Title: Saturday 4:34 P.M.
Author: slacker_d
Fandom: Glee/Dead Like Me/Criminal Minds/Dawson's Creek/Firefly/Veronica Mars
Pairing/Characters: OFC, Jen Lindley, Aaron Hotchner, Simon Tam, Dick Casablancas, minor Rachel/Quinn
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's just like any other reap, no big deal.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word Count: 1,800+
Spoilers: 1x13 for glee, 1x01 for Dead Like Me, 6x24 for Dawson's Creek, none for Criminal Minds, Firefly or Veronica Mars
Warnings: Character death
There's still frost on my car windshield despite it almost being April; stupid Midwestern weather. I don't know why Hotch insists on meeting so early, especially since my last 20 post-its have been after 3 p.m. I think he just likes to torture us. He and Simon are the only early risers, the rest of us would much rather sleep in.
I'm not the first to arrive; I never am. Thankfully Jen has beaten me here and ordered me some coffee, which she slides my way as I slump into an empty chair. Gratefully I sip it, ignoring the conversation around me.
Dick, who in a surprise move wasn't last to arrive, is trying to convince Simon to go bar hopping with him. I don't know why he bothers. The only one less likely to go with him is Hotch.
Speaking of Hotch, he doesn't look up as I arrive, which I know is a sign he's annoyed with me. Just because he still exists on an exact, regimented timetable, doesn't mean we all have to. I spent almost my entire life living by a clock; I'm not going to spend my undead one doing so as well.
He slaps the post-it down in front of me.
4:34 p.m. What a surprise, a late afternoon reap.
I order a bagel and sip my coffee.
…
Because it's Saturday, I have nothing to do until my late afternoon reap, so I follow Jen to hers. It's at a nursing home, so we figure it's someone's grandparent. Those are always the best; there's very little guilt in reaping an octogenarian.
We head towards room 228 on the second floor of Sunny Side Rest Homes. No one bothers us since it's a weekend. There are plenty of people wandering around visiting their elderly relatives.
When we find room 228, neither of the two names on the door plague match Jen's post-it. I sigh. That means, most likely, that someone visiting either James Donavon or Michael Johannson is going to die. I really hope it's not a grandkid.
Luckily, the room is at the end of the hallway, where there happens to be a small lounge type area. We both sit and wait for M. Kent to arrive.
…
The reap turns out to be Donavon's daughter; heart attack. She's wearing a name badge, Madeline Kent, Child Services.
Jen manages a quick soul grab as she enters the room. I check my watch. Eight minutes. Now it's just a waiting game.
Having nothing else to do, I eavesdrop.
"Sorry, I'm late, dad. Had to do a surprise visit," she tells Donavon. "It ran longer than I thought it would."
"That's fine, Maddy," he replies. "I'm just glad to see you. I thought maybe you'd forgotten."
"Come on dad," she says. "I've been here every Saturday since you moved in. Why would I suddenly stop?"
The buzzing of my cell interrupts my listening. Pulling it out, I see it's Dick. I debate answering it. It's a rare conversation that I don't regret having with him.
"You might as well," Jen mutters next to me. "You know he'll just keep calling, if you don't. And if he remembers you're with me, he'll just start calling both of us."
I sigh because she's right.
"What?" I snap, answering it.
"What's got your panties in a twist?" he asks. "Having a bad day?"
"Stop asking stupid questions and tell me what you want."
"You got paid, yesterday, right?"
"Yeah, what of it?"
"I need to borrow three hundred," he tells me.
"Hell no, Richard," I reply. "You still owe me a hundred."
"You're still harping on that?"
"A bet's a bet," I reply, snapping my phone shut.
"Sixty," I say to Jen.
"Less than that," she replies. "Forty."
Exactly thirty seconds later, Jen's phone rings. She holds out her hand and I reluctantly slap a five into it. Shoving it in her pocket, eyes still on the magazine she's flipping through, she answers.
"Forget it Casablancas, I'll never be that wasted." She hangs up; eyes still on the National Geographical article.
I return to my eavesdropping.
"…just two more years and everything should be paid off," Madeline is saying.
"And then you'll retire?"
"That's the plan. They're pushing me towards early retirement; want me to take the bonus, so they can hire someone young and inexperienced and pay them next to nothing."
"Maybe you should," he replies. "You only live once."
"But if I can just hold out a bit longer, I can have a finically stress free retirement. Doesn't that sound lovely?"
"It does."
"I can finally travel, just like I've always wanted."
"Certainly, but…" There's suddenly silence, except for some gasping. And then Mr. Donavon calls out. "Help! Please! Someone help! Call 911! I think my daughter's having a heart attack!"
Having glanced into the room earlier, I know that Mr. James Donavon has very limited movement. Even the act of hitting the call button seems like it would be a struggle for him. We can hear the rustle of sheets and the slight squeak of the bed; I imagine he's desperately trying to call for help.
It's a tense three minutes before we hear the beep of the call button. It's another five before we hear the stampeding of feet heading our way. Luckily, they're in too much of a hurry to question our presence and why we're not helping.
They start CPR and I can hear one of them answering Donavon's yells that yes, they did call 911.
Jen and I stand, moving further down the hall, wanting to stay out of the way. By the time the paramedics arrive, she's gone.
Madeline doesn't want to stay and watch, surprisingly. So Jen leads her outside, so she can find her bright light. I head in the opposite direction, not wanting to stick around.
…
Around 4, I wander down to Lone Lake Park. Despite it being spring, it's still cool, so at least I only have to pick from maybe a dozen people. There's a couple having a picnic, a handful of guys playing touch football, there's three kids playing on the playground and three adults watching.
It'd be nice if the info was a bit more specific. You know, north corner of the park or something like that; because instead I have to stalk about trying to figure out everyone's names.
Thankfully, the guys playing football are yelling at each other a lot, so I feel confident that none of them are my reap. Neither half of the couple under the tree has the correct first name, so I head over to the playground.
I sit on the swing farthest from everyone, trying to blend it. I know a lone adult without a child at the park is suspicious, but I figure at least I'm female. For some reason, Dick and even Simon and Hotch get a lot more looks than I or Jen ever do. I figure Dick does because he still looks like the delinquent he was. Simon? Well, he's just a little too well put together. Hotch? He's just a little too serious looking. And Jen? Well, she is a mother, was a mother, so maybe she still has that air. Either way, I just keep my head down and listen.
And then I hear it.
"Danielle Barbra Fabray, get down this instant or we're leaving!"
I look up and see a brunette in her 20s yelling; next to her on the bench a blonde, looking about the same age, watches, smiling indulgently.
I uncrumple my post it and double check, hoping my memory is wrong.
It's not.
D.B. Fabray Lone Lake Park E.T.D. 4:34 P.M.
I almost lose it at that point. The kid doesn't look any older than 5.
Why do I always get the kid reaps? I kinda understand why Jen doesn't. Dying and leaving a toddler behind can't be easy, but what about Simon or Dick. Or even Hotch.
My watch tells me I have about ten minutes to figure out how to reap Danielle without drawing any attention to myself.
I let my brain come up with various scenarios of how to approach her without seeming creepy, but fate, for once, helps me out. Danielle approaches the swing next to me, but can't seem to quite get on.
She asks for help and looking over, the brunette doesn't seem perturbed that the girl's talking to me, so I nod and stand. Lifting her slightly, I place her on the swing and give a good push, managing to take her soul in the process. Sitting back down, I challenge her to a swinging contest.
Her attention to the activity only last about five minutes before she's jumping up and off running again. I keep swinging for a moment before dismounting. I need to close by to accompany her to her next destination, but I'd rather not be in the immediate vicinity. Hotch is always telling us our job is to blend it, not draw attention to ourselves. So I too causally stroll off and sit under a tree.
With feigned detachment, I watch the little blonde climb the jungle gym again and call out, "Mommy, momma, look at me!"
Both the blonde and brunette look up, but this time it's the blonde that says, "Danielle, sweetie, get down from there. That's much too high up."
Just as she says this, Danielle's foot slips and she's tumbling down to the ground. Normally, this would just result in some scrapes and bruises, but today she lands head first and there's a sickeningly crack.
It's chaos after that. The little girl sits next to me and watches her mothers rush to her, the blonde whipping out her cell phone, while the brunette is screaming hysterically. There's a lot of blood, but there usually is from head wounds. I'm mildly comforted by the fact that she didn't suffer.
"Ready?" I ask her.
She nods and takes my hand as I stand. We walk off towards her bright light while the ambulance sirens approach.
…
The knock on my door, pulls me out of my TV induced haze. Not having anything worth stealing, I just yell, "It's open."
Jen walks in and plops down on the couch next to me.
"Tough day?"
"No more than usual," I tell her.
We watch in silence for almost an hour before my curiosity gets the better of me.
"Why are you here?"
"Ran into Hotch. Said maybe I should stop by. And you know in Hotch speak that means definitely."
"Yeah, well, I'm fine."
"Of course you are," she replies. "But I had this crazy urge to watch TV on a thirteen inch screen."
"I don't need your sarcasm."
"Just shut up and turn up the volume."
Jen only stays for a few hours, but it helps. Knowing I'm not the only one affected, even after years and years of doing this, eases the guilt slightly. Enough that the murderous thoughts I'd had towards Hotch have pretty much disappeared. Tomorrow's another day. Maybe tomorrow's reap will be a drug dealer or a rapist, so I won't have to feel anyguilt.
One can hope, anyhow.