I was deleting some of the documents on my computer and I found this one that I sketched out during a boring class. It was inspired by the argument between Reid and JJ in "Proof," epsiode 7.2; however, this one-shot is meant to take place somewhere between season six and seven. I don't usually write this way, but I thought I'd put it up here anyway. Enjoy! :)
"We all ambush ourselves
at borders thin but absolute,
and go forever marked
by what we see,
or failed to."
-Deborah Pope
On the first week, she opens the door with a whoosh of cooling spring night air. She has her glock in one hand, the doorknob in the other, and a hoard of harsh words on the tip of her tongue. She doesn't expect him to be there, but she's also not surprised that he is. His hands are pocketed, his face pointed at his scuffed converse sneakers, and his shoulders shaking. She doesn't ask; he doesn't speak, and her hug becomes an act of betrayal.
On the second week, it's late and she ushers him inside with hushed whispers. She notices how he staggers and slumps into the couch, clothes and skin reeking of alcohol, but she knows it's better than the alternative. The one she doesn't dare ask about as she wordlessly takes his hand in hers, sliding a soft thumb over prominent knuckles. Sometimes she hopes that he still carries the worn one-year medallion in his pants pocket. She doesn't dare ask if he's earned his five-year one.
On the third week, she studies how his angular cheekbones catch shimmering tears. She manages to mention the lighter moments – the ones not covered by omnipresent darkness – and she even manages to get him to laugh. The sound fades quickly, his composure following, and she feels her heart sink. She's not sure how this works, how her comfort means anything at all, but she tries because she knows he won't go anywhere else. She reasons that her home is better than no home.
On the fourth week, he is angry, shaking from all the years that have piled weight after weight onto his thin shoulders. She can't touch him, can't even sit too close. When his voice rises above the usual crackled whisper, Will comes to the doorway of the living room, leaning on the wooden frame, watching the breakdown that she expected. She watches as he grabs at a framed photograph of Emily and is more than shocked when he sends it flying against the opposite wall. The glass shatters, coating the floor in deceiving bright shards, and he follows, folding downward like a wilting flower. She rushes to him, pulling his hands away from the mangled frame as she accesses the pieces of glass sticking to his bleeding palms. His pleadings are whispered and heartbreaking, so she allows Will's strong grasp to pull and lead the fragmented man to the kitchen, crunching the glass and past now broken and dislodged underneath their feet.
By the fifth week, they establish a routine. He materializes on her doorstep in the pressing velvet blackness of night. She silently succumbs to her guilt as she fixes him an herbal tea or hot water infused with honey and a strong shot of whiskey. Sometimes, he is mad; sometimes, he is silent; often, he is crying. More than once, she opens her mouth to let the truth escape, but she always stops herself before the reckoning. She isn't sure if she is more afraid of the truth than the grief she sees unfolding.
The sixth week brings a tired man; a man who's spent too many nights staring at the white bumps in his ceiling. She tries to tell him that it will be better, he'll be better, but she's not sure if she's lying or if she's really telling the truth. She never mentions a grief support group or another group she thinks he may need to visit again, but he is visibly depressed. She listens to the shaking tempo of his voice, witnesses the weariness that has settled into his muscles, and she internally recoils from the knowledge she keeps hidden. When he leaves before the sun kisses the sky with pink, she calls Hotch and whispers her worries into the receiver.
When the seventh week comes, she's sick with the flu, drugged into a dreamless oblivion, and Will answers the door. He later tells her that he was intoxicated, stumbling into her home, falling and tripping over apologies. She's thankful Will was there; she's even more grateful that she wasn't. Will doesn't explain if he sobbed or stayed, but the discarded tissues and rumpled couch blankets tell her otherwise.
On the eighth week, she thinks he won't show. She even stays up late, padding down the hallway to Henry's room to check how his chest rises and falls with soft inhalations and exhalations. She stops to study the pictures on her walls, the albums brimming with memories, and she contemplates the deceit she has woven into thick, deadly webs. She thinks that the pattern of grief has finally subsided until there is a soft rapping against the hollow, wooden front door. She doesn't look through the peephole or even bother with the security of her glock. When she swings the slab open to the night, she knows he is there.
On the ninth week, he cannot sit still and he paces the room, showering her concerned expression with near incoherent ramblings. She tries to listen, tries to understand his manic movements and rapid speech, but she is tangled in his words in the same way she became entwined into the lie she can no longer undo. She's scared now, more than she was during all the other weeks, but she cannot interrupt. She cannot explain that she sees the genetic predisposition for madness lurking in the corner of his once-bright eyes.
On the tenth week, he is deflated, empty, and emotionally numb. He sits next to her, elbows resting on knees, and tells the floor how he did not get to say goodbye. How he never gets to say goodbye. How, if goodbye were enough, carrying her casket wouldn't have felt so monumentally suffocating. How, if his lips had said these simple words, he would not stare at her empty desk in the bustling bullpen. She once thought goodbye was just a phrase, just a meaningless gesture, but she knows it is complex now. When he stands after a long period of silence, she understands she is losing this battle. She walks him to the door, meets his composed, flat gaze, and does not flinch when he slinks into dew-soaked grass and a smudged horizon. She realizes as she watches his profile disappear around a corner, that he did not say goodbye to her.
By the eleventh week, she understands he will not visit, yet she waits between tangled sheets and while pacing empty hallways. From the downstairs window, she watches the night unravel, the morning's slow ascent into the sky, but she understands now that his grief is no longer his own. It is hers; it is the teams – the one she does not belong on anymore. Her hands shake as she pours coffee into the overused pot, observing how the brown liquid sloshes against glass sides. She looks at the tiled floor, the wallpaper of childish draws laminating the fridge, and her bottom lip trembles.
On the eleventh week, she acknowledges the art of loss.