Warning for lots of angst-y-ness. Also, this chap was written mostly inspired The Antlers 'Hospice' album and the song This Night by Black Lab. I recommend them both to enhance your reading and listening pleasure. Now, please read and enjoy!
Never let your head hang down. Never give up and sit down and grieve. Find another way. And don't pray when it rains if you don't pray when the sun shines.
Satchel Paige
Derek Morgan has nightmares.
In these nightmares, he sees himself running.
He watches his legs pump, faster and faster against gravel, his heels spitting miscellaneous pebbles at the wind.
Running. Always running. Pushing himself to move a little bit quicker, a little bit swifter, using every muscle in his body because he has to get there in time. Because if he doesn't, he's not sure what he'll do.
There's a long, old path (a dirt road would be a luxury compared to it) with strewn rubble from thousands of burned down houses and burned down families and burned down dreams. He's running over the memories as lost souls scream from under his feet. But he can't notice. Because he's too busy running.
Eventually, as the sky turns from dreary wisps of gray cloud, to charred wood black, the ground starts to slope. He's sees the path in front of him raising, inclining up to a slowly rising hill.
It grows and grows and his heart beats and beats and he yells and yells at the sky with the last of his breath because he can see the top of the hill, but it just keeps twisting out of his reach, like a fickle apple at the tippy top of a tree. Suddenly, the messy ground, strewn with lost hopes made of dusty ash and chunks of blackened debris, drops from under him.
His body plummets downward, falling and falling, running with gravity as adrenaline courses vigorously in his veins. His limbs pinwheel uselessly and his voice is stolen, floating up to the hole that sucked him in and away from the hill. His mind is blurry, and his body aches, and with a sharp jerk, his heart bursts, explodes right there in his chest and with it a myriad of images flash with lightening quickness in his mind. Him running. Him falling. Him yelling. Reid, oh God, Reid! Blood, too much blood…
When Morgan wakes from his nightmares, it's always in a startled gasp.
His skin is crawling with icy spiders, chilling the very marrow of his bones as he futilely tries to wipe away the cold sweat drenching his sheets. His brain is thumping against his skull, in time with his thunderous heartbeat. Thin, silver streaks of moon slither their way through his thick curtains, blanketing the walls with shadows as he pads across his floor, shedding his sticky clothes before stepping into a blistering shower, not emerging until his hands are marginally less shaky.
He pulls on an old fleece hoodie, discarded black sweats, and stuffs his feet into a random pair of shoes, giving an anxious Clooney a small pat to the rump as he leaves.
The drive to hospital is short; it always seems to be. The night nurses are accustomed to him by now, some of them even save him cookies from earlier in the day parties they might've had in exchange for a conspicuous glance at his ass.
He smiles, and charms them until they're blushing like school girls and twirling their hair around their fingers. But then their grins taper a bit, and they rest their manicured hands on his bicep, giving a small nod of understanding, and leaving him to his business. He thanks them, and promises to enjoy the cookie as he ducks into the small room full of beeping machines and depression. He never does though, because as much as much as he appreciates their kindness, and he does, his stomach is still quivering and churning too much to handle the admittedly enticing double-choco-crunch they snagged for him.
So as the door sweeps shut, he discretely disposes of the kind gesture beneath random papers and various garbage iotas, before scraping an uncomfortable hospital chair beside the bed.
He sits vigil in the chair, staring intently at the bed's captor. The steady whoosh of his friend's lungs, the reassuring heart monitor, sometimes even the low but even pulse beneath his thumb as Morgan rests it over his wrist, is enough to make the tremors stop. Enough to make him remember that there is hope, no matter how slim. Enough to make him remember that it's not over till it's over, and he'll be damned if it's even close to over yet.
Or so he thinks, as he sits in the shadowed room until his heart is slowly welded back together by reality.
Or so he hopes.
Penelope Garcia has nightmares.
In these nightmares, she sees darkness.
She's never been afraid of the dark, not since she passed five anyway. She respects it, the mystery it holds, and the stolen beauty locked in its shadows. So when she's in complete darkness, it doesn't scare her.
The darkness is like its own substance, and she's swimming in it. Meandering along happily, unaware of any danger that could be lurking, she doesn't worry. There's nothing wrong with the darkness. As she drifts through the darkness, something catches her eye.
It's… she's not sure. But it's different than the darkness. It looks like it's miles away, a microscopic pinpoint of… something.
Though curiosity wants to draw her closer to it, a bigger, more intense instinct is howling at her to run away. Her pulse quickens as she tries to turn, but the dot in the distance is starting to grow. She registers it as dangerous, and wills herself to turn, to flee even as her stomach is twisting into knots.
The dot grows, reaches its lecherous hands out into a spot. One that continues to grow, blossoming like flowers in the spring or umbrellas in the rain.
Red. It's gushes out from the one tiny leak in the darkness, quickly taking over, rippling over dark and painting it with crimson. It's swallowing her whole, washing her out with such an intense, vibrant red her eyes sting, used to the darkness.
Red. Red. Red.
She's tries to get away, but before she can blink the red is swirling around her, carrying her in its scarlet wave. She's tumbling through the red, which is heavier than the darkness, thick and warm like honey oozing from its little bear bottle. She's stuck yet moving in the red. It's starting to seep into her skin, and her mouth, and drip at the base of her throat, invading her body like the darkness never did.
Red, red, red, red.
All she can see is the red—all she is anymore is the red.
Red!
She's drowning in red…
When Garcia wakes from her nightmares, she always reaches an instinctive hand to the quilt draped lazily to the left of her.
It's old and fraying, filled with all the colors of the rainbow and then some. Soft, feather-like patches of pictures, some of baby cribs others of ballet shoes and one even of a large alley cat, are comforting against her fingertips as she runs them over the quilt.
Gentle pink glows from a lava lamp she has back in the corner of her room spin around the walls languidly, like a merry-go-round of lights. Up and then down and then to her picture of Marilyn Monroe and back to the ceiling. She watches the raspberry tango illuminating her room, save for the shadows she's safely tucked in, and this calms her.
She pulls the quilt tighter around her figure. It's thinned with age, but in this moment, it radiates her body with the warmth of a good hug.
Her parents made it for her. They were a couple of hippies after all, so it's a mess of silly squares and pieces of material that tell the story of her childhood. It reminds her of who she was and who she is and how she got here. It reminds her to let her past be apart of her without letting it dictate her future. It reminds her to look forward but to also remember.
Curled up into a comfortable ball on her side she reaches her long, punk purple (or so the label advertised) nails to her bedside table, picking up a framed photograph.
It's of the team. Rossi was sitting, hand wrapped around a tumbler of whiskey, and a big ass smirk is on his face, his dark eyes flicked to the left of him, which is so suiting it makes Garcia smile every time she sees it. Not tonight. JJ, who was a little more than inebriated at the time, slung her arm around Rossi, pressing her lithe, wobbly body to his side, frazzled blonde hair glowing in the dark club, as she smiled the most glorious smile. Next to them Morgan and Prentiss stood. Prentiss was grinning tightly at the camera. Morgan, who was positioned just behind her, was leaned in close to her ear, clearly just finished saying something to piss her off. The moment was caught as Prentiss' elbow connected to Morgan's ribs, and his self-righteous, crooked smile slipped into a half grimace of pain. Towards the back of everyone, mingling with the shadows, Hotch watched them with his lips tugging up in amusement, a father watching his children play. Smushed in the middle of everyone was Garcia and Reid. Garcia had his wiry frame securely locked in her arms as she pressed a big, wet kiss to his cheek. Reid's hazel eyes were widened, his mouth forming just enough of a popped 'o' to capture his genuine surprise, and the burning, blushing tips of his ears showed his adorably awkward embarrassment. So Reid of him.
Though it took the poor bartender who was elected to photograph them a few times to get a normal picture, this one was her favorite. Everyone else had the regular photo, but she kept this one. It so much more authentic. So much more them.
She tickles her finger on the cool glass, and smooth wooden frame, gathering bits of dust on her skin as she runs it along. Punk purple stops at Reid's baffled expression, and she circles his face a few times, an all too familiar tear rolling its way to her pillowcase.
She kisses the picture, mixing leftover remnants of today's neon pink lipstick and saline, before hugging it close to her chest, plastered just over her heart.
Her eyes flutter shut, and she clutches her quilt and her picture closer as darkness invades her mind, and she only hopes it will last.
Jennifer Jareau has nightmares.
In these nightmares, she sees the woods.
They're beautiful. It's dusk and the leaves huddled on the high and mighty trees above her look almost gray with the way the late, dying sun is casting funny shadows on the world. The ground is crunching under her bare feet; slimy, dew sodden grass and frail, brittle autumn leaves littered beneath her toes. Mud is stuck to her ankles, and her body is slow, as though it's been traveling for days.
She walks along, the world tipping to the side and then turning upside down as she tries, desperately tries to trek forward. Her knees are wobbling and ache as they support her sluggish body, dragging through the mire of the ground as she reaches out to steady herself on ice-cold tree trunks. The bark is smooth but with a comfortable amount of texture to allow her fingerpads to sink into, and catch on the wood, the only thing keeping her upright anymore.
A chill ripples its way through her flesh and she thinks maybe she hears something in the distance—an owl hooting? a coyote yipping? a goddamn monster growling?—which only reminds her why it is she hates the woods so much.
JJ…
There! She whips her long blonde locks around in a frenzy, peering into the dense leaves and darkness for the voice. It sounds so familiar, and if she could just hear it again…
JJ… JJ…
Oh God. Her stomach is suddenly an angry sea trying to chase off wandering ships, churning dramatically as the shadows prickle her skin.
JJ…
Reid! She so, so wants to call out. Reid! He's in trouble. He's lost in the woods; they've captured him, taken him away to their gloomy depths. She has to find him. After all she's been searching in the woods for him for days—yes! It all makes sense.
JJ…
She opens her mouth to call back to him. To tell him to hold on, she's coming. Don't worry, she wants to coax. But no sound utters past her lips. The woods have stolen her voice just as they've stolen Reid. She thinks, she wishes of rescue for him anyway. Maybe he'll know. Maybe he'll hear her silence.
JJ…
I'm coming, Reid! I'll save you!
No, JJ…
She pushes at the low, tangled branches, snagging her hair and scratching her arms, and she feels a rush of icy wind against her back.
It's okay! I'm coming!
Hurry, JJ, you have to hurry…
I am! I'm coming!
The wind is becoming more intense, only now it's winding itself around her front, and starting to push her away from Reid's whispers.
Run, JJ, you have to run…
So she does, she runs. But the wind is stronger, and even as her heels plant themselves deep into the ground, she's still stumbling back. She tries to hold onto something, but the leaves in her hand loosen easily from their stems, and soon her palms are filled with gray dust that's been crushed by her weak grip.
JJ…
She looks forward to where the murmur came, and there, peeking from the shadows and woods, she sees the faintest outline of fingers. And then a hand. And then a wrist, reaching out to her.
JJ, hurry…
Then, with an almost audible click, she realizes she's not the one trying to save Reid.
He's trying to save her.
The wind has solidified into chains, wide and rusted and wrapped around her with anaconda like strength. The metal lasso tugs her back, as more chains fly out from behind her to wind around her arms, legs, and torso.
JJ…
The hand is slinking back into the darkness, and panic is injected to her erratic heart.
Reid!
She attempts to reach out her arms, but the chains are towing her away as she writhes in the mucky ground. They're so heavy on her frail body, which is still squirming pitifully as the chains continue to yank her away, steal her away from safety…
When JJ wakes from her nightmares, she's always greeted by cold, salty tears swirling down her cheeks.
She chokes on a sob, and buries her face deep into the broad chest of Will, whose arms are already protectively snaked around her body.
"Hey, hey, shh, you're okay, cher. You're okay." His thick voice blows a musky, warm, familiar smell across her cheeks. Her sobs begin to climb as she clutches to his shirt, wanting to shrivel up to nothing but the comfort of his arms.
It's not okay. Nothing's okay.
"I-I'm s-sorry." She stutters into the material, which is growing dark with her tears.
"Don't apologize, darling, shh." Will tightens his arms around her body—its form is impossibly small as it curls in on itself like a frightened turtle retreating to its shell.
She cries. She cries as her body disintegrates—melts right into the soft cotton of his shirt like her tears, and she's left a turtle without her shell, naked and bare for the world to see. Emotions glaringly bright and new, peeling away for her fears and her to be exposed. Blind, deaf, scared, like a baby being shoved from its once warm and safe home.
She's not used to being scared. She's used to being strong. To holding her chin up, and squaring her shoulders, and facing everything with an inner strength almost everyone underestimates her with.
So as she sobs, horrible wracking sobs, and as Will whispers soothing words and sweet nothings and presses his lips comfortably—safely, warmly—to her skin that she wants to shed because it feels like a lie, she's terrified. And that only serves to terrify her more.
"I'm scared." It's barely a whisper, disguised by a rasping, suffocating noise you can hardly tell she's spoken at all. But she has to say it. Like a nasty confession one must whisper to a priest to remove a crushing weight from their shoulders.
But when he whispers a loving, "I know," back and squeezes her even tighter, she doesn't feel as though she's been absolved. She only feels even guiltier.
She thinks of Henry in the next room, and reminds herself to hug him an extra time in the morning. Because that's important. Because he's important.
"It'll be okay," Will murmurs again, as though he's personally promising her this. But that's impossible. He can't. No one can.
Still, the lies comfort her, safe and warm and fake but real for the moment and that's what she needs.
She closes her eyes and Will wipes a few rogue strands of sunshine hair from her cheek, thumb lingering gently. The sobs slow, and now icy tears are flowing little rivers down her face. Behind her lids, she sees a melody of bright lights, and bursting fire pirouetting to a black sky, the contrast so beautiful and deadly.
Somehow, no matter how much she clings to the lies, those gorgeous, dangerous images don't leave and she drifts back to sleep; vulnerable and scared and watching pretty flames dance for her in her own private ballet she wonders if she'll wake up crying again.
Mostly, she wonders—desperately hopes—if he'll ever wake up.
The guilt is more stifling than ever as her sniffles calm with that final thought.
David Rossi has nightmares.
In these nightmares, he sees a single white rose.
It's perfect in design. Flawless. The color is purer than freshly fallen snow and crisper than a winter morning. Its full, downy soft petals are thick like they were woven from clouds someone plucked straight from the bright blue sky. The stem is slim, long as its mossy arm reaches down into the air. The leaves, all four of them, even on both sides, are carved beautifully from dark jade stone as they're far too pristine to be anything alive.
Living things are always creating such ugliness, and this flower is absolutely perfect.
His sort of zooms out, and slowly a hand comes into focus. It's holding the flower, fingers wrapped carelessly around its seamless—perfect—stem.
No, no, he wants to say. No one should be holding this flower. It belongs somewhere greater than with tainted, human hands.
But no one seems to listen. Suddenly, and with great shock, he realizes that there are many people around him.
He can't see any faces, just bodies, like herds of sheep all huddled together with no distinct purpose or identity.
He wants to scoff. The masses come to the slaughter.
There is something noticeable about the incomprehensible mesh of beings—black. Everyone is wearing black.
It's a beautiful contrast to the starkness of the flower, Rossi must admit.
With an odd realization, his body starts to sway and he's sluggish to grasp at the fact that's he's moving. Odd indeed. He doesn't feel like he's walking. He feels almost…
Actually, he feels… nothing.
Shrugging it off, he tries to get a better look at someone's face. He thinks, but he can't be completely sure, he sees the team, all wearing black with a somber cloud hanging over them.
Hmm…
Oh.
Oh.
The final piece of the puzzle is set, and a new, growing sadness overcomes Rossi. Now it makes sense, he's at a funeral.
Though, also strange because he doesn't know whose funeral he's at. Unless…
Reid.
Rossi frowns. Of course, Reid. He didn't make it. How could Rossi forget something like that?
He's solemn, and casts his eyes to the floor, hoping Reid's mother isn't here; he doesn't think he could face her.
He genuinely liked Reid. Sure, at first he thought he was some rich little snob who paid his way with his smarts to come and play with the big boys, but Rossi's a big enough man to admit when he's wrong. There were a few defining moments while knowing the kid that he gained respect for him—and Rossi was not a man who gave out his respect easily.
He can almost see the young agent now. Pale and smiling that nervous half smile he did that was (Rossi would never, ever admit to it) kind of adorable in a little kid way. With big naïve eyes that held more secrets than one might realize. Hazel, and glinting with such vast amounts of intelligence, Rossi couldn't even begin to fathom having his extraordinary mind.
Wait…
Was that… Yes. It was. Reid, standing right in front of him, with the flower clasp between his bony fingers.
But if Reid was there, then who—
His body jerks, like it's being tossed off a cliff, and abruptly he's staring up at the sky.
What the hell?
Reid looks down on him, a crease in his forehead and his lips forming a hard, thin line. He leans a little and drops the rose over Rossi.
The perfect flower flitters down, encountering a brief tango with the wind before landing gently on his chest.
Rossi tries to sit up, but finds he can't quite get his body to work. Then, a large clump of dirt flies down over him. It doesn't land on him, like the flower, but rather right over him, hovering above his legs like he has some kind force field surrounding his body. Like he's in an invisible box.
Like he's in an invisible… coffin.
Nausea crashes down, hard, and he tries, so desperately hard he tries to open his mouth and call out to Reid, to everyone, that's he's alive! He's alive! They can't do this to him!
The soil keeps falling down on him, and even though it never touches his skin, he can still smell the earth. It smells sickly. Like ashes. Like burnt rubber and fire and flesh that is not his.
Please! Stop!
But no one does. He can no longer see the sky, only a swarm of black clothing and blank faces and Reid who seems to be the only one with a shovel. Soon he can see nothing from beyond the dirt, all alone.
All alone with his perfect flower.
His screams never sound as they rip through his lungs.
Completely alone and nobody cares. A perfect white rose…
When Rossi wakes from his nightmares, it's always because of Mudgie's wet nose pressing against his face.
The dog senses his distress, and whines at his master's bed, nudging him to consciousness with the innocence of a creature that knows too much trust and not enough life.
He should be mad. Mudgie knows better. But all he can seem to do is pat the dog's head, and send him a silent thanks that's met with big, inquisitive brown eyes that remind him too much of someone who knows too little trust and too much life.
He heaves a long suffering sigh, and wipes his hand across his face, before resting it again on Mudgie's warm, chocolate fur.
Deciding to use the moment to his advantage, Mudgie shuffles his legs a little, before letting out an excitable bark.
"You want to go outside, boy?" The animal wags his tail a few times, and barks again, racing out of Rossi's room and down the stairs to the back door. Rossi roll's his eyes a little but follows him.
Mudgie shoots out from the large paned, gorgeously crafted glass doors as Rossi flickers on a light for the mutt. Mudgie shoots after what might have been a squirrel or simply a shadow before trotting along the border of his property, marking his territory.
Rossi rumbles a small laugh in his chest, before padding into the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water, savoring the cool liquid as it glides down his throat.
What he really wants is to get himself three fingers of Scotch, but it's too late and too early and he's too tired and far too aware to indulge.
He rinses the glass, leaving it in the large silver basin of his sink, traipsing back to where Mudgie is whining to come back inside.
The dog shakes off miscellaneous droplets of dew on the carpet, and Rossi's too exhausted to reprimand him, so he just gives Mudgie a final scratch between the ears. Mudgie, quite satisfied with his heroic deed and midnight stroll, circles his bedding a few times, before plopping down with a huff, and snuggling deeper into his own body.
Rossi grins a little, heading back upstairs to his own bed. He stops at the window in his room, which is carelessly bathing his satin sheets with moonlight, and just stares out at the vastness of the world for a few minutes.
He traces imaginary shapes on the frosty glass, and wonders if anything ever gets better. He hopes so.
But most of the times—all of the times—hope isn't enough.
So he walks back to his big, satiny smooth bed, and falls back asleep to the loud, uneven melody of Mudgie's snores as they echo in his big empty house.
And for a moment, for a second, he allows himself to feel sad. To feel sad for all the things he lost and especially for the things he never even got. And then he hopes, no matter how foolish he knows the act to be, he hopes that maybe one day things won't be so hard.
And at least, if that can't be true for him, he hopes it is for a man he's grown to respect.
Emily Prentiss has nightmares.
In these nightmares, she sees a chessboard.
It's nice, in all respects. Old, intricately crafted wood looks smooth to the touch with the exception for the sparse nick or gnarl that only add to the piece's history and quality. Solid, Bic pen black squares contrast with the warm, swirling caramel natural wood panes. There's nothing specifically extraordinary or unusual about the board. In fact, the only thing that's mildly strange, is the glaring absence of everything—it's bare of any pieces.
She tilts her head up, and for a moment, thinks she sees herself.
But the woman opposite her has more obvious differences than she assumed at first glance. The woman has dark hair, almost glistening in… wherever they are. She has darker eyes that reflect the obsidian squares of the chessboard hidden beneath a half-lidded shield of lashes. Her lips are red and pursing just enough to cast shadows in her dimpled cheeks. Her long jaw line pulls to an even longer, elegant neck with a moderate bullion chain dropping to her chest, circular and carefully designed gold pendant pressing into her skin.
It takes a few moments, but Prentiss recognizes the woman.
It's Elle Greenway, her predecessor at the BAU.
She's never met the woman, but she's seen pictures, heard stories. Or, more accurately, gossip. Not that she ever put any stock into the water cooler tales, but nonetheless, she recognizes her.
The two women simply stare at each other. Long enough for Prentiss to realize they're sitting in the jet, across from each other, both of their arms resting on creamy leather arm rests.
Prentiss studies the familiar yet strange woman, wondering why on earth she's possibly here.
Elle's smoky eyes narrow a fraction of an inch. They're almost… accusing.
Well why wouldn't they be? You came into my family, replaced me. Of course I'd be wary.
Prentiss looks back down the chessboard. Knights, rooks, pawns, kings, queens suddenly are suddenly scattered across the tiles in an intense battle. She can't tell who's winning. To be honest, she can't tell who's playing.
You just swooped in, and took my place. I have a right to size you up.
Elle's frowning. Her liquid coal eyes sad, but her face is full of anger, and Prentiss feels a rush of shame. Elle's eyes are so piercing and serious, Prentiss almost winces under the glare.
You didn't protect him, her eyes scream.
Prentiss wants to refuse. Wants to deny it. But she can't find the strength.
You failed him. You failed.
A lone pawn stands, quivering in fear on the board as the last piece, a tall, confident queen is placed across from it. There are no kings. Only the two. Only the weak and the strong.
And now you're paying the consequence.
The pawn is gone. The queen stands, proudly, where it once was. Prentiss wants to cry. How can they just let the pawn disappear like that? Why isn't anyone mourning for the lonesome pawn, as the queen glints in all its glory?
Because you failed. Because no one mourns a failure. Because no one mourned me.
But this isn't true! They did, Prentiss wants to insist, they did! They mourned for her, for the pawn.
Idiot. You're not the pawn. You're both. Your power befell you, and now you've slain yourself. Now we've slain each other. We're all pawns. We all fail.
No. No, Prentiss doesn't want to hear this.
We both destroyed ourselves. Granted, you got your redemption, but in the end it's the same. In the end, you failed the people who gave you that redemption.
Stop. Stop it all. She's nothing like her. They're so different.
You failed him.
The jet, the creamy leather seats, the blue skies turned a sticky tar remnant, everything is falling, falling. She has that stomach-in-your-toes, rollercoaster feeling. They're taking a nosedive. She's so scared but relieved, because maybe, maybe, this is what she needs—deserves.
Things are speeding up and slowing down. Elle's hair is whipping around her, thick, curly black tentacles reaching their arms to empty space, pieces have suddenly materialized in the air, they're flying slow motion in front of Prentiss. All but the pawn and the queen.
They've already gone.
Rickety bumps are vibrating Prentiss in her seat as she stares at Elle in utter desperation. Elle looks serene.
Heat is rising from the floor, like hell is licking at her ankles. She's sees such brightness in the dark that's shrouding her vision. Fire is below them. It's growing, a sunflower in the spring, twisting its way to them, they are the sun to the yellow petals. And yet, they never seem to stop falling. She's stuck in this intense moment of anticipation.
Elle's face is gone. She's a blankness nobody. Nose sunken in until its gone all together, red lips pale and fading in with the rest of her skin, eyes so dark and real shrivel up like a pair of raisins, long jaw line and longer neck meeting each other into an indistinguishable plane of skin. Her skin, so pale and growing whiter, is smooth, clear. It's shimmering, glimmering, shining in the flames beneath them. Reflecting light back to her.
Elle's gone now. She's crumbled away as dust, ashes in the wind, forgotten as soon as they've come. Prentiss doesn't mind. She was always alone just as she never was. Through the chaos and the terror and the truth, the chessboard sits just as still and nice as ever in front of her…
When Prentiss wakes from her nightmares, it's always slow and groggy.
It takes her a while to fully separate her unconscious from reality. For the shadows on the wall to detach themselves from the darkness outside the jet's windows in her mind. For her heart as it hammers in her chest to differentiate between that vital organ, and the manic crackle of fire as it dared to swallow her whole.
She gulps in cold air like a fish out of water, and doesn't move, not a millimeter, for several minutes. She just sits—or lays, more accurately. She lays on the chilled sheets that tickle her skin with invisible fibers that stand up like grass growing from the material—a barely there brush of silk against her finger tips. She lays as the small pool of icy sweat that's gathered at the base of her neck dries with the gentle whir of her overhead fan she forgot to flick off before crawling into bed. She lays and stares up at a single spot on her ceiling, where the city lights are reflecting on the plain white paint and enticing her with a soft beauty nobody seems to appreciate anymore.
Eventually, when a good eighty percent of the paralyzing fear has drained from her, she wiggles her finger, fighting the fatigue that threatens her mind. She flexes her hand to a fist, before pushing carefully off of her mattress, and dangling her legs over the side of her bed, palms resting by her thighs, holding her body barely upright as her head bows to the weight of her messy raven curls.
She shoves her limbs to a standing position and shuffles quietly to her kitchen, swiping a bottle of water, and only taking a few sips before screwing the top back on.
Her blood is loosing its sludge-like quality, and she pads back to her room, slipping out of clothes as she goes. She pulls an old Yale sweatshirt over her yellow sports bra that she hates but it's comfortable and she's to exhausted to care. Slinging on some black running pants that reach just over her ankles and warm purple and white running shoes, she pecks a gently snoring Sergio on the forehead, and bounds out of her door.
When she steps out of the apartment doors, and into the brisk night air, she takes off instantly. There's something therapeutic about running, to her. She doesn't have to think when she runs, she doesn't have to wonder, or worry, or hope, or love when her body is so in sync and together. She doesn't need anything when she runs.
So she does. Prentiss slams her soles against she pavement. Her calves feel pounded and her knees are creaky. She pushes. She lets the slow burn in her thighs extend down, tingling her flesh. Her arms propel her forward as well, tight, controlled swaying by her sides like that of a pendulum.
There's something almost indescribable about running on a cold night. The cool is nipping her face, nose running only if just, cheeks frozen solid, lips she's sure are paling, eyes squinting. Her bare hands feel like someone just took them out of a bucket of ice water. It's dreadfully refreshing and makes her feel more alive then she can remember. Her chest is a big, burning ball of fire, lungs taut and smoky as the back of her throat is scathed with the cold air. The drastic differences flow into each other seamlessly. It's invigorating, and Prentiss can't get enough of the feeling.
Yellow street lamps bathe her in their temporary light, until she escapes their clutches as well. Shadows aren't nearly quick enough to catch her—even her own is trailing behind. Her hair is flung behind her, forgotten to the wind as she splashes in a small puddle coming off a curb.
She forgets for a blissful moment what she's running from, and just allows herself to go.
She tilts her head and looks at the stars. They're winking and bright and remind her of little white daisy buds blooming in the navy night. She smiles a small smile at their brilliance.
After about five miles (she knows because she's run this route before), she tapers a bit, and jogs to a small park bench, before collapsing on the harsh wood. She lies down flat, taking up the entire length of the bench, as her desperate gasps of air become more shallow and controlled.
Her body is buzzing beneath the skin with endorphins and other things that make her head spin wonderfully. She keeps her wide eyes on the sky, wetting her lips with a dart of her tongue.
A shadow in the distance catches her attention for a moment, and her hands shift a little. But nothing comes of it. Still, she rests her hand over her pocket before turning back to the vast emptiness above. She has four throwing knives, a small tazer and thing of mace, and full FBI training on her person. She thinks it might be kind of overkill and a tad paranoid, but she's seen too many mutilated, strangled, broken bodies of women who were killed while out on a run not to carry them with her.
A hot, wet sensation surges to her dark eyes (like the chess tiles, and Elle's beady raisin dots, and the emptiness of the cabin, and the suffocating smoke from the flames, and…) and she doesn't make any motion to wipe it away, letting a drop of saline leak from the corner of her eye.
Prentiss thinks of the stars like a field of daisies and she thinks of her friend and she thinks about how similar the two were—
Are.
Are.
Are. How they are.
She thinks maybe, like everything else, maybe she's finally lost hope. Maybe this is what it feels like to be hopeless. Maybe its better. Maybe now she won't hurt. Maybe hope isn't really worth it in the end. Hope is nothing more than a half lie anyway. Hope's nothing more than a maybe. Maybe maybe isn't worth it.
She focuses on the stars again. She imagines them blossoming, unfurling their glorious, pure petals and stretching their hands to each other like someone opening their eyes for the first time.
For the first time again.
She decides to stay and look up at the stars for a few more minutes even though its cold and her nose is really running and she'd kill for a mug of jasmine tea and her toe is still throbbing a little from when she stubbed it while getting changed in the dark.
She thinks maybe this is exactly what hope feels like. She's secretly very, very glad not to forget for that moment.
Aaron Hotchner has nightmares.
In these nightmares, he sees a room.
He's sitting alone in a white room. The walls, floor, and ceiling are blinding and he wants to wince and look away from the harshness of the color—even the window to his left is painfully white, made entirely of glare from the sun that sends little needles to prick at the back of his eyes. But he can't look away because it's all encompassing the room, the small room that barely feels real, and so he just sits.
The only solace from the bright is the dark form which is sitting cross-legged directly across from him. Dressed in black, the amorphous blob does nothing, but Hotch knows it's looking at him. Staring.
He stares back.
Something gleams in the dark creature's hand-like shadow. It's a knife. Big, serrated, shimmering silver teeth winking at him, a small hook at the tip, a talon curling in on itself. Predator preparing to strike.
There's this weightless feeling bubbling in Hotch's chest, which is strange because his feet feel like they've been filled with rocks. The contradiction makes him sick to his stomach. The hair on his arms betrays him, rising like the sun as goose bumps dance on his skin.
He's going to die.
Though this is an accepted fact, it still makes him want to retreat into the air with a puff of rainbow smoke—poof, the magician is here and gone.
The dark figure is going to kill him.
Though fear, and nervousness, and nausea, and something he can't entirely define is pinging around in his veins, he doesn't feel any anger, any animosity to the gloomy thing in front of him. It feels so impersonal. This is what he deserves after all; he's practically brought it on himself.
Together, the dark figure and he stand, matching each other's movements perfectly. The figure, whose shadowy limbs glimmer and sway like some mirage in the distance, raises the knife.
Hotch knows what will come next. He closes his eyes, and yet nothing seems to change.
Faces float in his mind, of Hailey, and of his little brother, and of Gideon, and of nameless victims, and of a not-so-nameless victim. And even with his eyes closed, he can still see the dark figure slicing the knife through the air, preparing to strike. For a moment, he thinks of the Reaper. But this is so incredibly different then the Reaper. Still, stab wounds are a bitch.
Slash. The white walls are being painted red. The dark figure is carved open, bleeding with Hotch. Two torn open creatures all alone with no one to hear their silence.
Hotch whispers he's sorry to the splattering of crimson drops. The words echo to nowhere. Slash. Scarlet is sprinkling him with cold splats and gushing rivers. The dark and the red and the white have become nothing. Just like him…
When Hotch wakes from his nightmares, it's always to the wild thumping of his heart as it bursts his eardrums.
Alive, thump, alive, thump, beating and alive and yet just barely.
Hotch crawls from out of his sheets, gulping down the last of the glass of water he had on his bedside table. It's stale and tastes funny but he's drank worse and for the moment it's like liquid heaven staining his dry, thick tongue. He clangs the glass back to the dark mahogany and runs his hand through cropped, graying brown locks. He pulls his hand down his face, pressing hard with two fingers into the corner of his eye; he can feel a migraine coming on.
The shuffle of carpet against skin is comfortable, which is why it stings all that more when he slips out into the hallway and icy hardwood flooring. He does a perimeter check of the house; windows shut and locked, all locks on front door secure, guns safe and in place, not a lampshade tweaked. He breathes a small relief into the warm shadows that shimmy their way on his apartment walls. Everything is as it should be.
Well, not everything. But here, where he has control, where the world can't ruin him, it is.
His first check is always his son, but once the compulsory sweep of the house is over, and his domain is secure, he peeks into his room once more. This time, he leans against the thin doorframe, watching his son sleep peacefully. God, he loves him. He really, really does.
Jack is snuggled deep in his dark blue comforter, his Buzz Lightyear nightlight throwing golden light to his smoothed features. His silky, dark blond hair is so much like that of his mother. His warm eyes, which Hotch thinks has a nice combination of them both, are fused shut, long eyelashes kissing each other with a dreary comfort. His little nose wrinkles a bit in his sleep, and his small, pouty pink mouth is relaxed a tiny drop of drool escapes the corner. Hotch thinks of the times when Jack would cross his arms, and scowl, serious lines burrowing his face. Jack reminds him so much of himself sometimes, but then on other occasions Hailey's compassion and honest, open smile (the one that he fell in love with a millennia ago) make him glad he's got enough of her to not turn out completely like his father.
And even though, standing there, Hotch feels his nightmares melt away, most of the times those moments scare him. Because he realizes he must watch from the corner as Jack grows up and ventures out into parts of the world that Hotch just can't fortify, can't secure. He wonders what kind of man he'll be. A good one, better than he ever was. He's already so proud of him, and so scared. There's no fear in this world, not even death, that can come close to the fears that come with having a child.
For a second, he thinks of his team. They're all like his children, no matter how irrational it sounds. They just are. Even Rossi, the bastard, in all of his years of experience and knowledge that Hotch knows can sometimes far surpass his own still has him feeling like a dad to some rebel, step-son. Because he wants to protect them, and prepare them, and be proud of them, and trust them to understand all of that enough to pass it along.
He loves his team. He loves Jack. He wishes that would be enough.
He wants, so badly, to dodge the miscellaneous toys strewn on the ground and kiss his son on his forehead, to hug him, and whisper goodnight and that he loves him. But Jack's a light sleeper and he knows it would wake him up. So instead, he simply curls his hand back around the brass knob, and silently half-shuts the door.
Padding back to his room, Hotch sighs, and scrubs his bleary, tired eyes. He collapses back on his mattress, feeling a nagging hollowness.
He failed as a father to his team. He hurt them. He hurt him. But he's going to make it right. By God, he's going to do everything in his power to fix it.
He's not stupid enough to believe it's that easy. But he's blind enough to hope it could be.
As he slowly looses the battle of unconsciousness, he doesn't think about the suffocating knot of guilt in his chest, or the agonizing worry that consumes him when nobody's looking, or how he can't light candle with out hearing hoarse screams and seeing a crumbling house and smelling blood and heat.
Instead, he thinks that he'll take Jack for a visit to his uncle tomorrow, since it's been all he can talk about for days. He thinks it would be nice. Finally, he just hopes that eventually they'll run out of tomorrows, and he'll be able to visit Jack.
Having today, instead of wishing on tomorrow is so much better. But for the time being, when hope is the only thing anyone has left, he figures its doable.
Those with the greatest awareness have the greatest nightmares.
Mahatma Gandhi
Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. Also, there's this new thing where you can't keep extremely attractive genii in your basement. Which is fantastic news for me, because I don't have a basement, and I'm pretty sure there's nothing in there that talks about storage sheds. What's that? That's illegal as well? Yeah? Well. . . your face is illegal, so there! Harumph.
So, yay? lol, this whole chapter feels so ambiguous which I find hilarious for some reason. Anywhoozle, this is the first segment of a twoshot I should have up in a week. Should being the operative word here because this fic kind of came out of no where and I haven't started the second chapter yet (but I do have it vaguely planned out!) and my life has been insanely busy crazy and I have literally ten (more?) other CM fics that I'm trying to work on. So yeah.
Blah. I'm so ruttin' tired right now.
But anyway! I really, really hope you liked this! I know it's all weirdly mysterious, but the next chapter shall explain everything. This is unbeta-ed so any and all mistakes mine - apologies, of course, I try to edit as thoroughly as I can.
Please review and tell me what you think so far!
Thank you so much for reading, wonderfully fantastical devourer of literature, I do so appreciate it! : D
-Yellow