldn't?"

"Couldn't!" She reaches desperately for him, for his hand, but he seems to shrink into himself.

"You- you lied to me. To us. To everyone." She tries to interrupt, but is swiftly cut off. "I came to your house for ten weeks, crying over losing a friend and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth." It leaves him breathless, good hand clutching his injured stomach.

"I had to," JJ counters, voice cracking. "Spence, I didn't have a choice!"

His eyes meet hers, displaying the depth of his devastation. And then they slide away, refusing to meet hers again.

"Spence, please," she begs, reaching a hand out towards him. To grab his hand, to ruffle his hair, anything to pull him back to her.

"I don't- I don't want to talk about it," he snaps, resolutely watching the EMT place a line for blood transfusion in his arms. "Okay, Jennifer? I really don't want to talk about it."

It's a knife in her heart, hurting much more acutely than she ever thought it could. Her friends call her JJ. Her best friend doesn't call her that name.

"It was to keep Emily safe," she tries, one last time. She watches his walls go up, one by one, slamming her out.

He doesn't speak again.

*****
Penelope Garcia sighs contentedly, flipping the phone shut. She shoves it back into her purple bedazzled bag, on the verge of relief.

They've got Reid. He's on his way to this very same hospital.

She looks towards Morgan, across the worry lines across his face. Even in sleep he's concerned and anxious. Boy Genius is the missing puzzle piece they needed to complete the family.

"We got him," she whispers to Morgan, gently tucking the sheet tightly in around him. His face doesn't soften, and Garcoa reaches out a hand to barely trace the anxious lines on his face. "We got Reid."

Spencer is safe, Morgan is healing away in his slumber, and Emily Prentiss is alive.

It's the best day that Penelope could ever think to ask for.

*****

Emily Prentiss's nightmare is dead. He's possibly ruined her life, her friend's lives, but Ian Doyle is gone. Absentmindedly, she fingers the embroidery on her skin, a four leaf clover etched painfully into her chest. Courtesy of one Ian Doyle.

Rossi side eyes her. "You okay there, kiddo?" She sits in the passenger seat, illuminated every couple feet by the streetlights they cruise under. His eyes dart from her back to the road.

"Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she assures quickly, forcing her hands into her lap. She smiles a fake smile at him.

"Yeah, that just screams fine," Rossi chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He turns his attention back to the road, unwillingly to pry. He shrugs slightly.

After a pause, Emily's words rush out. "I just can't believe he's dead you know? After all this time and Doyle's….he's gone."

"That he is." Rossi smiles wryly. "Easiest shot I've ever taken."

The statement is so brusque, so sudden, it pulls a laugh from Emily. "God, Rossi," she chuckles. "Thanks for…..taking that shot."

"Always, amica." He removes a hand from the steering wheel to roughly pat her shoulder. "I'd never miss that chance."

She knows Hotch is behind them, following in the second SUV. She can visualize him back there, behind the wheel, face stoic even alone.

And ahead of her? Well, that's all clear sailing. The future is hers again.

Chapter Text

When he first wakes up, eyes meeting those familiar dark ones above him, he thinks he's dreaming.

He buried Emily Prentiss, carried her casket to its home in the ground. God, it was heavy with the dead weight of her, crushing his heart into the ground.

He cried over those dark eyes, those same ones softening now. Cried for days and days, beat his pain out against every punching bag available to him.

He mourned those sad eyes, so how is he able to stare into them now?

"Derek," Emily breathes, her dark hair falling into her face. "I'm so sorry. So sorry."

He drinks in her image, trying to memorize every line of her face. Every pore, every flyaway hair. The pimple close to her nose, small and neatly unnoticeable. Dreams don't show those flaws.

He would know. He's dreamt of Emily Prentiss many times.

"Prentiss." Her name is both a blessing and a curse to him. "How- how did this happen?"

She reaches her hands out to his, holding tightly. "I- I was in Paris. I had a temporary identity. It was planned out, to keep Doyle from knowing I survived. God, I missed you guys every day."

"It was fake all this time." Something about that hurt, hurt so deeply that even the morphine running through his IV couldn't quell it. His stomach ached, but in a distant, numb kind of way. Morphine had it's limits.

"I'm so sorry," Emily states again, eyes wide and hurting and broken. "You guys didn't deserve that. At all." She squeezes his hand, and God it feels good to have her here.

"I carried your casket," he informs her. "It- it was heavy." So heavy it felt like it would drive him into the earth.

She nods in understanding. "I can't even tell you how sorry I am."

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. He needs to let the world recalibrate. Emily Prentiss is alive, and that changes everything. This is a new save slot, hell, an entire new game.

"Where's Garcia?" He looks around the room, unused to seeing it void of his Babygirl.

"She went to get some breakfast." Emily finally plops down into the seat by his bedside, the one Penelope pulled up to be close to him no matter what. "I told her I wouldn't leave your side."

"I'm struggling here a little, Prentiss," he finally offers. "I thought you were dead. I was tortured for information on you that I didn't have."

She swallows at that, guilt written clearly across her face."I can't even imagine. Truly."

"I-I-" He closes his eyes again. "Did JJ know?" It feels like the final puzzle piece in the trifecta of lies, and he needs to know.

Prentiss sighs deeply. "Yes. So did Hotch."

He barks out a laugh, causing Prentiss's eyes to jerk to his. "Pretty boy ain't gonna like that," he says bitterly, shaking his head.

"I know." Her voice is so soft, almost a whisper. "He, uh, he's requested no visitors in his hospital room."

Morgan is worried, but not surprised. Not surprised in the slightest that Reid won't see anyone. "Figures."

Again, Prentiss squeezes his head. "I know that you're probably furious at me right now, and you have a right to be." She waits until he meets her gaze. "All I'm asking for is another chance. Not today, maybe not even tomorrow. But a chance. When you're ready."

He looks at her again, trying to reconcile her features with the woman he helped to bury. The woman he failed, who died because he wasn't fast enough, wasn't good enough. It almost doesn't seem like the same Emily, with the guilt lines around her eyes.

"Alright," he says finally. "I'd like that."

Her smile lights up the woman, and he's pretty goddamn glad she isn't dead.

*****

He's tracing a finger across the bandaging on his left hand, still trying to come to terms that he's lost a finger. Under this white gauze there's an empty space where his pointer finger used to be.

Statistically, he understood the moment that Doyle...removed it, chances are reattachment were low. It's such a small window for the tissue to still be viable enough to make reconnection that he should have known. And yet still, he can't swallow the lump in his throat. He's lost a finger.

It's the thought that keeps replaying again and again in his mind when she walks in. And even now at the sight of her his brain momentarily stops, neurons temporarily disconnecting.

Emily Prentiss. Alive. She's been alive this whole time.

"Hey, Reid," she says, smiling softly at him. She offers him a small wave, standing awkwardly in the doorway of his room. He'd requested no visitors, but as always, it seems Emily is slippery enough to get away with anything.

He closes his eyes, guilt washing over him. He should be thankful that she's here. Prentiss is one of his very best friends, and she's alive. He should feel joy and exuberation.

But he can't seem to fill up that empty void in his stomach.

"Hey." His voice is hoarse, his ribs seeming to jack knife at the mere suggestion of a conversation. Regardless of his finger, he aches all over.

"How are you doing?" She asks softly, finally taking the final steps to his bed.

"Had better days." He tries to look at her, to internalize the fact Prentiss is alive, but his eyes shift away. He can't bring himself to meet her gaze.

"Reid, I'm so sorry…." Emily starts, her voice trailing off. There are unshed tears in her eyes. His heart monitor beeps steadily, a punctuation to this conversation.

"I understand," he interrupts quickly, lump bigger than ever. "It was a logical decision."

She's silent for a moment, and then she lets out a strangled laugh. "There's a lot to unpack in that statement.

He bites his lip, wincing at the small laceration there. He keeps his gaze directed at the large painting on his hospital wall; violets. Thought in Ancient Rome to bring peace in the afterlife to loved ones. "You needed Doyle to believe you were dead. I get it."

It feels like acid on his tongue. Objectively, the plan isn't a bad one. Emily Prentiss is alive, it's only his tears that have been wasted.

"You guys didn't deserve that," Prentiss tries again, her voice nearly breaking. "I can't ever tell you how sorry I am. How much I missed you guys-"

He forces his eyes closed. It's too much. He wanted to be alone. He needs to be alone. It's hard enough to not ask for pain medicine, when he's physically hurting so badly. He can't handle this on top of it.

"Stop," he begs, softly. He imagines the technical application of painting, instead. The mathematics of a brush stroke to create beautiful purple flowers on a canvas. An artist bringing violets to life.

"I'm so sorry for….this, too." Emily's voice is broken, and she gestures wildly to the state of him.

"I'd like to be alone," he finally grits out, screwing his eyes shut. "Please, go, Emily."

Silence for a moment, only the constant beep of his broken heart beating.

"Reid, I- I'm sorry." He can hear the tears in her cadence, and he shoves it away. He can't right now.

"Please go." He keeps his eyes closed until the door to his room closes.

Chapter Text

"Hey, it's JJ. Look, will you please call me Spencer?" She clutches the phone tightly in her hand, leaving her third voice-mail this week. He won't answer, or won't return her calls. 

Will rubs gentle circles into her back, feeling the tension and anger there. She slams the phone down on the bed, burying her face in her hands. "I don't understand why he has to be like this." Her voice is muffled through her hands. 

They're sitting on their bed, dressed for sleep. It's become her nightly ritual at this point, laying Henry down and then calling Spence before bed. Not once has he answered. 

"He's been through a lot, cher," Will assures gently. "You all have. 

He knows how much it's eating her up, how much she loathes the radio silence. 

"He wouldn't talk to me in the hospital, and he won't talk to me now that's he's home. What am I supposed to do?" The TV plays quietly behind her, a soap opera that she used to watch with Spence. 

"Maybe he just needs some time. It's a lot to take in, I'm sure." He flashes her a reassuring smile, his hands never ceasing their sad song across her back. 

She sighs deeply.  Worry gnaws away at her insides. She doesn't know if he's alright, if he's taking care of himself or even if he hates her. She can't stand this. 

"I feel like I got him back just to lose him." Desperate tears well in her eyes. The entire time Doyle had Reid, he was in a foreboding limbo. Now he's back, but not to her. "He hates me." 

"Now, now," Will argues gently. "He don't hate you. He's your best friend." He watches her worriedly, a hand coming to wipe a fallen tear away. 

She hugs her knees to her chest. "I don't know what to do. How to fix it." 

"These things have a way of working themselves out." 

She shakes her head vehemently. She can't bear this anymore. With a flourish, she tosses the bedsheets off of her. 

"Cher?" Will asks, puzzled. She ignores him, sliding her feet into the soft, pink butterfly slippers that Spencer got for her. A Christmas gift. 

"I can't, Will. I'm going over there." 

Taken back, he eyes her pajamas. "It's the middle of the night." 

"I have to." She pulls her hair back, twisting it into a tight ponytail. "I need to see him. I need to fix this." 

"Can't you save it until morning?" He reaches towards her, to grab her hand and pull her back to the warmth of bed. She dances away. 

"I'll be back soon," she promises, bending down to plant a kiss to his cheek. "Just- watch Henry, okay?" 

Will shakes his head, unable to comprehend the need to leave in the middle of the night. "I got Henry. Don't worry." 

It's the confirmation she needs, and she's out the door.

*****

She knocks hesitantly on his door, tossing her weight from foot to foot. If he doesn't even bother to answer, she isn't sure what she'll do. 

Knocking hesitantly again, she says, "Spence? It's me. It's JJ."

Silence, and God, she is so tired of his silence. Angrily, she knocks again, her fists pounding against the door. "Spencer, I'm not going away until you answer this door." 

She's in his apartment hallway, and she resolves right then and there to beat on his door until he opens it. Even if it takes all night, even if his neighbors come out to scream at her. She isn't leaving until she talks to him. 

Finally, miraculously, his voice comes through the wood. "Go away, Jennifer." 

That name slices another piece of her heart away, falling down as minced meat to her stomach. She has to gulp the pain away. "It's been a week, Reid. We need to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about." His voice is devoid of emotion, and she chokes down a sob. 

"Open the door, Reid." 

"No." 

She nearly screams in frustration. Instead, she pounds her fist against the door, the noise reverberating down the hall. "I just want to talk!"

And then the door finally swings open, revealing Reid. He's wearing a scowl, his lips curled in distaste. But God, she can't even take his anger seriously with the mottled blue and yellows of his skin. Some bruises are fading, and some seem to be sinking further into his skin. 

"I said there's nothing to talk about!" He matches her pitch for pitch, voice irritated. 

"I just want to know if you're okay-" Her anger drops off immediately, and she can't drag her eyes away from the wreck of his face. 

"I'm fine." He won't meet her eyes. 

"Obviously," she snarks back. "Can I come in? Please?" 

He doesn't answer, his gaze faraway. His hair is unkempt, unwashed, and he keeps his injured hand tucked behind his back. 

"What do you want?" He asks, miserably. His body still bars her access. 

"I'm sorry," she profusely offers. Tears come of their own accord, trailing down her cheeks. "Please- I just want to come in." 

He closes his eyes, deliberating. "Fine," he says finally. "Come in." 

And then the door is opened, thankfully and finally, and she is granted access into at least his home. 

"Thank you," she says quietly, meaning every word. She looks around his small space, her heart shrinking with every square inch. 

Books are piled everywhere in a haphazard and distinctly unReidlike way, garbage is overflowing and old coffee sits in the pot. In short, it's a mess. 

Turning to him, she finds his eyes still avoiding hers. There's another color to add to the rainbow of his face, red with embarrassment. "I know it's a mess," he mumbles. He cradles his injured hand to his chest, and she sighs. The bandage looks old.

"Have you been taking care of yourself, at least?" She questions. 

His gaze travels to a spot behind her head. "What does it matter to you?" 

"Of course it matters to me." She takes a tentative step towards him, and he steps back. It fractures her further. "You matter to me." 

She expects a retort, an angry proclamation of her guilt, but all she receives is a broken look. It's far worse. "Can- will you at least let me help you change that?" She points at his hand. "Let me rebandage it." 

He gulps, and finally nods. 

It's all she needs. She knows his apartment better than most, knows he keeps anything health related in the bedroom, in a drawer. The bathroom is a cesspool of bacteria he explained to her once.

"Here," she orders, dropping her armful of bandages on his dining room table. She motions to the chair. "Sit." 

He obliges, seeming to collapse into the seat. Tentatively, he holds his hand out, trembling slightly. 

She slides a chair around to him, angling herself to gently take his offered hand. Carefully, she begins to peel the old bandage away. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, eyes still averted. She resists the urge to gag. It's ghastly enough to see his poor hand missing a vital digit, but he also hasn't been cleaning it. 

"Reid," she chastises, sighing. 

"Sorry." 

"Don't apologize." She shakes her head. "Just, take better care of yourself, please." 

"I don't need you to baby me," he grumbles sharply. 

"I'm sorry, okay?" She gently cleans the stitches, trying to block out his pained hiss. "I'm trying here." 

"I didn't ask you to!" He retorts, but he lacks his earlier bluster. Mainly, he sounds tired and hurt. 

"I know you're disappointed with how we handled Emily." She ignores his scoff. "I understand. I should have told you." 

"What if I would have started taking Dilaudid again?" He demands, his eyes flashing to hers for the first time. The depth of emotion in them takes her back. "Would you have let me?" 

"You didn't," she says, both a question and a statement. He didn't. He wouldn't. 

"I thought about it." 

She rewraps his hand with fresh gauze, careful around the stump of his finger. "Spence. Please." She's pleading for something, for forgiveness, for a reprieve, for his friendship back. She doesn't really know.

He keeps his eyes locked onto the floor. His voice is nearly a whisper as he says, "I understand." 

The bandage is secured, though she doesn't let his hand loose. She holds on. "Can you forgive me? Or at least pick up the phone when I call?" 

For the second time, his eyes find hers. This time, there's no resentment to be found. "Yeah. I can do that." 

*****

It's not often that Hotch stays late, and isn't in his office. Being Unit Chief means there is constant paperwork.Ensuring his profilers spend as much time as possible away from the bullpen means taking on extra work. He doesn't mind. 

Tonight, though, isn't about last week's psychopath, or even his agents medical leave, courtesy of Doyle. It's about Hotch, his frustrations, and this punching bag in front of him. 

He lobs another heavy hit, his fist connecting with the thick canvas. With a thud, it rocks on it's axis. Sweat drops down his face. 

A slow clap sounds before him, having him spinning on his feet to the unknown visitor. A casualty of the job; he trusts nothing without seeing.

The applause continues from Morgan, his face split in a cocky grin. "Nice hit, Hotch." 

Breathing deep, he scowls at the agent. "If you're here to be put back on duty, you're out of luck." Hitch catches the punching bag on it's downward trajectory, stopping it in it's tracks. "You're on medical leave for the next two weeks. No arguments."

"Hey, man." Derek chuckles, hands held up in surrender. "I'm just here to see why you ain't home with Jack already." 

"Jessica's got him." Hotch's tie and suit jacket lay in a neat pile off to the side, his shirt unbuttoned by two. 

"That don't answer my question." Derek subconsciously encircles his stomach with an arm. "Why you over here beating up the punching bag?"

"Strauss has, uh, been on my case." Hotch wipes his brow with the back of his hand. "The bureau isn't happy with the way the Doyle case went down." 

Derek scoffs. "Are they ever?" 

"Not as far as the BAU is concerned, I'm afraid." 

"So, you're what? Getting out your frustrations?" Derek nods his head to the already beaten canvas bag.

"Something like that." Hotch arches a brow. "I'm sure you're not allowed to participate in any such activity." 

"I'm just here to watch," Morgan swears, a sly smile parting his face. 

"I don't need an audience," Hotch replies, grinning himself. Morgan is infectious. 

"You happy?" Morgan asks suddenly, lowering himself to the gymnasium floor. "With how the case turned out?" 

"I think certain aspects could have been handled better," Hotch says after a beat. He chooses his words carefully. "But I am very happy that everyone is home, safe." 

"And Doyle is dead," Morgan agrees with morbid finality. "He's gone." 

"Yes." Hotch hits the bag again. It's a glorious feeling. 

"Good riddance." Morgan grins, and Hotch can't help but laugh. 

He's relieved to not be alone. 

Chapter Text

"Phantasmagoriaaaa," Emily offers, dragging out the last syllable. She waves the tickets in front of Reid's face, praying that six plus hours of shadow puppet play can entice him to hang out with her.

"I've got something going on," he mumbles, rubbing a hand across his face. That, Emily knows, is a tell.

She pulls a face, nodding slowly. "I see." They're gathered in the conference, about to start their first case since Reid returned from medical leave. If you stare hard enough, you can catch faint glimpses of yellowing bruises still marring his face. His hand is still bandaged, but she makes sure her eyes never travel that direction.

It makes Reid uncomfortable, and that's the absolute last thing she wants to do.

"Sorry." He watches as the rest of the BAU, sans Morgan, enter the conference room. He's still on leave. Apparently three gunshot holes can do that to you.

As the group settle into their seats, eying Prentiss curiously, she stuffs the rejected tickets back into her pocket. Sighing, she collapses into her own chair.

It's a standard case, another psycho out in Dallas wreaking havoc. Reid makes a point of ignoring her the entire demonstration, and she has to fight against the swell of pity that rises in her.

He's talking to JJ again, and yet he'll barely look at her.

She's repaired what she broke with Garcia. She's fixed the rift between her and Morgan, and yet Reid remains unreachable.

Hotch releases the group, citing a signature wheels up in 20, and Emily watches as Reid gathers his files and paperwork as quickly as he can, making a beeline towards the door.

"For a scrawny know-it-all," Rossi comments dryly, "He sure can move."

A soft hand lands on Prentiss's forearm, and she turns to find caring blue eyes watching her.

"Want me to talk to him?" JJ asks softly, voice to low for the group to hear. She keeps pace beside Prentiss, walking side by side out of the conference.

"It won't do any good," Prentiss pronounces glumly. "He just turned down tickets to see Phantasmagoria."

"That- that is not a good sign," JJ agrees, unable to contain a smile.

"I don't find it particularly funny, Jayje," Prentiss scolds, but her own face breaks out into a smile. "He can be a pain in the ass, can't he?"

JJ shrugs, smile turning coy. "Bring him some coffee," she calls, splitting off towards her office. She tucks her file under her armpit, coffee in hand. "He loves coffee. See you on the jet." With that parting she's gone, prepping her to-go bag.

"Coffee," Prentiss mumbles to herself, watching as Reid pulls his own to-go bag out from under his desk. "Yeah. Right."

******

She watches him for a solid minute on the BAU jet. He has a book open in front of home, but is obviously pretending to read it. The pages turn about as fast as she reads, which means Super Genius is absolutely, 100% not reading it.

He's sitting alone, towards the back of the jet. Prentiss sighs deeply, preparing herself to try again. Being constantly rejected takes a toll on even the hardest of hardened hearts.

She stands, ignoring Rossi's cocked eyebrow and makes her way back there. He doesn't meet her eyes, but he bristles as she lowers herself into the seat across from him.

"Hey." She offers him the styrofoam cup she's been holding for the last ten minutes. Phantasmagoria wasn't enough, but maybe some coffee can bribe him.

"What's that for?" He eyes her suspiciously, but finally reaches out a hand to take the offered gift.

"Coffee. You're almost out." She gestures to the nearly empty cup next to him. "Thought I'd get your some more."

"Thanks." It's such a dismissive word, it sends her heart plummeting. For the first time, she begins to feel as though she cannot fix what is broken between them.

"Look, Reid," she starts, somewhat desperately, "I know you're mad at us because we didn't tell you what really happened. I understand that, I do. But I promise you, we had no choice." She pauses, waiting for any flicker of emotion or acknowledgement.

He merely licks his lips, nervously, refusing to even look at her.

"You mourned the loss of a friend. I….I didn't know if I would get to see you and Morgan again. Not after Doyle took you. And that was all my fault, and I'm so, so sorry for that." Her voice cracks.

He meets her eyes, barely. It's the only encouragement she's received from him.

"I'm so sorry for everything that happened to you. For the beating, for-for your finger." He tenses up at this, pulling his hand towards him.

She lets out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the throbbing spot between her eyes. "This whole thing has given me an ulcer. Please, don't give me one, too."

He's quiet for a moment, finger running along the edge of his book for comfort. Shakepespeare's Julius Ceasar, a play which ironically features one of the worst betrayals in literature.

Finally, he speaks, the smallest of smiles on his face. "Phantasmagoria?"

She sighs, relief filling her. "Yeah. They're these amazing cinema shows, invented in France. Ever heard of them?" She flashes him a teasing smile, and thank God, he mirrors in back.

"Actually," he starts, "They're precinema. A show man attempts to spook the audience using science magic-"

God, she thinks happily, she's never been so relieved to hear anyone ramble.