No, I have not forgotten.

Disclaimer: The Usual. You know the drill.

Chapter 18

"Hotch, we have the address, we're on our way. Just hang in there." The line clicked.

That damned phrase. Hotch silently swore to himself that when they'd clawed their way out of this Hell, he would pull every federal stop to ban the phrase "hang in there" from existence.

Morgan's steady stream of profanity and verbal abuses brought him back to earth. With unnecessary force, he threw the phone to the floor and leaned over Reid, pressing his fingers into his carotid artery. Reid's face was drained of all color, his chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. He swore as he pressed his fingers harder into Reid's neck. The pulse was so weak that he could barely feel it.

A horrifying realization settled in his chest. Low blood pressure.

His eyes roamed over Reid's face, then down to his chest. Pale complexion. Shallow respiration.

He pressed his fingers into Reid's neck again. Rapid pulse.

He reached down and grasped Reid's hand. Cold extremities.

He swore again.

"Morgan," he raised his voice above the noise behind him, "he's in shock!"

"What?" Morgan reacted. "God damn it! How bad?"

Hotch shook his head. "I don't know, but they'd better hurry like hell."

"You sorry shit!" Morgan began yelling again. "If he dies, there is nowhere in this world you can hide, you hear me?"

"No, no, no, wait!"

Hotch turned to see what was happening behind him. The kidnapper was still lying on his belly, his hands raised awkwardly over his head. Morgan knelt into the small of his back, pulling violent on a fistful of the man's collar, shoving the muzzle of the gun into the back of his head so hard the man's forehead touched the floor.

"No, don't you dare! You do not have anything to say to me!" Morgan shouted.

"No, wait!" the man repeated urgently. "I have a peanut allergy!"

Hotched blinked. What?

"Oh, you have a peanut allergy, do you?" Morgan yelled into the man's ear without missing a beat. "Well, I have an allergy, too! I have this violent reaction to homicidal, low-life scum!"

"No, no, I mean I have an Epi-pen!"

Morgan gaped wordlessly in confusion.

"For shock!" the man urged. "For anaphylaxis!"

Epi-Pen. Epinephrine. Adrenaline. Hotch immediately leapt to his feet. "Where?" he demanded.

The man pointed with one of his hands. "Drawer next to the sink!"

Hotch launched himself across the room, pulling the drawer out so violently that it fell off its tracks and crashed to the floor.

"How... What? Will that work?" Morgan stuttered incredulously.

Hotch stooped to grab the double-pack of Epi-Pens from the jumble of miscellany on the floor and rushed back to Reid's side, pulling a pen from the case. "We're gonna find out." Without hesitation, he pulled the blue safety cap off the top of the pen and jammed it into Reid's thigh.

The whole room went silent as Hotch counted off ten seconds in his head, then he threw the pen aside and pressed his fingers to Reid's neck again. "Come on, Spencer," he pleaded quietly, willing the pulse beneath his fingers to strengthen.

"Hotch?"

He raised his eyes to Morgan's, panting slightly as he waited a few more moments. He shook his head. "I'm giving him the other one." He pulled the blue cap off the second Epi-Pen with his teeth and administered it as he had the first. He spat the cap to the floor as he felt for Reid's pulse again, and found it noticeably—albeit minutely—stronger than it had been moments before.

"Oh, thank God," he breathed, letting his head collapse forward. "Thank God."

He was suddenly aware of a dull ache in his chest, and he began to suck down air as though he hadn't breathed properly in days—which, of course, was only appropriate. A weight settled on his shoulders and his eyes fluttered closed, and in that moment, all of his remaining energy seemed to drain from his limbs.

"Hotch?"

His eyes opened, and he looked in Morgan's direction.

Morgan jerked his head slightly as if the say come here. "Your turn."

He sighed and nodded, then heaved himself to his feet. He knew what Morgan was doing: he was giving him a break. A break from Reid. The unspoken understanding was still there. They were still watching out for one another. They were almost out of Hell.

As Hotch approached them, Morgan shoved the gun into the back of the kidnapper's head once more, for finality. "You," he growled, his lip twitching in disgust, "are still scum."

Then he stood and handed the weapon off to Hotch. He walked to where Reid lay on the floor in two strides and dropped beside him, reaching an eager hand to feel for his pulse. As if reassured, he closed his eyes and sighed.

Hotch tore his eyes from his agents and trained the weapon on their kidnapper with surety. He put all his focus into the weapon, just for something to do. He was used to this. It was, for want of a better word, comfortable for him. He adjusted his grip, his thumbs pressed together along the side of the slide. The iron sights lined up automatically for him, fixed on the man's head, as though they knew already what he wanted.

How easy it would be.

The thought slithered into his mind before he could stop it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He willed it away. He willed himself to believe that he could never do such a thing.

He would have killed Spencer.

But he didn't.

He lucked out.

He's not a threat.

He could be a threat.

But he isn't.

Isn't he?

He forced his eyes open again and looked down at the man lying prone at his feet. His head was turned to the side, cheek pressed to the floor, and he was watching Hotch from the corner of his eye.

How easy it would be.

Hotch pinched his eyes shut again, trying to rid himself of the voice. He bit down on his lip. This was the exhaustion talking. And the anger. He opened them again and glared fiercely at the man.

The kidnapper's nostrils flared. "I never meant to hurt anyone."

Rage bubbled inside Hotch's chest to mix with all the other emotions that were crushing him, and instantly his voice of reason was gone. "Then why?" he snarled.

"I needed her to know."

"You needed who to know?"

The kidnapper swallowed. "Rebecca." He took in a shuddering breath. "She was in such pain, and—and I couldn't do anything about it—"

Hotch forced himself to swallow, and he realized there was a lump forming in his throat. "Who is Rebecca?"

"She's—she's Sarah's mother. My Sarah. My daughter."

Hotch leaned in slightly, hissing through his teeth, "What is your name?"

The kidnapper chuckled and shook his head, tears falling freely from his eyes. "That doesn't matter. Sarah never knew me." He choked on a sob. "Becky—Becky made sure of that."

Hotch glanced over at Morgan, who appeared just as confused as he felt. Yet something stirred deep within him, a sense that he knew exactly what the man was talking about. It was an opportunity, ready to be seized.

"You love her," he said, his teeth gritted.

The man closed his eyes and nodded.

"You knew you'd never come out of this alive."

The man swallowed and nodded again.

Hotch leaned in further, the gun still aimed at the man's head with precision. He licked his lips and whispered, "Give me a reason."

"Hotch!"

The man swallowed and opened his eyes, staring at the opposite wall. "He can never know. George can never know."

Hotch swallowed again. "George thought that Sarah was his."

The man nodded.

Hotch felt his lip curl, and his voice shook as he willed to make every syllable clear. "I am not doing this for you."

The man nodded again, allowing his eyes to slide closed. "I know."

As the man trembled beneath him, he allowed the rage he'd pent up for that last few days to boil into his limbs, into his arms. The gun began to shake in his hands. "Give me a reason."

"Hotch!" Morgan yelled, leaping to his feet, panic rising in his voice. "Hotch, give me the gun! You can't do this, man!"

Hotch ignored him. He had fixed his glare at the man, and he couldn't give it up. A primitive hiss escaped him.

"Hotch, you can't do this!" Morgan urged, taking another tentative step toward them. "Think about what you're doing!"

"I am thinking!"

Morgan exhaled quickly, as though relieved Hotch could still hear him. "No, no you're not, man. You don't want to do this. You don't want to give him the easy way out."

Hotch closed his eyes tightly, struggling to maintain his hardened exterior. "Sit down, Morgan. That is an order."

"Hotch, listen to me," Morgan pleaded. "I understand why you're doing this. I understand what you're feeling, because I feel it too! You're hurting, and you've been hurting, and you have done everything right, but it wasn't enough. You want to make this right. You need to make this right." Hotch heard him draw in a breath. "But this is not the way!"

The pressure was building in his ears. His heart was hammering so hard that he thought he could hear it humming.

"This man did terrible things, and one way or another, he will answer for them."

Yes, he will.

"But we're almost out of here!" Morgan continued, his voice softening slightly. "And when we're out, we can all fall to pieces and let everyone else clean all this shit up. But not yet! Right now, we have to be better than him!"

Better than him.

The phrase settled in his mind and began to take root. His entire body was shaking now. He pulled in a breath and held it as long as he could. Better than him. He let the breath go through pursed lips and drew another. Better than him.

A gentle hand rested on top of his, and his eyes finally opened. Morgan was standing so close to him that he could rest his head on Morgan's shoulder if he wanted to.

Suddenly, he wanted to.

"This is just pain," Morgan pleaded quietly as he tried to coax the gun from his hands, "and it's unbearable. But we need to bear it for just a little longer."

Better than him.

Hotch swallowed and nodded. His grip on the gun began to relax, and it fell from his hands into Morgan's. A firm hand gripped his shoulder and began to guide him back toward Reid.

Reid.

Spencer.

He swallowed. He dropped to his knees beside his youngest agent and reached out to feel his pulse. It was still there. His chest still rose and fell steadily, if rapidly. Pride suddenly bloomed within him, filling the grotesque hole left by his rage.

He's still here. He's holding on.

A pained smile broke across his face, followed immediately by a chuckle. What was it he had told Spencer all those hours ago?

Hang in there.

Suddenly he was crying, and he had no idea why.

In the distance, he could hear the sirens.

XO