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The air in the hallway of the Whitman apartment building hangs heavy, thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and something vaguely metallic, like old pennies. It clings to their suits, a grimy welcome mat to another grim scene. Aaron Hotchner leads the way, his face a mask of weary determination, the lines around his eyes etched deeper by the past few cases. Derek Morgan follows, broad shoulders filling the narrow space, his usual easy gait a little more clipped. Spencer Reid trails, already lost in the architectural nuances of the pre-war structure, his gaze darting from the chipped plaster molding to the intricate, but dust-laden, ironwork of the elevator cage.
"Jenny Whitman's apartment," Hotch's voice cuts through the quiet, a low rumble of instruction. "Third floor. She was a meticulous hoarder, according to initial reports. Victim's unit is the last one down the hall."
They reach the elevator, a relic from a bygone era, its brass fittings tarnished, the indicator needle stubbornly stuck on "G." The door, a grimy accordion of metal and frosted glass, looks like it might groan in protest if asked to move. Hotch eyes it skeptically.
"Looks a little… cozy," Morgan remarks, a hint of amusement in his tone, though his eyes are assessing the ancient mechanism.
Hotch just nods, his lips a thin line. "Looks like only two of us are fitting in that sardine can, if even that. I'll take the stairs. Meet you up there." He turns without another word, his dark suit vanishing around the corner of the stairwell, the rhythmic thud of his sensible shoes already echoing upwards.
Morgan pushes the button, and the ancient mechanism groans; the cage shudders into view. The elevator is, indeed, tiny. Its interior is barely wider than Morgan's shoulders; the faded velvet walls feel claustrophobic, even with the door open. Reid steps in hesitantly, his eyes scanning the rusted cables visible through the grates above, already calculating its structural integrity, or lack thereof. Morgan follows, his bulk making the small space feel even smaller. The air inside is still, thick with a musty, oily scent.
"Alright, pretty boy," Morgan says, his voice a low rumble, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
He waits for the doors to wheeze shut, the metallic clank reverberating loudly in the confined space. Then, without warning, he shifts his weight, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. The elevator sways, a subtle but unsettling movement. He does it again, a little more pronounced this time, and the entire car lurches. Reid freezes, his whole body stiffening. His head snaps up, eyes wide, darting to the floor indicator, then to Morgan. A small, involuntary gasp escapes his lips.
"Morgan!" he chokes out, his voice thin, high-pitched. "Stop it! There are six elevator-related deaths each year, not to mention ten thousand injuries that require hospitalization! Chill out!" He rattles off the statistics with the rapid-fire delivery of a stressed-out automaton, his arms tensing at his sides. He looks like he's trying to meld with the back wall of the elevator.
Morgan grins, a wide, challenging smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, come on, Reid. What's the matter? Little ride-share giving you the jitters?" He presses a random button on the panel, then another, his fingers dancing across the grimy, unresponsive plastic. "Thought you were the genius who wasn't afraid of anything but germs and bad coffee."
"It's not about being afraid, it's about statistical probability!" Reid argues, his voice rising, a tremor starting to lace his words. "The failure rate of these older models is significantly higher, especially with—"
He's cut off by a sudden, jarring SCREECH that rips through the confined space. The elevator shudders violently, metal grating against metal, and then, with a final, sickening lurch, it grinds to an absolute, unyielding halt. The low hum of the machinery dies, plunging them into an unnerving silence broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of the city outside and the rapid drumming of Reid's own heart against his ribs.
"Oh, no," Morgan mutters, his playful demeanor instantly vanishing, replaced by a focused intensity.
He reaches for the door, trying to slide it open. It's jammed. He pushes the emergency call button. Nothing. He tries the alarm. A weak, reedy bleat that quickly fades. Reid is plastered against the back railing, his posture rigid, his hands gripping the cold metal so tightly his knuckles are white. His eyes are squeezed shut, a tic starting at the corner of his left eye. "Hit the, hit the… push it!" he stutters, his voice barely a whisper, a frantic plea.
"The… the emergency… the brake! Push it!" He makes an aborted move closer to the emergency brake lever, his fingers twitching, but his limbs won't cooperate. He's a statue of terror, frozen in place.
Morgan, still calm, if a little frustrated, follows Reid's frantic gaze. He finds the emergency brake, a large, red lever. "Push, pull, push, pull," he states what he's doing, a rhythmic mantra as he copies the movements, trying to dislodge whatever has seized the mechanism. He pushes it up, pulls it down, pushes it up again. The lever moves freely, but it has no effect. "I'm doing it. Nothing's happening." His voice is even, but the slight tightening around his jaw betrays his concern.
The silence stretches, heavy and oppressive. The stale air in the small box feels heavier, harder to breathe. Reid's breaths are coming in short, shallow bursts. He opens his eyes, wide and unfocused, darting around the small space as if searching for an escape route that doesn't exist. His gaze lands on Morgan, who is now bracing himself, shoulders squared, hands on the accordion doors.
"Pry the, pry the, pry the door open!" Reid finally manages, his voice cracking, a desperate plea. "Just… yeah…" His voice trails off as Derek, without a word, shrugs off his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly to the floor.
Then, with a practiced motion, he unbuttons his shirt, pulling it over his head. The fine fabric is balled up and thrown to the side, revealing the taut, corded muscles of his chest and arms. Spencer is mesmerized, even in the midst of his terror. The sheer raw power emanating from Morgan's frame is a stark contrast to the confining, broken space. His eyes trace the flexing biceps, the defined shoulders, the broad back.
He barely registers when Derek needlessly tells him, "The doors are stuck, kid. Solid."
Morgan braces his feet, taking a deep breath. He places his hands, palms flat, against the crack between the two halves of the accordion doors. He pushes, straining, his muscles bulging, veins standing out on his arms. He grunts with effort, but the doors remain stubbornly shut. He tries again, putting his full weight into it, a low growl escaping his throat. Nothing. The old metal is fused shut, a solid barrier. Suddenly, without warning, a deep, unsettling groan emanates from somewhere above them. The elevator shudders again, a more violent tremor this time, and then, with a metallic clank and a terrifying, sickening lurch , it drops.
Not far, maybe a foot, but enough to send a jolt of pure, unadulterated fear through them both. The lights flicker, dimming for a heart-stopping moment before returning to a weak, yellowish glow.
"Whoa!" Morgan yells, stumbling forward, his hands flying out to brace himself against the wall. His eyes, now wide and alarmed, meet Reid's.
Reid lets out a choked cry, a sound of sheer panic. His eyes are huge, darting frantically, searching for purchase, for anything to stop the descent. The elevator begins to lurch again, not a smooth fall, but a sickening series of drops and jerks, each one accompanied by the terrifying squeal of stressed cables.
"Derek!" Reid screams, his voice raw, stripped of all composure.
He makes his way, or rather, stumbles and scrambles, towards the front of the car, desperate to get to the doors, to somehow pry them open, to escape. But as he moves, the elevator begins dropping at an accelerated pace — a truly terrifying, stomach-lurching free fall. Instinct takes over. Reid doesn't think; he just reacts. His arms flail, reaching out blindly, desperately, for the nearest solid object, which happens to be Morgan. His fingers latch onto Morgan's shirt, clinging with all his strength, his nails digging into the fabric. He's a terrified limpet, desperate to hold onto something, anything, in the uncontrolled descent.
"HOTCH!" Morgan roars, his voice tearing through the confined space, a desperate, primal bellow that echoes off the metal walls. "HOTCH! WE'RE DROPPING!" He wraps an arm around Reid, pulling the younger man closer, bracing them both for the impact that feels inevitable.
Reid's body is trembling violently, an uncontrollable tremor that shakes him from head to toe. His face is pale and clammy; his eyes are unfocused. He gasps for air, but his lungs seem unable to draw in air. A wheezing sound, like a broken accordion, escapes him. He starts to hyperventilate, his breath coming in ragged, rapid gasps, tears stinging his eyes, blurring the already dim interior of the elevator. The sound of the falling elevator, the tearing metal, and the rising pitch of his own breathing all combine into a terrifying symphony of dread.
"Hey, hey, kid, look at me," Morgan says, his voice surprisingly calm despite the terrifying circumstances, a steady anchor in the chaos.
He pulls Reid fully into his arms, enveloping him in a protective embrace, his strong arms a shield against the lurching, falling reality. Morgan's hands move, one pressing firmly against the back of Reid's head, holding it against his shoulder, the other beginning to rub slow, comforting circles along his spine, just between his shoulder blades.
"You're okay, pretty boy. Just breathe. You're okay. I got you," Morgan murmurs, his voice a deep, reassuring rumble against Reid's ear.
He continues the steady, rhythmic circles, a silent command to calm, to find an anchor in the storm. The elevator continues its descent, the terrifying sensation of freefall punctuated by agonizing jerks and scrapes, but in Morgan's arms, cradled close, Reid feels a sliver of the terror recede, replaced by the overwhelming, if temporary, sensation of being held, of not being alone in the plummeting darkness.