Chapter 1: Flight of Fancy
This is more of an experiment than anything else, a rewrite of the episode 'Jones' with my OC thrown in for good measure. If you don't want to read it, then don't. If you do, then please review
Seriously, are you kidding? Much as I'd love to be part of Criminal Minds, I'm not – hence the whole fanfiction thing. Also, I have no money, so please don't sue me. I only own Agent Pearce, and she doesn't always do what I want her to.
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Essential listening: Dracula from Houston, by the Butthole Surfers
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It was another of those 'how did I end up here?' days.
Her first connection had been cancelled, leaving her camping on the concrete and linoleum floor of a particularly grotty Irish airport for nine, excruciating hours. Her book – in the way of all useful items on long journeys – had gravitated to the very bottom of her carry-on luggage, and when she'd finally made it onto the plane she'd found herself crammed in between an excessively chatty woman and a large, uncomfortable looking man whom she had instantly mentally labelled as 'Mr Sweaty'.
She gripped the armrest slightly harder than necessary as they banked into the wind and set out towards the sunset. Had Mr Sweaty not decided that this was the moment to remember his deep-seated fear of flying, she might have reflected on the poetry of the moment. Readily switching seats so that he could be nearer the aisle, she feigned interest in the apparent promiscuity of the perky blonde next to her before the woman – apparently satisfied that her neighbours had been suitably appraised of her love-life – took out a glossy, chick-lit book and immersed herself, giggling periodically.
Relieved, Grace jammed her earphones into her ears and hit 'shuffle', watching the golden light of the setting sun glint off the waves far below them, glad that Mr Sweaty's panic attack had provided her with a window seat.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax.
While she was reasonably confident in the stroke of mechanical genius that was keeping her airborne, the fact that she was hurtling across the sky at several thousand feet in what was, effectively, a large metal bucket with wires in made her a little bit nervous. She'd seen enough wreck sites over the years to know that she'd probably be dead before she even knew about it, but that didn't make her feel any better. She refused to let it bother her all that much, but there was always an inevitable edge of danger in the back of her mind when she flew.
She leaned against the window, comforting herself by thinking of how many layers of glass it took to make something that strong.
It was something that she was going to have to get used to. Her new job involved a lot of air-travel, according to the agent she had spoken to the day before. It wouldn't do to freak out in front of her new colleagues.
Her old boss would have called it 'bad form'.
She smiled lightly, thinking of the old man. He had been a bit of a fruitcake, most of the time, but he knew what he was doing, and in an emergency there was no one she'd rather be three feet behind. She felt a pang of regret, leaving her old team behind, but she needed this.
She hoped her new team was just as loyal, just as idiosyncratic.
Less broken.
Her eyes had just begin to flutter closed when her seat was jolted forward, making her smack her forehead into the reinforced glass.
Annoyed, she peered around the seat at a smug looking eight year old behind her.
"Kevin, keep your feet to yourself!" a woman with more curls on her head than should be physically possible, snapped. She preened her curls before giving Grace an unconvincing apology; the woman looked far more put out with Grace than she did with her errant offspring.
Unimpressed, she glanced at the boy, whose mother had turned back to the conversation she was having with her husband, and he made an obscene gesture at her.
Grace rolled her eyes, turning back as if to settle back down; she leaned forward just in time to miss his next, jarring kick.
Taking a deep breath, she considered the length of the flight, and how much of this she still had before her.
Kick.
She thought long and hard about the carton of juice that had been on the tray table behind her.
Kick.
It had been one of those sugary, colourful drinks that did nothing for the behaviour of children.
Kick.
Really, it wouldn't do to get in trouble even before she landed…
Kick.
But then, the little bastard had had three chances now…
She glanced at the perky young woman beside her; every time Kevin kicked Grace's seat, hers rocked forward a little too. She was looking back at him with the air of someone who is even now discovering the downside of anti-cruelty laws. Seeing in her an unexpected ally, she winked.
Perky flashed her a look of mild confusion, which spread into a smirk as Grace said, conversationally:
"You know, I'd love to be around when Karma catches up to this one."
She nodded at the seat behind her.
Kevin kicked her chair again, much harder this time; Grace had been ready for it, and she barely flinched.
Good, she thought. He heard me.
Perky nodded emphatically.
"Sooner or later everyone gets their come-uppance," she said, sweetly.
"Hopefully sooner," Grace added, as the pace of kicks increased.
She leaned forward again, ostensibly content to let Karma do its work; Perky went back to her book as Mr Sweaty retched and gurgled to himself at the end of the row.
Kevin continued his persecution of the seatback, changing rhythm and intensity whenever he felt like it. Beside him, his mother began to doze, her head resting on her shoulder. Grace risked a look behind her and watched, fascinated, as a tiny rivulet of dribble ran down the woman's chin and onto her powder blue dress.
She looked at Kevin, who attempted to convey – through some highly inventive hand gestures – that he had doubts as to Grace's parentage.
"Last chance," she mouthed.
He glared back, defiant, so she shrugged.
"Your choice," she mouthed. "Karma is a bitch."
She turned back and glanced out of the window: the light was dimmer now, but not by much, since they were chasing the sunset.
Carefully, she stirred the bitter aeroplane tea on the tray in front of her and fiddled with the sugar packet.
Molecules were held together, apart, or in one state or another by the most extraordinary forces. It was all one infinitely complex balancing act.
All it would take would be one little push…
There was a curious noise behind her, like a sort of squelchy 'pop'; then somebody started shrieking.
"KEVIN!" the boy's mother shouted. "You little shit! You've ruined my dress!"
"But Mum! It just exploded!"
She watched with interest as alarmed air hostesses converged on the blackcurrant soaked family.
"Is everything ok?" she asked, innocently, but no one paid any attention.
She met Perky's eyes as she settled back in her seat; she was looking at her in astonishment. She feigned a look of mild surprise, probably a couple of seconds too late to be credible.
"Well," she said, privately impressed at how level she was keeping her voice. "That's Karma for you."
She turned her iPod up to drown out the screams of outrage behind her and reflected that had her former boss been present, she would have been in a significant amount of trouble.
Not that he could have said anything until they were on the ground and safely out of earshot, but still.
It was something that she would have to resist over the next few weeks… she couldn't imagine it going down too well at Quantico, and she had been in trouble far too often lately.
Sipping the awful tea, she reflected on the events of the past few years and wondered when the tipping point had been. There were plenty of candidates for 'straw that broke the camel's back', ranging from the utterly soul destroying to the vaguely irritating.
Her father's death had been one, rather a horrible one, and working for the most underpaid and universally distrusted departments of the London Metropolitan Police had taken its toll. The kind of cases her old team had dealt with had not been for the faint-hearted. For a long time she had felt like she was making a difference, helping people… and then there was Simon.
That should have been enough for anyone to throw in the towel, but Grace was far too stubborn. It had taken her six months to put in for a transfer – to anywhere she could find – and another six months for something to come up. She had attended a conference on profiling at Scotland Yard a few years previously and had apparently made quite an impression on one of the speakers. He had written to her, explaining that he had seen her name on the international transfer list and wanted to offer her a job.
Grace, who had never left Britain for more than a few days in her life, and hated change in all its forms, took less than five minutes to make up her mind and call the number at the top of the letter.
Talking to her boss about it had been significantly more difficult. It had been a lot like admitting to a parent that she could no longer cope, or kicking out an old, loyal dog. Her stomach still wrenched at the way he had looked at her when she had tendered her resignation.
He was sad to see her go, she had seen that on his face, but he had wished her luck all the same.
He knew better than anyone why she needed to get away.
It had taken a depressingly short amount of time to pack up her room at the station – she had been living with the cadets since her father's death; the cottage her father had lived in had been more difficult. It held so many memories, good and bad.
She'd put it on the market with an air of finality and put her things in storage until she could find a place to stay in the States.
It had been a long time since she had taken this much of a risk on her own behalf, and she had to admit, she was beginning to enjoy it.
At the end of the row, Mr Sweaty finally finished retching and began – almost without pause – to snore. She and Perky exchanged a look of astonishment; it changed rapidly to exasperation as the thunderous grunting filled the air.
She checked her pocket-watch – a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday: ten more hours.
Great.
This new job had better be worth it.