In this moment, Hotch's hands clutched tightly against one lone clammy, pale… arguably lifeless hand. Within that hand was the bone-chilling cold that nothing living could really get to. Closing his eyes he let out a silent prayer. Christmas Eve was not supposed to be like this.

It was not supposed to end this way for a family, and he full-heartedly wished that it wouldn't end this way for a family tonight. Not like this, oh God not like this!

Removing his hands from the deathly still one, his left pointer, middle, and ring fingers dug around for the carotid pulse. His breathing hitched as he felt a soft flutter. He almost couldn't believe it, so he held his breath and continued to hope to feel it again.

"He's still alive!" He called into his radio, he brushed strands of brown hair off of Reid's forehead. "Thank God… he's still alive…" He said more to himself, now taking the steps to assure Reid stayed that way.

Outsider it had been snowing, as it were, five inches had already accumulated in the lawn outside the dock-side warehouse. They had been searching the yard for the better part of an hour, and no one had taken the time to warm up properly. Realizing this was probably for the better, Hotch pushed his frigid cold, wind-chilled hands on top of the red fountain blossoming from Reid's right breast and held tight.

Breathing was hard to see, he probably had a deflated lung, but that unnerving look of a wind-pipe curved toward the left where normally it would run straight? That was all the indication Hotch figured he was going to get.

"Reid, if you can hear me still… hold on. Just keep holding on."

He could see movements, underneath Reid's eyelids, eyes darting back and forth weakly. He wondered what Reid was dreaming about and prayed it wasn't this. Choking back a little, he started to whisper, "Up on the house top, click click click, down through the chimney with good Saint Nick… give him a…"

He heard a different click, and he turned to face what he knew he'd see but fully hoped he'd avoid. The unsub staggering towards him, one Peter Mallard, still wielding an ice-pick, and for crying out loud a fucking red clown nose? Hotch glared, one hand refusing to lift the pressure on Reid's bleeding wound, courtesy of one ice-pick he was sure. The other hand found his gun in his holster and drew.

Peter staggered forward and then dropped just in front of Hotch before uttering a threat or showing a sign of aggression. As he fell, he landed on his own ice-pick, impaling himself with it as he went. What was more startling, more bizarre than this turn of event, had been the wound to the man's back. An explosion of glass fragments, and charred burns to the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, the rest of the scene before him made sense.

The broken string of Christmas lights, the toppled shelving units, the unplugged, uncoupled cords and then the lightless lights plugged in… he had assumed the man was using those to torture the victims, but maybe it was all that Reid had handy while struggling with Peter in their own intimate dance of survival.

Neither men looked to be winning in the matter, Hotch noted grimly.

How had today led to being so cracked and broken, like countless boxes and shreds of wrapping paper tomorrow would find littering the streets?

They had been given this case two weeks ago, to profile the local threat of a violent rapist. A violent rapist who caused the death of only one victim as of yet, suspected to be one of the very man drunken Santa impersonators who would work for the month then go back to being unemployable for most of the year.

Peter Mallard cleaned up better than that, though. He was a skinny man, not scrawny like Reid seemed at times, but his wiry frame didn't keep much meat on it. He kept himself in clean states, wearing a white wife-beater, red suspenders and red rubber pants with black utility boots. You'd expect him to work on a cranberry farm or with electricity or plumbing with that outfit. Not getting stabby with an ice pick.

Reid gurgled something, it distracted Hotch from staring down at the dead man half a foot away with where his hand landed from his own ankle. He knew he should clear the man, but that would require letting Reid lose more blood, and that was not a price he was willing to pay for procedures.

"Htch…" Reid couldn't force the air out into vowel sounds, so instead the consonants rushed out together in a gurgled garble. "S chrstmas…"

He strained to hear, damn hearing loss made it even harder for him. "Shh, the others will be here soon…"

"Aarhn…" Reid managed to force out a close proximity to his lover's name, "…s't still sn… snowin…?" He blinked, trying to open his eyes. He somehow managed to, but that didn't bring any light to his eyes. It was clear he wasn't able to see.

"Yeah, it's still snowing, Spencer… just hold on and we'll go out to see it." He promised, he turned on the radio, "Where are those medics Morgan?"

"Hotch, they're trying to find your location… Which one did you duck into, man?" His voice was frantic as he demanded more information from Hotch. Morgan knew what was happening, everyone knew how serious Agent Down meant.

It was Seaver's voice over the radio next, which surprised Hotch. It sounded remarkably less tinny that Morgan's as she recounted, "They're in 14G, side door!" With her announcement was a rush of cold air and flecks of snow.

Hotch turned to look at the young agent as she brandished her gun to look around, spotting the two bodies piled less than neatly around Hotch.

"Is he…?"

"Reid's still alive." He announced. Seaver gave a half-nod.

"And Mallard?" Hotch shook his head.

"I can't check, I'm clamping down an artery."

Her own horrified expression at that made him wonder if he said too much, but she pushed forward anyways. Using her foot, she turned the unsub over onto his back and kicked the ice pick from his loose grasp. Bending down she took his pulse, and, finding it absent announced into the radio and to Hotch, "Clear. Mallard is dead."

She retracted her hand and stared in odd fascination at the red nose the man had on, and the antlers headband.

Questions like how did she find them never left Hotch's lips, his focus was solely on Reid, waiting for the slim chance that recognition would meet his gaze instead of a cold search of brown nothingness.

Reid was panting in breaths, and with the door now open and the room chilling faster, Hotch had the luxury of seeing the wisps of white cloud out from his mouth and nose as he exhaled.

"Have you ever heard the story of the Snow Queen, Reid?" Hotch started, then offered, "Of course you have… right… you've read every book in every library you've ever had membership to, haven't you?" He teased. He actually knew the likelihood that Reid had heard the story were pretty minimal. Reading it was also probably out, since he'd stick to Canterbury Tales over Fairytales. "Well, in an Inuit Village lived a little girl and little boy…"

Seaver took her coat off to drape over Reid's form, shivering as she waited for the paramedics to get in there.

Hotch nodded at her in great appreciation. "I know that one, a magic mirror fell on the ground, spreading shards of the magical glass over the village. Three pierced the little boy, one in each eye, and a larger one in his heart."

"That's right…" Hotch instructed Reid, instead of directly communicate with Seaver. "The shards were from the Snow Queen's mirror. The Snow Queen was as beautiful as she was cold, in her mirror she could never see warmth, and once the shards pierced the boy, neither could he. The shard in his heart made him unable to feel warmth either. So, the little boy stayed in the village, unable to see or feel the warmth or love of the people around him. The next winter he set off to find a place that was as cold as he felt, and the young boy was bitterly cold… so he ventured north."

"Reid…? Reid stay with me, I'm telling you a story, so pay attention." Hotch admonished as Reid tried to roll his head to the side. He was met with a weak groan.

Two paramedics rushed in. One set to fast work clamping the artery while the other ventilated the young doctor with a plastic tube and mask hooked to an oxygen tank.

Reid was lifted up, leaving Hotch with his hands soaked red, having warmed a little from being inside Reid, were quickly freezing with exposure to the elements.

"You'd better follow him, sir. He's going to need to hear the end of the story." Ashley offered, spotting Prentiss and Morgan running up to the site.

"How did you find us?" Hotch finally managed to ask the youngest agent on the team.

"The victim, the one who escaped, I asked her if she remembered where she had been held, if she remembered any numbers or the other buildings, and she started going on about the red o painted on the door, like some advent calendar."

"The first victim, from the 14th…"

"After that, determining which 14 it was came from the quadrants. Reid was assigned the water-front so it only makes sense the unsub grabbed him because he was close by and felt afraid of being caught. Dr. Reid… isn't exactly his type, you know?"

"No, no I suppose he isn't much of a feisty red-head." Hotch smiled tiredly.

"Speaking of feisty red heads, there's one who wants an exact explanation of what the hell happened. She is seconded, thirded, and motion carried by the rest of us." Prentiss said, giving Seaver an understanding look and tossing her her own scarf and gloves.

She mouthed a 'thank you' before pulling them on.

"Believe me, so do I. To that effect, where the hell is Reid's back up?" He turned to search for the local sheriff, not finding him there, he opted to leave the warehouse and find him, and the officer who fled at the first signs of trouble.

Silently, in the back on his mind, he kept up his prayer and request to Santa, all he wants for Christmas is Reid to be with him, to have more time with the man he loves so whole-heartedly.

Fin.