Disclaimer: Technically, this is an original piece, so I do in fact own every bit of it... but as I am posting it here, standard disclaimer applies.
A/N: This is the sequel to The Work Waits, but as it worked out the way it did, it can also stand alone. Do as you wish, unless your wish is to flame, in which case you can kindly meander elsewhere.
What Counts
They would be waiting for him, that morning, anxious and worried over what the night left alone with what they had seen would do to their young colleague. Five minutes past the time he should have arrived, no one will be overly concerned. It was always give or take a few minutes, with him. At ten, they would shrug and ignore the way their coffee suddenly isn't settling well. Twenty minutes would bring the first call from the boss. He would emerge from his office once he had carefully schooled his features to reflect only mild frustration, announcing that he'd not been able to reach their youngest member, leaving out that he didn't know what to make of the fact that the phone had only rung once before being shut off. Thirty minutes and someone else would give his landline a try, listening to precisely thirteen-and-a-half rings before conceding defeat. They'd last another twenty-six minutes in the belief that he very well couldn't answer his phone if he'd already left, but with every faint ding of the elevator out in the hallway that didn't bring him jogging through the glass doors of the bullpen juggling jacket, mug of coffee, and messenger bag, the deeper their frowns would go. At one hour, all pens, pencils, and keyboards would officially cease. They won't be able to help thinking back to what was supposed to have been an easy arrest. It will be sitting there on their desks in pictures and in black font on white copy paper, in the droop of their shoulders and the bags under their weary eyes, in the unusual quiet pressing in around them and the empty office chair facing out into the walkway, waiting.
They would marvel at how normal it had seemed- how desensitized they must be to go four days with nothing but false leads, bad tips, and an incomplete psychological profile on little food and even less sleep, staring at statements and pictures of the women's bodies until they were forced to admit they needed another to turn up. Their minds would be back in that cramped, stuffy conference room when the call came in. Not just another victim, but a witness and a solid lead.
A flurry of activity, holstering weapons and grabbing car keys, constant motion out the door into the fading light of dusk, strapping on protective gear as the large government vehicles sped toward their destination. Fingers would twitch at the memory of the adrenalin, the thrill of an end at last in sight, and the brief terror of a single gunshot echoing through the trees. The bullet whizzing past his ear, this close to ending a life far too early. The thought that this could have been a set-up.
The barn door stood wide open in the waning light, a gaping black hole fit for Hollywood horror, ready to swallow them whole. The rifle lay abandoned in the leaves only feet from the dirt path , falling unnoticed from slick hands in their haste to find refuge in the dark and the familiar. He went in second, following his partner's lead and veering off in the opposite direction just inside the doors. He moved left, aiming weapon and flashlight into the corner first, sweeping the area from the ground up. The narrow beam of light didn't give much away in the pitch black, the nearly set sun unable to break through the dense treeline above into the open doors and high windows, and out fo the corner of his eye he could see several other white luminescent dots dancing over the straw hewn floor and thick wooden support columns, glinting off metal here and there.
He moved quickly along the far wall, concerned only with finding the large mass of warm blooded human being they'd followed in. Focus on the immediate danger, apprehend the suspect, clear the scene, and let the local crime scene guys earn their pay- it was basic protocol, and he could do it on autopilot. Find the killer, let Big, Bald, and Buff cuff him, and go home to a decent night's sleep. What he found instead was a mirror.
He was so startled he didn't hear the shouts of his teammates, the scuffling of FBI and SWAT personnel hurrying past, the dull thumps as they ran into something- several somethings- in their haste, the cry of surrender from the far back of the barn. It was nothing more than white noise, his mind wholly focussed on what he could have sworn in that first instant was his reflection.
Long, lanky body, gaunt face, pale skin, mousy brown hair hanging loose and limp just past the ears, small nose, and what he could only assume were deep brown eyes beneath those translucent eyelids. Small bone structure. Angled jaw. Long fingers. Longer legs.
Young.
Right down to the button shirt and sweater vest, plain khaki pants and nondescript dress shoes, it could easily have been his identical twin. For a fleeting moment he actually considered checking the man's socks, but even if he weren't afraid his heart would stop its painful racing altogether were they as mismatched as his own, he was utterly frozen, mouth gaping slightly, weapon still held up and at the ready. When the overhead lights came on unexpectedly, he nearly jumped clear out of his skin, a small cry of surprise escaping as he whirled around to see his team clustered at the door, the suspect held firmly in the middle of the group, restrained in government issue steel handcuffs and the strong hands of two very tired, very annoyed government agents- and yet he was smiling. A slow, creeping, pleased smile that worked its way up to the hooded blue eyes he could practically feel moving along his body with more than a little appreciation.
They were calling to him, their concern kicking up a notch every second he stood there frozen, face contorted in abject terror and shock, revulsion dawning over those expressive features. Boss-Man gave a sharp tug on the arm he was gripping, opening his mouth to suggest they get moving, but something in the way his youngest member shook his head and turned away made him pause.
The lights were on and burning brightly, several different light-bulbs used in the various sockets creating odd patterns of crisp whites and sickly yellows just bright enough to illuminate the building and all it contained, but somehow, they hadn't noticed any of it. They'd been just about out of the door, or trying to find their way to the door, and when the gift of clear sight had graced itself upon them, some unexplainable gut instinct had driven their gazes straight to their wonder boy. He didn't appear to breathing, and as he turned back to the object that had stunned him so, they could understand why. Hanging from a thick metal chain wrapped around his slender throat was a carbon copy of their kid.
They would remember it clearly in their nightmares for years to come, the horror that swelled in their stomachs to the point that they felt ill. The dawning realization of not only what they were looking at, but how many. The sympathy as one of their own lost his composure, fleeing from the mess of bodies, living and dead, out into the cooling dusk air, their hearts breaking at the sound of him being violently sick on the crackling autumn leaves.
Sitting at their desks, paperwork long forgotten, they would feel the bile working its way back up their throats as the memories played themselves out, so caught up in the mental images they'd miss the one sound they'd been waiting for. The elevator would give another ding, a moment later one of the glass doors opening slightly, admitting a slight figure hunched into his brown corduroy jacket, leather messenger bag slung over a tense shoulder. They won't notice him sliding into his desk chair until he mutters a quiet apology, sunken eyes downcast, feigning a great interest in the slim manilla case folder and black keyboard. They'll share a silent look, saying everything that needs to be said in a split second of unspoken communication as their team leader watches from his office window, a silent sentinel.
They would watch over him and each other, that day and every second after. He would try to withdraw into himself, to push them away like he always did when something was wrong, but this time they wouldn't let it happen. This time, they would be more vigilant, more attentive. This time, they wouldn't balk, wait for someone else to do it.
This time, they would take care of their friend the way they'd vowed to years before.
Heaving a collective sigh, they will sit up in their chairs and delve back into their reports, keeping one eye trained on their careworn colleague, offering up the biggest smiles they could muster any time his eyes wandered their way. The horror would never truly end, there would be other cases and they would need to lean on each other from time to time, but this was the job- more than that, this was what counted, and they were going to do it right.