The Fisher King

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas.

So I thought it was time to give Gideon another shot (this is only the second time I have tried writing him as I find his character very intimidating). The quote that prompted this is from the first Part of 'The Fisher King' storyline (Series 1 Episode 22).

. . .

Prompt

Gideon: That cabin was the only thing I had left.

. . .

The drive out had been long and Jason was felling weary. During the whole of the journey his mind hadn't stopped whirring and now he was reaching the crescendo that would send him over the brink into the headache from hell. He needed this, the rest, yet as he followed the familiar dirt track down to his isolated cabin, dread was filling his stomach to the stage that nausea was peaking alongside the throb in his temples.

Slowing as the stonework of the porch came into view; Jason parked up and stared at the favoured building. He sat, unable to move, as his mind replayed that last time he was here. How he had stood on that very doorstep, gun drawn ready as he waited for an explanation for the interruption to his break. The unexpected gift that had shattered his solace as he open the cardboard box to the horrors it held.

It wasn't that he wasn't use to seeing such things; unfortunately they were a too familiar part of his life. Body parts had become part of the jigsaw puzzle that he examined and analyses for hidden clues to the type of person they were hunting. It wasn't that he had become blasé about such things; rather he had learnt to process them as part of the bigger picture. He tried hard not to dwell on them, to personalise them, which was easier if they were feature less parts. He knew he had to dehumanise them the same way the killers they sought out did.

After, once their work was done, that was when he allowed himself the time to consider the human cost of the cases they dealt with. As he completed his books and journals, recording the losses and those they saved. If he hadn't learnt such ways he would never have been able to return to the Bureau.

However this was different. This had attacked him in the one place he felt safe. Out here he was away from the horrors that ruled his life. This had become part of his strategy, his way to deal with what the team witnessed. It was a simple process, but one that was working for him. During the case he remained focused and driven, once it was complete he would stay at work and allow his mind to mull over the case and to complete his paperwork – both professional and personal, and then he would leave for his retreat. Even if it was only for one night he would escape and regroup, ready to return and start a fresh.

That was until today. Sat in the darkness, he stared at the building he had considered his saviour; this had been all he had left. Pure and untouched by his vile life, the cabin had saved him. But now he could see it was tainted and no amount of whitewash would cover it up.

Slowly opening the door to his vehicle, Jason got out and made his way towards the wooden door. His fingers fumbled with the keys as he approached. Slotting it, with some trepidation, into the lock, he turned the key and pushed the door open. Yet he remained on the door step, frozen as he looked into the black abyss of his beloved cabin.

Flicking a switch, Jason finally entered, placing his bag carefully on the couch he made a beeline for the fire place, hoping that adding some physical warmth might reincarnate the mental warmth he usually felt when here.

As he made the logs roar into life he, Jason sat down on the floor, gazing intently at the dancing flames and they licked across the dry surfaces of the wood. His mind elsewhere as his body absorbed the heat from the fire.

Sat there for literally hours, Jason did not move a muscle as he contemplated all that had happened since he was here last. The team had been violated. Each and every one of them had had their personal lives racked over and exposed. They had found out things about each other that they never knew and, in his opinion, had no business knowing. They were a team; they relied on each other in the field. They trusted each other, but they didn't need to know each other inside out.

Some it had hit harder than others.

He felt sorry for Reid. Maybe it was because he felt a special bond with the young genius or just because his family had been dragged into this whole event. Jason had been aware of Spencer Reid's background, after all he had encouraged the young man to join the bureau and had hand-picked him from the academy. He knew of his mother's condition. Jason also knew how he had kept that secret from his colleagues, not wishing to add anything else to the long list of fault he felt he displayed.

It must have been hard for him to confide in Garcia, to let his instinct to protect his mother over ride his wish to keep her secret. He had seen the physical pain etched on Reid's face as he had battled his personal demons in front of everyone.

Then there was Elle. The personal sacrifice she had made for his mistake. He had made the call to go to the press, he had broken the rules and Elle had paid the price. And that price had been high, nearly costing her life. How could he have lived on with the knowledge that he had caused another's death?

Though Jason knew he wasn't the only one to feel the guilt of Elle's injuries. He had seen the slump of Hotch's shoulders as he had left, and though he didn't know for sure he suspected he knew what Hotch was doing this evening. And it wasn't spending the time at home with his family.

Rising from the floor Jason made his way through to the kitchen, opening a bottle of expensive red wine, he left it to breathe as he found a glass and removed his coat. The cabin was starting to feel warmer. He had no idea how long he had sat there or what hour of the night it was. Time was insignificant now.

Pouring the wine into the large glass he returned to the couch and the well established fire. Adding to the logs and building the flames before he settled Jason let the flickering amber hues encase him into a trace once more.

Somehow he knew he had to shift the memory of his last visit to the cabin, if he didn't he would never be able to rest here again. He would have lost his only solace.

. . .

"I find a certain degree of loneliness not only tolerable but deeply pleasurable."
Allen Shawn, American Composer