A/N: Finally we feel confident enough to start posting this story. We've been working on it for a while now and have talked (well, mailed) about it even more. We're very excited and hope that you will be, too, when you've read our first chapter. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 – Hang on

It was here. It had to be here. A creepy dark building in an abandoned area. A perfect place to hide, with no one around to ask difficult questions, and no one around to hear the screams. Hodgins was always right, wasn't he? And this time, so much was at stake.

Once inside, Booth cautiously moved forward, his fingers squeezing the reassuring shape of his weapon. Although outside the fierce winter sun cast its light serenely over Washington DC, an ominous darkness enveloped him between the rough and fairly decayed walls of the deserted building. The air was freezing cold and a musty smell reached his nostrils, making him slightly nauseous.

It was hard to realise that his partner had been kept somewhere in here for two weeks. A chilly draft caressed his face unpleasantly, sending shivers down his spine. He knew she wasn't dead but he also knew she wouldn't be unharmed.

The pictures had shown as much.

Damned son of a bitch. I'll get you, you worthless piece of crap.

Too bad for the bastard, Angela had been able to figure out the location of this building after Hodgins had found tiny pieces of dust of some sort in the last envelope. The envelopes always contained a picture of Brennan displayed with the latest newspaper, and a polite request to destroy all the evidence and drop the case as soon as possible, for with every day passing, he would inflict something 'uncomfortable' upon the brilliant forensic anthropologist he kept hostage to blackmail the FBI.

In the first picture, delivered to Cullen's office the day after Brennan's disappearance, she had looked fairly normal considering her situation. Her clothes were clean and her hair sat neatly draped over her shoulders. She'd been in another location then, and her jaw was clenched and her expression stubborn, as if to let him know she was hanging in there, patiently waiting to be saved. By him.

But with the days that had passed, the pictures had grown more gruesome. They would show a glass of water, for instance, and Brennan eyeing it eagerly while being bound to a chair. Or a chicken wing being held outside her reach mockingly. Only her eyes betrayed her then, for she'd sat up straight and was obviously trying to ignore the food.

By now she'd be dehydrated and undernourished, if the killer hadn't given her anything after taking the pictures. Somehow Booth knew he hadn't. Not a sufficient amount, at any rate.

The pictures would arrive daily, but at changing hours. The third one had been a close-up from her face, displaying her black eye. The picture had eaten at Booth. Never in his life had he felt that hopeless, useless, desperate. The killer was mocking him, using his partner as a play toy to upset him.

Eventually, after two exhausting weeks, the last picture had arrived. The one with the dust that turned out to be of a rarely-used material and could only be found in a number of buildings in DC. The one that was going to nail this guy's ass.

Brennan's physical deterioration since Booth had seen her last was shocking. Her auburn hair was lifeless; her eyes were dull; her skin was pale and drawn. She looked even thinner than when she had forgotten to eat because she worked so hard. He was running out of time to save her. And he knew he had to; both for her and himself, for he was a man of honour and responsibility. Above all because he had made it his duty to protect his partner.

Surely he would normally try to suppress this need because Temperance Brennan was perfectly capable of taking care of herself –her physical self, at any rate, but now it was overwhelming. Actually the feeling had been growing ever since she had disappeared, or rather, got abducted. She was his partner, his friend, and sometimes she even was his girl. He had already failed at making sure that nothing bad happened to her. He would not forgive himself if he did not succeed in bringing her back home this time.

The thing he liked best about her was her never-failing honesty, and what he particularly valued about their relationship was that they were equal.

Booth knew Brennan to be brave and courageous and never-faltering, yet a true lady. He knew she was holding on for him, to buy him time.

And now, he was going to live up to her expectations.

Temperance Brennan slowly opened her eyes and coughed, causing her throat to burn even more. She glanced around, with the foolish hope to find a glass of water within her limited reach, but the room was desperately empty and dark. How could she drink anyway? The ropes, tightened too much around her wrists and ankles, cut painfully into her flesh. How long before he'd come back? Hopefully, he'd give her some bread this time. Something energising, she needed that to stay alert. She knew that he needed her alive; as long as he hadn't already obtained what he wanted. But he would not, because they would never give up. Booth, Angela, Hodgins, Zach and even Cam, would never give up. They would find her eventually. She had not died when she was buried alive, she would not die here. She would hang on, no matter how much time it would take. She knew she could.

She bent and stretched her stiff legs a couple of times and then tried to get to her feet. Ouch. The cold, hard floor wasn't exactly stimulating her circulation. She could feel every muscle in her body ache as she was moving, or rather shifting into a slightly different position. But, day after day, she had somehow got used to it. She had also lost all sense of time. The small windows at the top of the high walls were concealed with black plastic, so that she couldn't distinguish the day from the night. She may have been here for days, weeks, or months. It was not important anyway. The only important thing was to hold on.

She managed to sit up straight and bent her legs so that she was as small as possible, resting her forehead on her knees, her hands tied behind her. The cold stiffened her joints as much as her muscles, and to stay as warm as possible she had to minimise her exposure to the chilly air, hence she curled up and stayed that way for as long as she could, until she had almost frozen in place and needed to change her position.

She didn't feel the hunger anymore, but she was virtually, perhaps literally quite soon, dying of thirst. Her throat was burning like hell and the tape covering her mouth made it hard to swallow. She wondered how long she had slept. Her cheeks were sticky with dried-up tears, dust and what had to be blood. He had hit her several times, for the pictures, and the last time, he had punched her in the face.

A muffled noise made her startle. She raised her head, pricked up her ears. The place was so quiet and resonant that she was able to hear every single noise. And every noise made her startle now, for the constant anxiety was wearing her down. If she would be mad and delusional when she got out of here, she wouldn't be surprised.

She could hear footsteps now. It had to be him. Water, at last. She would have some water. And some blows. But blows were not important anymore. She could bear the pain, not the thirst. The steps were approaching and stopped at the door. It was odd, though. His steps were usually heavier, and his pace faster and more confident.

The door opened slowly. Usually, he pushed it more violently, in a deafening noise which intensified her headache. She couldn't help trembling all over. Had he finally got what he wanted? Or was he tired of this little game? Was he going to get rid of her? A burning tear managed to slide down her cheek, soon followed by another one. Crying had been the only way she knew to relieve some of her distress. Kicking, running, hitting stuff; it was all made impossible by her restraints.

She held her breath, her eyes focused on the silhouette. It was not him. Definitely not. He had sent one of his flunkeys to do the dirty job. She was almost relieved when she saw the gun. At least, it would be quick and not too painful. The man quickened his pace. She believed he had needed some time to let his eyes adjust to the darkness and make out her form. She watched him putting his gun back in the holster he wore on his belt. And shook with anguish when a knife appeared in his hand instead.

Panic took the upper hand on her. She hid her face between her knees, her body shaking with fear and her sobs muffled by the tape. She let out a moan when she felt his hands on each side of her head, with the handle of the knife touching her left cheek, forcing her to look at him. And when she did, she thought that the face in front of her was an illusion. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, pain- it had happened a few times before. There appeared to be a point where you couldn't trust your own senses anymore. Especially not your sight. But it couldn't be him. The killer never showed her his face and talked to her as little as possible, hiding his voice by whispering only to her. Of course, in the beginning, she'd tried to get him to talk to her, to reveal his identity, then to give her information as to where she was, exactly, then to tell her what he wanted. He'd granted her the latter piece of information, all too keenly. "Oh God, you're never going to get them to destroy evidence," she'd told him, at the same time realising he wasn't going to handle her with care. "Maybe you should just look a little more sad and hurt and they'll make an exception, what do you reckon?" had been his menacing answer, and then he'd kicked her in the ribs.

"It's me Bones," the voice whispered. "I'm here now, it's all over. Hang on."

She felt his forehead resting on hers for a moment and heard the whispering voice again. The blade of the knife slightly flashed in the darkness. He got back to his feet and went behind her. She held her breath again. But a few seconds later, her hands were free, and somehow, she knew that it was really him. Suddenly it became a lot easier to breathe.

It was really Booth, he was here, cutting her restraints, and soon he would get her out of this hellhole.

She kept looking at him with dull eyes, as if she was clinging onto him with her gaze instead of her body. Booth tenderly took her arms in his hands and pulled her up bit by bit, allowing her to carefully stretch her sore muscles, until she was standing up straight. Then he stepped closer to her, all but completely closing the space between them, and reached to remove the duct tape. For a moment she was able to inhale his scent and it calmed her down so much, it eased her nerves and at this point she wouldn't mind if he carried her out of the building so she could cling onto him and feel nothing but his warmth, instead of the cold clawing at her.

A sharp intake of breath told him he'd hurt her lips so he stopped in his motion, but suddenly Brennan grasped his wrist to hold it in place and with her other hand jerked away the tape in a quick movement. Her chapped lips started to bleed in two or three places, but she didn't seem to care or feel the pain. She looked dishevelled, she looked exhausted, she looked… raw. She used to be so soft and smooth.

He was desperate to make contact with her after having been apart for so long and under these horrible circumstances, but he was afraid that he would crush her fragile form in his embrace so he merely reached out his hand and cupped her cheek with it. She still hadn't spoken; though the fact that she sighed and tilted her head so she could rest it in his palm told him she trusted him.

But the second Brennan had closed her eyes, the world of sounds became more prominent and she noticed what she hadn't –but should have before. Footsteps. This time she was sure; they were his. Her eyes shot open and she tried to warn her partner, but she was too late. Behind Booth, the killer had crept up on him and now swayed what must have been a led pipe over his head, ready to attack.

"Booth!" she yelled, but all to no avail. The blunt instrument came crashing down on Booth's spine, seriously injuring him. He immediately lost control over his muscles and dropped to the floor, momentarily passing out from the pain.

No, no, this is not happening. I can't let this happen, Brennan thought frantically and crouched down quickly to grab for Booth's gun. She found it but the killer had also reacted and lunged himself forward to take her down with him, but she threw herself to the side just in time and he missed.

As she hit the floor she gasped in pain, but her determination overpowered her pain by far and she jumped back to her feet, training the gun on the attacker and firing, not aiming at any body parts in particular, merely out to hit and demobilise him.

Apparently the bullet had penetrated his leg and Brennan quickly turned to her partner. He was still passed out so she rolled him onto his stomach and carefully palpated the vertebrae of his spine, feeling if any of them were broken. Eventually she reached a large bump and realised his back might indeed be broken.

"Bones…" he uttered and she quickly but carefully rolled him over again so it would be easier for him to breathe. "My back… ouch…"

Brennan bent over him and hugged his torso.

"You okay?" Booth asked her as he brought his hands to her back, clenching his teeth to suppress a moan of pain, yet noticing how horrifically skinny she felt under the thin fabric of her blouse.

"You're here," was her simple reply.

"Yeah, well, I'd like to get out of here now, if you don't mind," he attempted at being funny, but she smiled so it worked.

"I don't know if your back's broken," she admitted.

"Naw it's nothing. Just- help me to my feet, will you?"

She did and cursed her weak state for not allowing her to support him more.

"So where's sicko?" Booth asked as he glanced around.

"He's right there-" Brennan started to answer but her eyes turned big as she found the spot empty. In fact, the whole room was empty but for the two of them. The partners looked at one another, their expressions saying 'uh-oh'.

"Give me your cell phone. I'm calling Cullen to request back-up."

Booth smiled and felt proud that she had managed to keep her calm. That's my girl.

As they were making their way out of the building as fast as they were able to, Booth tried not to let show how much his back was throbbing. He understood he had lost when Bones threw him a concerned glance.

"Give me your keys Booth," she said in a half-bossy, half-anxious tone.

"What?" he asked, without slowing his pace in spite of the pain.

"Give me the keys of the car," she repeated, holding out her hand to him. "I'm driving."

"No. No way. Look at you, you can barely walk."

"You've been hit in the back with a pipe; your back may have been seriously injured."

He chuckled. "I can walk, my back is fine."

"We can't be sure of that, so give me the damn keys," she insisted, following him to the driver's door.

Neither of them would admit to their weakness; that's why, despite exhaustion and aching, each was doing their best to stand as straight as possible, their voice and pace as steady and confident as possible.

"Look, Bones, we don't exactly have time to argue now," he said, opening the door of the SUV. "You've been held in here for two weeks, you're dehydrated, undernourished, exhausted and suffering pain. You can't focus on the road and I'm not dying because of your stubbornness."

Her arms folded, she watched him trying to climb into the SUV, groaning as he bent his back. "Booth, I can drive."

"I don't want you to pass out while you're behind the wheel, so help me get seated in this damn car and hurry up to climb in yourself."

Sighing in annoyance, she did as she was told. Though actually, she felt pretty relieved. She wasn't really a hundred per cent sure that she had been able to drive but her pride and mental strength –with which her physical strength never seemed to be able to keep up- prevented her from admitting it, even to herself. Booth turned the keys in the ignition and started the car, waiting for her. Her legs were shaking as she ran around the SUV, her hand trembling as she opened the door and she couldn't suppress a moan of pain as she contorted herself to sit in the passenger seat. All of this moving freely and the adrenaline rush ate her energy a million joules per second.

"Where are you going?" she inquired once they'd reached the road.

"I'm driving you to the hospital."

"I think we'd better meet the team somewhere, they may need us."

"And I think that the best we can do is heading for the hospital," he uttered firmly.

"I shouldn't have let you drive," she mumbled, turning her gaze to the window on her right with a pout.

"Bones, please, don't start again…"

She sighed in annoyance.

"Bones…" his tone had changed.

"What?" she asked abruptly, moving her gaze to him. At the sight of him, her expression turned from irritation into worry.

"What?" she repeated, her voice low and she held her breath in anticipation to his answer.

"Why can't I feel my legs anymore?"