written for challenge #26, "confession", at smallfandomflsh on livejournal.
He is circling around the suspect again, menacing frown on his face, trying to think of new ways to agitate the man sitting at the table, make him spill his guts about the murder's he's committed, make him surrender, give up, quit, confess. There's a certain pleasure in being the one to witness the will of a person bending and then finally breaking, Derek believes, and he loves that rush when the offender's eyes—not his mouth, his eyes—say "it was me, I did it".
But this one isn't budging. He's just sitting there, looking at Derek with an annoying half-smirk on his face, his arms crossed in front of him, a fortress of silence. Derek hates this. He hates this guy and he wants to punch the daylight out of him—yeah, that will get him talking right there—but he looks away and takes a deep breath, clearing away the aggression. He turns to him again and tries another tactic, attacking the offender with knowledge of his personal life, wheres and whens of that failed romance that led to his disaster, all courtesy of Garcia of course.
"Is that when you realised that women are worthless? When she walked out on you with your best friend? Is that when you first conceived of the perfect murder routine? Did that get you excited? Did it get you off?"
He is just fishing. He knows this. But somewhere in his stomach he has that feeling—that feeling that tells him everything is going to work out fine. He trusts his instincts, always has, especially ever since he joined the team; and he trusts Garcia blindly, because she never lets him down. She always comes up with the right answers, right on time to save his ass and get another of these scumbags behind bars.
There is a twitch in the offender's face. The half-smirk is gone. He isn't talking, but that was still a reaction. Derek keeps pushing that button, knowing he'll hit a nerve sometime.
"It did, didn't it? Knowing that they're helpless under your fingers, feeling the life leave their bodies, does that make you feel strong? Finally in control? You sat there alone day and night picturing her dying until you came up with the plan to destroy her and everyone she loved, isn't that right?" His breath is fast now, he's agitated from all that yelling, but he can tell that he's doing something right.
The offender looks up slowly, right into Derek's eyes, cutting holes into his very soul with his piercing gaze full of concentration and hatred. There it is, Derek is thinking, bracing himself for the rush. That look, give it to me.
There's nothing humiliating about this man as he breaks, no crying, no contortion of his features. He's as calm as a summer sea when he whispers the "yes" in a breathy voice, not breaking eye contact, water welling up in his eyes but not dropping just yet. The echo of his answer still lingers in the air, and Derek fests on his vulnerability, triumphs on the inside while remaining frowned and angry on the outside.
"There," he says, "took you long enough to admit the kind of monster you are."
With that he storms off, swinging the door open and heading away, leaving the rest to the others who will now take that monster out of that room and put him in a cage where he belongs, to reflect and repent for the ugly, painful things he's done.
---
He slides his jacket on in one graceful swoop and pockets his car keys, ready to head home and crash, when he hears a familiar click of the tongue behind him.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, do I not even get a thank you?"
He turns around and a smile instantly forms on his face—why does he always smile when he sees her?
"Hey, baby girl!"
"Hey, you dazzling interrogator. Heard you busted him open like a walnut in there."
"Yeah well, I had help." He winks at her coyly.
"Mmm, so I heard." She winks back at him, a satisfied smile spreading across her face, making her glow.
"Thanks, baby girl."
She beams at him, that mix of pride and satisfaction in her smile that he absolutely adores on her, like he does those crazy hairpins and that necklace with the peace sign that she's wearing.
"You're welcome," she says. "Anything for you, anytime, sweetness."
He swears he can feel the rush of blood to his cheeks every time she calls him that.
"See you tomorrow?" he says with a chuckle, averting his eyes from hers for a few seconds.
"See you on the morrow, kind sir." She laughs, curtsies, and waves her tired fingers languidly.
He wonders what it would be like to see Garcia's will break as he walks into the elevator and the doors close in front of him with a faint ring.