"Were there, below, a spot of holy ground, where from distress a refuge might be found, and solitude prepare the soul for heaven; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given. Where falls the purple morning far and wide, in flakes of light upon the mountain side; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes, the leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes."
William Wordsworth
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Chapter one. Not yet near day.
"Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale."
William Shakespeare
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October.
Friday.
Three weeks later.
Time unknown.
At first, she didn't want to believe that she was actually waking up. She was lying in a grass field, colourful flowers all around her; yellow, white, purple, blue, pink and red. The sun was shining bright, the sky was clear of any clouds, the temperature was more than comfortable, grass hoppers chirping in the ever-green grass, a ladybug crawled over her left leg. Sunlight permeated through the air and casted a warm, soft hand on her face. She was wearing her London boxers, matched with a white bra and white tank top, arms above her head, at ease, calm, peaceful and serene. This was how she imagined heaven to be. She smelled the fresh scent of grass but other than that, the air was pure. The scenery was vibrating, the repercussion of it pulsing through her body gently, without force.
Slowly, she woke up and opened her eyes. For a second, she saw the sun. After that, the fierce light blinded her, caused her pupils to minimalise and forced her eyelids to protect them. A blade of grass tickled her cheek as she bent her face away from the bright, fire-y orb. She smiled, at herself, at the grass, at the situation. Slowly, real carefully, she opened her eyes again. Her mind started, the clockwork settled down back into reality. Not yet, though, not yet. Her dream wasn't over yet, she didn't want to let it go. From between the grass, she saw the all too familiar eyes. The muscles around his eyes were relaxed; he was not angry. He merely looked at her. If she could have seen his face, she would have seen that he was smiling. Weakly. Lovingly. The eyes caught her gaze and locked them with his. He could look straight into her soul and it felt like he stabbed needles right into her eyes. He stripped her of her skin, exposing her, tying her up, giving her no way to escape. And there, again, there she was. She was lying in a grass flied, colourful flowers all around her; yellow, white, purple, blue, pink. And red. A lot of red.
Abby's eyes burst open when she felt the soft, heavy sheets on top of her body. The bed smelled different. There was no faint wet-dog scent, in fact, there was no weight pressing down on her leg from where Birdie always laid. The lavender air, one of the last English habits she still maintained, was gone. That was impossible, she washed the sheets two days ago, the scent should still be here, crawling up her nose, asking her to tango, comfortable and soothing. Then again, the sheets were dark blue, not her usual black, crimson red or deep-broken white. On the nightstand; no AM/FM alarm clock, but a Seiko. Two photographs, enclosed in an old brown frame; the first, three women, smiling, waving, laughing. The second, a man, and a football, and a young boy.
The wallpaper: pearlized white with a soft swirl design. Where was her vintage leaf medallion wallpaper with hand-painted dark cream design effects over a green and brown narrow stripe? On the floor, beautiful Nordic Berber black square carpet, but no vitality deluxe Michigan Pine laminate flooring. Abby rubbed her eyes after she sat up and looked around the room, realising she was wearing a white tank top. But it wasn't hers. When she ran a hand over her upper arm and shoulder, her fingers easily slid over the pallid skin and it was smooth and clean. As she realised her stupidity, she closed her eyes, smirked and fell back into the bed.
"Hey." Morgan stood in the entrance of the bedroom wearing black jogging pants and a simple, grey t-shirt. There was no door; the wall had been partly removed, creating an 'open bedroom'. She remembered her first impression of the apartment; open. Everything was open. An open kitchen, open bedroom, open living room, just like her own house. Even the bathroom was mostly open. The only things that held doors were the cabinets, cupboards, the toilet that didn't fit in the bathroom anymore because of the bathtub, and the closets.
"Hey." Abby stretched her arms above her head and let out a sigh.
"How'd you sleep?"
"Pretty good actually." She glanced at the clock on the night stand. It read half past seven, but the light that sneaked into the room told her differently.
"What time is it?"
"Half past ten."
She shot up again after her head snapped to meet his face. "What? Why didn't you wake me?" Rubbing her eyes, she started to get out.
"You were pretty out of it."
"God, stupid."
"Hé, hé, pretty lady, back in bed." Morgan's eyes ate her up, devoured her and briefly ran up Abby's muscular, long legs that she had swung out of bed. She hesitated, but only for a second. Derek raised his hand and pointed at his bed, sending her a stern glare before disappearing. He returned a couple of seconds later, holding two mugs with hot-steaming coffee, a smell that appealed to Abby, causing her mouth to water and she quickly pushed a pillow behind her back.
"Look at that. I bet you haven't had coffee in bed for a long, long time."
She snickered amused and gladly took the cup. "Careful now, I might marry you."
He laughed at her as he laid down next to her, his back against the wall, space in-between them. They weren't a couple, nor together. They were still colleagues that slept together because the lust and passion was too strong for them, unbearable, and they both excelled between the sheets.
"Careful Scott, I might say yes." The hand that brought the coffee mug to his sensuous lips halted and he smiled at himself. "Then again, you only actually look cute when you sleep, which is, what, four hours a night?"
Abby playfully smacked the back of his head but couldn't help to smile secretly. "I don't look cute."
"Yeah, kinda. I mean, you're usually all hard-ass and quirky. Garcia even said you reminded her of Lara Croft."
"What? Beautiful but deadly?"
"When you say it like that, you're more the female version of James Bond."
"Scott. Abby Scott." The woman snickered and kicked his leg, receiving a playful smack after.
"I'm not quirky."
"Yeah, you are."
"Shut up." She followed his gaze outside and suddenly noted the view. Morgan's apartment was only on the third floor, but from the window you could see the outstretched park, as if it lay at their feet. For several minutes, neither of them spoke. They just sipped on their coffee and watched the people in the park. Morgan broke his stare and looked at the person next to him, eyeing her shortly.
"Can I ask you what that is?"
"What what is?" Abby also broke away from the view and her eyes fell on his handsome, strong, muscular face.
"The necklace?"
"Which one?"
He lifted himself easily and pulled out a second necklace from under her shirt. "You carry two bullets around your neck?"
"It's a reminder."
"Of what?" His dark, abyss, bottomless-like eyes studiously looked at her, his face limpid and tranquil.
"Second chances."
She looked down and glanced at the other one. It was some sort of shape or form. You couldn't tell exactly what it was unless you knew. Unless someone told you what shape it represented. The form, the silver metallic outline, bird-like shaped and at the end, a small cross. It was fascinating how much meaning the thin lines held, empty space amid. She played with it for a few seconds, chewing on the thoughts in her head. It was a long necklace, just like the one that held the two bullet, and the moment she let it go again, it fell down, ending just below the lacuna between her breasts.
"Knowing the dark edge around the world, deep intense pain and the feeling of losing a loved one. It was a gift from a victim whose live I saved. Well, the SCU saved." She put the necklaces back in her top, where it belonged, safe and hidden away from the world like a secret knight in armour, a guardian angel.
"You got any plans for today?"
"No, why?"
He let the matter drop and Abby was secretly thankful. Yet, questions popped up in her head. Why didn't he ask further? Why didn't he press the matter? Was it because of the invisible boundaries they had created, lines not to be crossed transparently drawn around them? It was only a 'thing', a fling, little 'get together's'. Nothing else, nothing more. Was that the reason he wouldn't want to know more? Would she even want him to ask, to press against her shields, pushing her into a corner? Never before had her 'things' been so complicated. She felt at ease, comfortable around this man. She never had that, she never felt like that. Affairs had been simple, flings had been easy, it was in their nature to be because if they weren't, you might as well get married.
Morgan turned on his side, the covers sliding partially off Abby's body. "Well, I was thinking, maybe you could stick around. For a little while." His hand made her skin tingle in sensation as his long, black fingers trailed her white, English-pale leg.
"And do what?" She knew what he had in mind. Heck, it was the only thing that managed to get through the maze in her mind and was clear and vivid. Still, she enjoyed playing the game with him, like throwing balls. He leant over her when he placed the empty mug on the nightstand. He could have placed it on the dark wooden, small desk-like piece of furniture on his side of the bed. He could have, but that would have been less fun.
"All sorts of things." His mischievous smirk appeared on his face and his hot breath stung in Abby's face and neck. Morgan was laying on his side, eyes focused fiercely on her.
"Sure. So, what do you want to talk about?" He threw the ball. She caught it. She threw it back. He missed. Morgan chuckled shortly, flinging one arm over Abby's legs, lowering his body. With the other, he let his hand trace the cotton that covered her stomach.
"Why'd you join the Army?" He threw the ball back. She missed. Personal. She always sucked at personal.
"I didn't know what to do at the time. Figured I could do anything."
"Like making a difference?"
"What makes you think that?"
"After the Army" – his hand stopped teasing her senses and rested on her side – "you joined DEA. After that, the bureau, working under CIRG, SCU, now the BAU. Those are all jobs that allow you to do something good, make a difference. Help people."
"You ever seen Black Hawk Down?" Without knowing it, Abby had begun to caress the smooth skin on his well-muscled arms, painting circles and following unknown waves.
"Yeah."
Unwillingly, she bit her lip. What was she doing? 'Frankie, bad! No. 'Thing', Abby, 'thing'! Complication-free, relaxed, free!'. "I was there. You'd be a fool to think you could make a difference over there." In order to break away and temporarily avoid his piercing, penetrating eyes, she finished her coffee and placed the cup on the nightstand, next to Morgan's. She placed her arm back above her head and dared to look at him again.
"Do you think you made a mistake by joining the Army?"
"No, why? Are you-" She tightened the muscles around her mouth, frowning in the process as she hit Morgan again. "Don't do that."
"Sorry." He laughed at her, white teeth from between seductive lips. A seductive smile in general. "It's just, I've never heard you talk about it."
"Well, perhaps that's because I don't like talking about it. Besides, ever heard me talk about the SCU? Or anything not related to the case for that matter?"
"Perhaps you should."
"Should what?"
"Talk more."
"About what?"
"I don't know." He shrugged but his eyes held a flash that she couldn't quite place. Curiosity? Why would he want to get to know her? They both respected the boundaries they portrayed in the sand and he wouldn't dare to cross it. Neither would she, because they both knew that if they would, the other would be gone, dust in the wind. Then what was it? Was Morgan still under Hotch' orders to 'profile' her? No. She refused to believe that. He wouldn't break policy rules by sleeping with her and lying in the same bed as her because he was 'investigating a colleague'.
"Let people around you get to know you."
"What do ya wanna know?" There they went again. Caressing hands, skin turning hot and burning, the air filled itself with sexual arousal and tension.
"Your tattoo's, what do they all mean?"
"They all? You looked at yourself in the mirror recently?"
"Every day." His expression was blank when he spoke, but Abby smiled at him nonetheless. Their fingers danced with each other, touching, rubbing, fighting over which finger got what part of skin. They didn't even notice, it was the air, the energy around them, the kind and vibrant feeling that scorched away all their defences.
"Okay." Abby studied him for a couple of seconds before she spoke, formed theories, processed information. "Angel wings on the back of your neck. I'm guessing Icarus?"
"Fly too high and they melt."
"Mmh.. Touching. They also represent something else, something from your youth. Spread your wings and fly away, perhaps? The lion on your shoulder. Grotesque. Proud. But also fierce, strong. It's a symbol of your character." – He nodded, carefully impressed. – "Then the 'SSM'. ATF-time?"
"Pretty good."
"You have no idea who you're dealing with." Morgan snorted at her comment and pulled her down. She was now lying flat on her back, Derek hovering over her. She heard the dogs in the kitchen but she was too occupied to think about it. He leant forward and kissed the tattoo in her neck, his tongue shortly in contact with her skin.
"Army-time."
She didn't acknowledge his guess of the three black letters in her neck. They were clean and simple, nothing too curly or tribal-like. IMR. He moved to her right arm and lifted it, kissing the skin on the inside of her right upper arm before taking a good look at the tattoo. "Something religious, Catholic raised. You're obviously not religious anymore nor do you believe in God because you curse like hell. You clearly do not believe in God when you've seen the look on your face when studying a crime scene. And, this is not God, it's an angel. Looks like he's in some sort of frame, a picture? There's light all around it, I'm guessing, revelation?"
She looked at one of the first tattoo's she got, 'IMR' being first. "That's the archangel Jeremiel and he's actually in a mirror. Jeremiel means 'Mercy of God' and he's the angel that reviews our lives after we've crossed over."
"That's why he's in the mirror."
Abby nodded briefly. Suddenly, Derek lifted himself off the bed and pulled the sheets back. He grabbed her left leg and put his finger on the three words that decorated the inside of her ankle. "What does that mean?"
"There are two translations. One says that 'Abyssus abyssum invocate' means hells calls hell, other says it means deep calls to deep."
"Philosophical."
"Well, it's Latin."
Morgan smiled as her turned her around on her stomach, pulled the white fabric up and his hand nearly covered the large tattoo on her left shoulder and back. "A flock of birds. Birds represent freedom, but, they're in a flock so it could mean that you are actually a group-person but need to be able to go your own way." He paused and Abby turned back around, her shirt still halfway up her chest. She pushed him down on the bed and crawled on top. "It could also mean you're trying to break away from something."
"Do annoying bosses count?"
Morgan laughed and Abby pushed his shirt up, taking it off to reveal a body that was close to that of a perfect image of a Greek God. She ran her hands down his chest and lingered around his perfectly formed abs. As she licked her lips and shortly bit down in the flesh of his muscled chest, he chuckled again. When she looked up at him, he arched an eyebrow. "Tired of talking?"
"Yup. I need a fag." Abruptly, she got up and hopped of the bed, leaving the handsome man in confusion as she went in search of her coat.
---
November.
Wednesday.
Five days later.
12.20
She closed the door of the balcony after Bird the dog followed her back inside. She petted the dog's head, running her hand through his black and yellow-ish brown hairs. The dark-grey, grandeur Victorian oak made little sound as she made her way to the kitchen where Morgan was talking to his dog and eating an apple. Whilst entering the kitchen, only separated by the rest of the large room by a long dining table, several files sitting on top of it, she observed the man behind the counter. Her eyes trailed down his back (he was still shirtless,) and halted around his butt.
"Stop staring at my ass, Abs."
"Can't help it. Derek." She added his name whilst making a face and sat down on the counter, stealing a piece of apple from her colleague. She took one bite and gave the rest to Birdie. Clooney, Morgan's dog, quickly made his way over to the shepherd but by the time he got there, the piece of apple was already gone.
"He already ate."
"He did?" She looked down the moment Bird looked up and he barked at her. Abby widened her eyes and leant forward. "No way!" The dog enthusiastically approached her and jumped up. "What's this, you traitor? Having out with agent Morgan, now, are we? Eh?"
"Where did you get him?"
"Who, Bird?"
"Yeah. And, by the way, Bird is an exceptionally weird name for a dog."
"I found him in tied to a fence in an alley in Atlanta. I was actually looking for an infant, but I found him instead. Six weeks old, starving, dirty fur, scared shitless, a rope around his neck. He nearly bit my hand off. I took him home, got him better and he stayed with me ever since. That's what I never leash him."
"Why'd you name him Bird?"
"Why'd you call Clooney 'Clooney'?" Morgan laughed at her sudden onset of agitation and the interest and made his way over to her. Abby, in her turn, wrapped her legs around his waist and waited for him to make the first move.
"You, Abby Scott, have one super-smart dog. It's almost scary."
"I know. He passed every police test with flying colours before he was even two and a half."
"Should have named him Rex."
She smiled as his face got closer. Her fingers already teased the skin on his lower abdomen and his hands ran over her legs. But instead of crashing his lips on hers, he lifted her up and carried her back to the bedroom.
---
November.
Tuesday.
Six days later.
12.46
The air was thick with sex and their guilt-free lust. Profound sweaty bodies stuck together as if glued and soft moans filled the room, next to the moving sounds, a slight noise from a demurring bed and gasps for air when they did not left kisses on white-hot, burning skin. This time, it was slow. Slow; close to perfect and almost well planned. Everything just fell into place and Abby never once missed the usual fierce and possible rough sex. She had tried to deny it, before her mind was clouded with arousal and desire, but everything Derek Morgan did to her was good. It didn't matter if he kissed her breasts or ran a hand up her back, shivers rolled down her spine and the repercussion was felt deep within her bones. Whether he moaned silently and almost secretively or breathing down in her neck and ears, it turned her on and made her want to go crazy. All she could do was wrap her arms and legs around his fine, deity body and go with the flow.
She was never one for foreplay; she felt it was wasted time. Morgan thought differently, though he also wasn't the guy that wanted to spend hours on the action. With this man, she didn't mind. If he wanted her to stand on her head, she would. If he wanted her to jump around the room while singing 'I'm a virgin', she would. It was a good thing that Derek Morgan was the casual, old time kind of guy and was satisfied with the usual, oral act, because she would feel stupid if she had to stand on her head. Or run around singing 'I'm a virgin'. She would have to alter the lyrics, perhaps something in the line of 'I haven't been a virgin, since I was touched for the very first time, in nine-hihihigh ty-six, with his heartbeat, next to mine'. Morgan placed his hand on her forehead and tilted her head backwards and he bit her lips and chin and his kisses followed the line of her throat, scaring Madonna away and she suddenly realised how good he was and how insanely good he made her feel. She muttered 'Christ' under her breath and pulled his face close to her, totally oblivious to the rest of the world.
"No, no, no." She protested vehement when her cell phone started buzzing, the moans and gasps cut off by the sound of a vibrating cell phone on wood. She tried to ignore it, she tried to pull him back, return to the vigorous world they had created. Morgan leant down on his elbow and stopped, breathing heavily and she could see his heartbeat in the vein in his neck.
"Fuck!" Abby grabbed the device and looked at the display. Growling once she saw how it was, she flipped it open and answered. "What?!"
Morgan moved, resting his head on her chest, his hands under her arms. With her free hand, she traced his moist-covered skin on his back, following the black lines of the tattoo.
"Well, hello to you too, Frankie."
"What do you want?"
"Am I interrupting?" She could hear it in the tone of his voice. They knew each other for so long, it wasn't a surprise to Abby that he knew what she was doing at the exact moment he called. "You're timing sucks, as usual, Miles."
"Just wait till you hear this. We think that the Whitewater Creek killer struck again."
"Are you shitting me?"
The Whitewater Creek killer was a white male, approximately between the ages of thirty and forty, socially skilled, sexually incompetent, and of above average intelligence. He grabbed, raped and stabbed thirteen young women already in the area of Whitewater creek. Not only did he violently raped and stabbed them, he also removed an organ. One of each woman. The victims were found in the Chattahoochee River around the last or first week of every month. It was one of the unsolved cases that the SCU handled with Abby whilst she was on the team.
"He disappeared for four months."
"I know. It hasn't been confirmed yet. I'll keep you posted."
Morgan started to lift himself of Abby when she put her arm around his neck, keeping him close. He lay down again, smiling and she kissed him soundlessly as Miles continued to talk to her.
"Oh, almost forgot. Louis is counting on your for Thanksgiving."
Louisa was Miles' insanely hot fiancée. She should envy the woman, but beside the idea of kissing Miles, she just couldn't. There had been no time when she placed herself between Miles and Abby, forcing him not to go out, not to drink until he didn't even know where his feet were. Better yet, the further Miles' and Louisa's relationship got steadier; Louisa would often go out herself whenever Abby and Miles had their usual 'hang out night' at his apartment. She was pure, pure and good and Abby was happy that Miles had found such a woman that understood his nerdiness, his flaws and his blatant way of expression himself and/or speaking about certain subjects.
Abby returned Morgan's smile as he moved down her neck. "Oh, damn it, I can't."
"What do you mean you can't?"
"I sortta promised Cal I would come. I owed him, he forced me, it wasn't really my fault. And I can't ditch him, he'll have my balls and put my head on a stick."
"You'll manage without the head, it's the balls that are important."
"Fuck you Miles."
Her friend chuckled on the other side of the line. "Love you too, enjoy your day."
She hung up and let the phone fall of the bed after she locked her lips with Morgan's again, hungry and desirous, craving for more.
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"There is only one time when it is essential to awaken. That time is now."
Buddha