"The Pluralities of Time" - Prologue: The Foreseeable Future
Spencer sits at his desk, staring blindly at the papers scattered before him. A faint, throbbing headache pulses somewhere near the core of his brain, but even that can't fairly be blamed for his wandering thoughts. Once again he's the last remaining team member to haunt the bull-pen, though the gentle glow of Hotch's office lamp shines in his periphery. The insistent, painful clamor inside his skull alerts him to some impending disaster, or so he feels. All his life Spencer has known what the headaches mean, though in the past they had only visited him on rare occasions, and now...now it was everyday he felt the looming pressure, pressure to let go, to see. Closing his eyes, Spencer takes a trembling, steadying breath and lets go of the tension in his head.
Spencer shakes his head, rubbing at bloodshot eyes. Time to leave before Hotch forces him out of the office. He slings his messenger bag over a shoulder and takes the elevator down, down. He waves a tired hand at the security guard, walks through the entrance of the BAU headquarters. He stops, stares at the sky, imagining the pollution obscured stars, faintly seeing their beauty in another time, another age, another land...
He takes the bus...
He chooses to walk…
watching the only other passenger jerk awake every few minutes with a startled snort.
wary of the dark alleys he passes, but enjoying the ambient sounds of the city, the murmur of thousands of lives moving forward all around him.
He signals for the bus to stop and descends the crusty treads of the stairs. He fingers the switchblade he had palmed, little bursts of anxiety tingling throughout his body…
A small, peaceful smile tugs at his lips. It is well past eleven before he trudges onto his block. Letting himself into his apartment building he can't help but feel the allure of the drifting consciousnesses tucked snugly into bed, a web of futures branching out from each sleeping person.
He quickens his pace as he walks the two blocks from the bus stop, glancing at his phone, 22:07. The clatter of something metallic crashing in an alley makes him jump. He moves faster, darting anxious glances over his shoulders, to his left, to his right; all the while he slides his fingers up along the ridged catch of the knife.
The steps creak softly beneath his feet. He fumbles with his keys, then turns the lock with a faint click and enters his apartment into the kitchen. He shrugs off his bag; eyes sweeping across the empty space, where he has (of course) left a few lamps on to cast welcome pools of light upon his return.
He sees the welcome light of the apartment building, quickens his pace to a half run. A small relieved smile tugs at his lips. He gasps.
A yawn stretches his mouth wide. He runs a hand through unruly curls and discards the idea of watching a movie before bed. Slowly, tiredly he strips on his way to the bedroom, flinging clothes haphazardly along the hallway. He sighs contentedly as he snuggles into the down of his mattress. Making sure his alarm is set, he falls into untroubled sleep.
He's afraid to look down, to see the knife, the blood. He can feel the warm trickle, but the pain hasn't hit him yet. The knife pulls out and he hears the soft gurgle-squish of torn flesh. Spencer looks to his attacker, doe eyes comprehending the imminent hand of death. He feels the sharp spiderweb of pain racing up his side as the knife slashes mercilessly into his side again, again, again. His knees buckle and already he can feel his senses waver, sound becoming sight, smells becoming noise. Cold sluices over him, through him, icing his veins. His head strikes the concrete and then nothing.
Spencer gasps, sucking in air as if it was his last breath. He realizes he's shaking and quickly balls his hands into fists. Warm skin and deep breaths reassures the agent that he's alive, and that for at least one foreseeable future he will remain that way.
Spencer shakes his head, rubbing at bloodshot eyes. Time to leave before Hotch forces him out of the office. He slings his messenger bag over a shoulder and takes the elevator down, down. He waves a tired hand at the security guard, walks through the entrance of the BAU headquarters. He stops, stares at the sky, imagining the pollution obscured stars, faintly seeing their beauty in another time, another age, another land...
He chooses to walk...
Thanks for reading! As this is the prologue it is shorter than the chapter updates which should come fairly regularly for now.