Facing the Truth
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.
SPOILERS WARNING
This particular plot bunny came and jumped on me late the other night and would not go away. This was inspired by all the rumours surrounding the future episode (18) 'Restoration' where Morgan is to come face to face with Buford. This one-shot in just my idea on how it could go – warning for possible spoilers.
. . .
Stepping up to the mirrored glass in the dark observation room Derek stared through at the man sat the other side. Folding his arms defensively across his broad chest, Derek had tried hard to prepare himself for this moment from the minute the evidence had led to Buford's door.
Observing the aging man Derek tried to maintain his calm facade. Carl Buford sat bolt upright, his cuffed hands interlaced in his lap. Though he was evidently older, he was fundamentally the same man. He still had an obnoxious level of confidence in the way he held himself, even in prison issue orange. A predator.
There was part of Derek that had hoped that prison may have broken him. That he may have got a taste of the turmoil he had caused all the others like himself. Yet he also knew that paedophiles like Buford were protected, segregated from the other prisoners that, no matter what their deeds, wouldn't tolerate the likes of him.
Derek's arms dropped to his sides as his fists pumped with the anger building inside him at the thought of Buford being offered protection. No-one had ever offered his victims any protection. Where had the burly guards been on all those occasions that Derek had been enticed to the lodge in the woods? Who had kept watch over him to make sure he was safe? No-one!
From the back of the observation room, Spencer stood in awkward silence, his feet silently shuffling on the cheap carpet. He knew who Buford was and what he had done to Derek. He had had the unfortunate pleasure of being on the team when they had finally uncovered Buford's crimes and with it Derek's secret past.
To say he had been surprised back then was an understatement. Derek didn't exactly look like a typical victim. Admittedly Spence knew that Derek had confessed to not always being six foot plus and nearly as wide. However Spence couldn't imagine a vulnerable Derek.
It wasn't that Derek didn't have his soft side. The guy wore his heart on his sleeve, often acting on raw emotion. And that was what concerned Spencer now. The building anger was evident without the need to confront Derek. The way his muscles tensed from his hand, though his arms to his shoulders, pulsing into his neck and locking his jaw.
Buford had been brought from prison to the station to help them with their current case. It was possible that the UnSub was one of Buford's victims. However he would only talk to Derek and was blatantly ignoring both Hotch's and Rossi's attempt to engage him. Hotch obviously was not happy with this arrangement. He had been there at Buford's arrest; he had seen the effect the man had on Derek.
After that fateful day Spence had seen the following fall out. The excessive drinking on the nights out. The different girl every night. That had gone on for several weeks until the night he had turned up on Spencer's door. Obviously drunk and with all the signs that he had been crying Derek had finally off loaded it all. Spence had to wonder what the impact would be this time.
Slowly Derek took a step closer to the dividing glass, regardless of what Hotch and Rossi said Buford did nothing. He didn't moved. He sat there patiently, laying in wait. Peering through the one way mirror, Derek wanted to see some cracks in the facade; that really prison had taken more of a toll then he had originally seen.
The man had not aged well. He was thinner and slightly gaunt in comparison to the man Derek remembered. His previous shock of black hair was rapidly greying. There were added wrinkles to his dull skin. But the eyes, those dark menacing eyes still bore out, as if they could see Derek standing the other side of the mirror. They were staring straight back at Derek.
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, his head dipping. The anger had subsided as a wave of memories rushed his mind, the images those eyes brought back. It was those that haunted his nightmares. They were the eyes of the Devil that had mocked him for more nights then he cared to remember.
Spencer considered stepping forward, reminding his friend that he was here too. But there was no point trying to rush Derek, he'd come to him, when the time was right. So instead he watched, hands in his pockets as he gently rocked back and forth onto the balls of his feet. He saw, from Derek's reflection, how the emotions were contorting his features. Spencer wanted to reach out, to reassure him, but for now he stayed back. Silent, but strong, for his friend.
Running his hands over his head, Derek clocked his own reflection in the polished glass. He was surprised that the mask he had created had slipped. He had assumed that he had managed to keep up the pretence of having buried all this in his past, but staring back at him was the Derek of many years ago. The scared teenager.
Derek was filled with the same apprehension he had many years ago. He had the same feeling now at the thought of facing Buford as he did every time he had headed to the Community Centre as a boy. The cold spread down his spine as his limbs literally froze solid. Suddenly he had difficulty swallowing, even with the sensation of bile rising into his throat. As he had done all those times in the past, he willed the tears not to fall and prayed he wouldn't vomit.
Spencer was concerned; you didn't need to be a profiler to see Derek was struggling. Spence could only begin to imagine what this was like for Derek. The thought of facing once more any of the bullies who had made his school life hell was something Spence didn't want to contemplate. Yet this was something much more unimaginable.
Suddenly the door to the observation room opened, startling both occupants. Hotch entered and observed Derek for himself before glancing at Spence, his beady eyes observing them carefully. Neither man needed to say a word for the senior agent to know how hard the wait had been. Looking back at Derek he asked; "You sure you want to do this?"
Derek nodded, squaring his shoulders as he stepped forward. Watching the interview he knew Hotch would end up having to ask him to face Buford once more.
Hotch's eyes narrowed as he saw through the facade Derek was creating, but respected the decision. Hotch had every intention of being in there with Derek and if needs be he would step in and stop the interview. He would not have one of his agents mentally torn apart by his previous abuser.
Spencer watched Derek and Hotch walk confidently into the interview room, stepping closer to the dividing glass. His job was to observe the body language, note how things were said rather then what. But he couldn't tear his eyes from Derek. Not when his friend needed him the most.
. . .
As the door to the interview room opened, Derek stepped outside into the brightly lit corridor and breathed deeply. Rubbing his hands over his head a deep sigh fell from his lips as he leant back against the nearby wall. Looking up from the dirty grey carpet, he was suddenly aware of someone hovering nearby.
His glassy gaze met those of Spencer Reid. Neither spoke as Derek straighten up, clapping a hand down on his friend's shoulder. Now was not the time or the place, they both knew that, but Derek appreciated the gesture of him being there.
As Derek made his way down the corridor, Spencer swivelled on his heels, hands in his pants pockets as he watched the older man stalk away to gather himself. Respecting his need for space Spencer went in the opposite direction, deciding to stop and get coffee for the both of them before the team met in five to go through what the interview had given them. Vowing to himself to be there again when the time came.
. . .
When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.
Henri Nouwen