"Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable." ~Sydney Smith
It was on the news.
He didn't watch T.V. anymore; he didn't have one in his tiny apartment. But, he had been in a diner, and there was a T.V. situated up in the corner. It had been tuned to a baseball game, but that had given way to a news cast a few minutes after he ordered. There were some pictures of controversial high school girls in skimpy outfits. He barely paid attention. He'd had enough of that in his old life.
But there was breaking news.
There was a reporter, a tall, brunette in a business suit. She stood in front of a smoking wreck of a building. It was, sadly, a common sight of the times. He wasn't really paying a lot of attention to it, until a ghost from his past appeared on screen. This was a man whom he barely recognized; it had really been that long since he had been face to face with David Rossi. His hair was gray now, but he still exuded the same feel he had all those decades ago.
The sound was muted, so he couldn't hear what Rossi was saying. He was paying more attention the small details anyway, instead of the big picture. The building appeared to have been subjected to a bombing. The camera pulled back a little, to get the scope of the historic building. There was another man besides Rossi now. Hotch. The man looked faded, completely different from the ambitious man he had once known.
The camera zoomed in on the building. A ring of police officers were surrounding the building now. There was another familiar figure, a dark skinned man who kept trying to get to the building, but was being dragged back, by a police officer and a dark-haired woman. Derek Morgan and Emily Prentiss, he remembered.
The rotating band at the bottom of the screen read: BOMBING IN D.C.
Something in the corner of the screen caught his eye. A chubby blonde, darting out of her car, racing toward the scene. She wrapped herself around Morgan, stealing him away from Prentiss. The three of them stood in place. Hotch and Rossi migrated toward the group, watching as rescue workers penetrated the building. There were two bodies already laid about beside them.
"Turn it up," he requested of the restaurant owner. With a shrug, the man obeyed and the reporter's voice filled the room.
"At four-thirty this afternoon rescue workers came upon this scene. A bomber by the name of Lucas Hansen had taken a hostage into, what was, an abandoned home. FBI agents arrived on scene. Two were in the building when it blew."
"We got another one!" the shout came from one of the rescue workers.
The camera zoomed in as they pulled a body from the wreckage. He recognized her immediately. J.J. had barely changed in the time since he had last seen her. They must have all grown up, but she still looked small and delicate; her appearance utterly different from the tough young woman he had known all those years ago.
Paramedics rushed forward. They surrounded her body, obscuring her face from his attentive eyes. He watched, knowing what the outcome would be. It still made his heart clench when the paramedic shook his head, signaling that she was dead.
The search and rescue team had rescued their final body. It was tall and spindly. He knew immediately who it was, without even looking at the face. Spencer. He hoped to the God that he had lost faith in that Spencer was not dead. It had been many years since he had left the boy, needing to find himself, but he had never stopped thinking about Spencer. Spencer, who had been like a son to him.
The paramedics swarmed around Spencer, so that his feet were the only thing visible. Even from this distance, with the blurry camera lens, he could make out the odd coloured socks that he had associated with Spencer. He waited, with bated breath, as the paramedics appeared to be trying C.P.R. It was several long minutes, while the reporter talked in the background.
He only had eyes for the boy, who he had not seen become a man.
The signal came, not for a stretcher, to load the boy in the ambulance, but for them to stop trying.
Spencer's heart would not beat again.
He left the diner then, without eating. He knew he could never, would never, return. He knew the team must have changed in many ways, but he had always expected (despite the dangers and consequences of the job) for them to all go on and live long, full lives. He had always, someday, wanted to go back and see Spencer again. He had wanted to meet the boy he had mentored for so long, and had, he acknowledged this shortcoming, left unfairly.
One thing he had never expected was to see Spencer die. He never should have outlived the young man who had so much talent, so much promise, so much to offer the world. He had also never expected to regret leaving all those years ago. When he had left, he had known it was the right thing to do. He just couldn't do the job anymore, and he had been there for so long. But now, knowing that he could never go back, not even to visit, stung his mind.
He unlocked his car, sliding into the driver's seat. He turned the ignition and drove. He drove in a direction he had not travelled in many years, nor expected to travel in many years to come.
He drove toward Washington D.C.
This was nostalgia in the literal Greek sense: the pain of not being able to return to one's home and family. ~John Thorn
Just something that came to me, so I threw it together. Maybe continued if liked enough. Please review! I don't own Criminal Minds or the song Don't Think I Don't Think About It by Darius Rucker (which I used for the title).
~TLL~