The Bodacious Blessing of the Fairy GodRossi
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On the list of 'things that could have gone better', in big capital letters right up the top and underlined in order to prove just how much better it could have gone, was this case. Not the entire case. Most of it had gone well. Most of it.
"It's snowing," Reid said in a remarkable show of observational skills. "Uh. A lot."
"No shit, Sherlock," said Morgan, in a remarkable show of not strangling the other man for his observational skills. "What do we do, Hotch?"
The team looked to their stalwart leader, all eyes hopeful—except for Rossi, who was busy going through the dusty cupboards of the ranger outpost they'd taken shelter in when the storm had hit unexpectedly. Probably looking for alcohol. Or food.
Almost certainly looking for alcohol.
"How much wood do we have?" Hotch asked JJ, as always impressed with how effortlessly she slipped into survival mode, having already dragged Morgan out into the wild swirls of snow and returning both laden down with as much as they could carry from the woodshed leaned against the outpost. "Enough for the night?"
"Enough until late morning," JJ said confidentially. "Garcia said they'd be sending someone up to pick us up as soon as the storm breaks, just after morning."
"What do we do until then?" Garcia herself asked, wondering if she could take this chance to talk Reid into finally making a Facebook account, right as the power went out. "Oh, crapballs."
Lit only by the light of the fire dancing under JJ's clever hands, they looked once more at each other.
"Powers out," said Reid helpfully, looking plaintively at the bare lightbulb.
"There's no alcohol," Rossi said, slamming the cupboard door shut and looking cranky. "Oh. Or… food. No food either."
"We're going to die," said Emily, and looked far too pleased by the idea.
Hotch just sighed, and settled in for a long night.
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Beds were made. And by beds, they meant attempts at beds were made.
"We have four sleeping bags," Morgan said, tossing each one into the circle of shivering team members. "So, some of us are getting cosy with each other."
"Dibs," said Garcia, grabbing his arm and clinging with a wide smile. "Honey, if you need warmth, am I absolutely the gal for you."
JJ and Emily stepped closer together in mute agreement to defend each other from the threat of having to share a sleeping bag with the ever-bony Reid.
As one, Rossi, Hotch, and Reid looked to the remaining two bags. And then to each other.
"I bite," Rossi said, right as Hotch turned and gave him his best I am your team leader and if you don't cuddle the genius, you're getting your arse kicked back to desk duty, "…but I guess there are worse things. Come on kid. Let's snuggle."
Reid looked terrified. No one took pity on him.
Quiet fell in the cabin as they all settled into their respective makeshift-beds: Emily and JJ entirely content with each other; Garcia and Morgan trying not to look too pleased with how things had worked out; Hotch smug; and Reid laying as rigid as possible to avoid having Rossi whisper, if your elbow touches me again, I'm going to use it as a toothpick into his ear again. Rossi sprawled, surprised with just how little room Reid actually took up and content that his warning had been heeded.
"I can't sleep," Rossi said finally, his contentment giving way to a wary kind of why is he laying so fucking still what is he planning oh god is he even breathing poke him Dave. "Reid's being an annoying shit."
Reid twitched. "I'm not doing anything," he said hotly, looking at Rossi out of the corner of his eye without moving his head. "I'm just laying here."
"You're thinking about not touching me," Rossi retorted hotly. "Loudly."
"I can't not think about it!"
"Yes, you can! You're just not trying hard enough!"
Emily groaned. "Oh my fucking god, shut up," she mumbled, sinking deeper into her sleeping back, ignoring JJ's comforting pat on her shoulder. "You're both ridiculous."
"I can't sleep either," Morgan added. "I'm starving."
Hotch said nothing, but stared at the dark roof and thought about his son.
"We could tell stories to pass the time," Reid suggested, his head popping up in the gloom as he forgot his danger, and promptly vanishing with a squeak and the thunk of someone being elbowed. Muffled words from the sleeping bag followed the thunk: "Bedtime stories have proven benefits in aiding sleep onset."
"Yeah, if you're three," Rossi growled.
JJ's sleeping bag snorted. "Oh good, perfect," it said, right before Emily poked her head out, eyes dark and hair oddly neat considering she'd just cocooned herself. "It'll work wonders for you then."
"What's that supposed to mean—" Morgan snapped, and Hotch realized that he was very probably going to have to set up a time out corner. Or corners, plural, because Reid squeaked again and he was pretty sure Rossi was jabbing him now just to make him do so.
"A rich man's wife became sick—" Reid began loudly, leaping out of the sleeping bag and taking refuge by the fire, glowering at Rossi. They all stared at him as he continued, drowning out Emily and Morgan's squabbling, "—and when she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, 'Dear child, remain pious and good, and then our dear God will always protect you, and I will look down on you from heaven and be near you.' With this she closed her eyes and died." He paused and took a deep breath in the silence.
"What the fuck is that?" Emily asked, sitting up slowly. "What kind of story is that?"
"Cinderella," JJ answered quietly, to everyone's surprise. "The original Grimm version, verbatim." Eyes cut to her, curious. "My… my sister had a book of Grimm fairy-tales. I read it a lot when I was little."
"Oh, JJ, I didn't mean to…" Reid quietened, looking distressed. "I can find something else."
A shake of her head was his answer. Morgan mumbled please and JJ shot him a look that immediately shut both him and Rossi up, as they decided there were many things they'd rather face than that look—bears and the muzzle of a gun, to say a few, and a fairy-tale probably wasn't that bad overall.
"Keep going," she said stubbornly, knees up and arms wrapped around them. "Please?"
And Reid said, softly, "The girl went out to her mother's grave every day and wept, and she remained pious and good. When winter came the snow spread a white cloth over the grave, and when the spring sun had removed it again, the man took himself another wife."
"Oh my god, spice it up a bit," Rossi groaned, and Emily threw her shoe at him.
"How do you spice up Cinderella?" she asked with a roll of her eyes and a glance at Hotch to make sure he wasn't going to tell her off for the shoe-throwing. He still seemed to be resolutely ignoring them all, lost in pretending his team were capable adults who wouldn't bicker as soon as they were locked in one room together for a long period of time with no internet connection. "Oh oh oh, I know, let me."
At their groans, she grinned widely, thought for a moment, and said:
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"The new wife was wicked, as mean as an old crone could be. With long, knobbly fingers and wild, knotty hair and dressed in, uh, magic sweater vests that made her smell like moth balls and coffee, she was cruel. Cinderella—with blonde hair like silk and ivory skin (Ivory is a terrible skin description Emily, gross—Shut up, Morgan, I'm talking—Emily, Cinderella wasn't actually her name—Shut UP, Spencer!) and blue eyes that you couldn't look away from—was the focus of all of the stepmother's evil.
"You shall do nothing but learn useless things!" barked the stepmother, and locked Cinderella—who was actually called, err… Jennifer (Aww, really?) —in a room with a million books and none of them useful (… This doesn't sound so evil. Why would the pursuit of knowledge possibly be a bad thing?). The room was at the top of a spiralling black tower, surrounded by slimy moats and black crows and where it always rained. Black rain. Black rain from the black sky. So she was always miserable and gloomy, and so was everyone else in the house. And there was black fog and secret passages, just because (Oh, brilliant scene setting, Prentiss.)
Cinderella didn't mind reading, but these books were so long and so boring that only the wicked stepmother could possibly enjoy them, what with her big brain and perverted ideas of what was interesting (… Emily. Are you…?).
But Cinderella was fucking badass as fuck and finished every book the stepmother gave her. And the stepmother's daughters, uh… Morgana (… Oh my god, you are… —Wait, I'm a girl?) and Penelopia (Why are you adding another feminine suffix to Penelope? It's already a female name) were jealous of Cinderella's beauty and brains, and tore pages out of all the books so Cinderella could never finish them and never be let out of the awful room. The awful black room.
And the evil stepmother said, "Hah! Now you shall be bored forever! Because that was the kind of sick thing that got him off, forcing information on helpless individuals trapped under his control—""
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"I'm the stepmother, aren't I?" Reid glowered at Emily, arms folded in front of his chest. "I don't smell like mothballs." He paused. "Do I?"
"Not at all," JJ soothed, knocking her shoulder against Emily and scowling at her. "And you're not wicked either."
"You will make a fine wife one day though," Rossi muttered from his cosy spot alone in the sleeping bag. "Where's Cinderella's Dad?"
"Dead," Emily said, after a beat. "He died. I said that."
Reid frowned. "No, you definitely didn't. You said, 'The new wife was wicked, as mean as'—"
"Shut up," Emily said loudly, "and let me finish!"
And she opened her mouth to keep going, but was cut off by Morgan sighing and saying, "Oh god, no more emo trash, let me," and launching into:
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"But Cinderella—who was actually called Jennifer, not projecting anything at all there, are you, Emily? —actually had some magical bullshit going on and asked all the mice in her home—which wasn't an emo tower in gothic-land, but actually a nice little house on a farm somewhere—to help her find the pages to the books she was missing (Traditionally, they did live in a very, very nice home as the family is wealthy, so the narrative structure calls for some—Shh, Reid). And the mice came out and helped her find her pages and she read them, there we go. Now she's out of the room and nothing is black and weird anymore, Emily—"
"Seriously, that's how you tell stories?" Emily asked, incredulous. "I'm bored out of my mind. I actually miss Reid reciting statistics!"
"Hey," mumbled Reid, laying on his back in front of the fire and trying not to comment on the complete butchering of the Brothers Grimm occurring around him. Hotch was still quiet, eyes closed, one eyebrow raised.
"She's right," Garcia said. "Derek, gorgeous, I love you. But you're complete shite at stories. You have to liven them up. Like this.":
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"Alas! All was not well, for the girls of the household—not a dinky little farm, but actually a lovely Victorian style homestead with arched ceilings and gorgeous heartwood floors, you know the kind, like honey-strawberry gold, so pretty omg, and there are bunnies and foals and sheep and all cute, wonderful things as well as the clever mice—for the following week there was a knock at the door. Not a sensible knock or a wise knock, but a loud WHOOP knock of someone really excited, and the beautiful, kind-hearted, too-pure-precious-Cinderella, who the stepsisters were totally a bit peanut-butter jelly of (Awwww! —alright, alright, laying it on a bit thick there, Babygirl—JJ's blushing—No I'm not!), answered the door and found a messenger from the palace—the PALACE! —standing there.
Invited to a ball! said the messenger, in a loud, excited voice, his clothes fine and his eyes azure and his hair alabaster (You're as bad at this as Emily is), all of you invited for fun and drinks and dancing, with the PRINCE.
And the girls were super excited, of course, and wondered what they would wear. Morgana wasn't worried, for she was always bodalicious, no matter what she wore, the sexy, hunk of evil, muscled stepsister that she was (Now who's laying it on thick… —Shut it, Emily, this is my time to shine). And Penelopia knew she'd be downright outrageous in this dress that she got on sale last week, an absolute bargain with a swooping neckline and pulled up her boo—what? Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, uh, but Cinderella had no clothes, because the evil stepmother had, um… (…) … used them all in scientific experiments to see if pigs could smell what decade each item was styled in the fashion of (Oh, come on—No, shh Reid, this is getting good). And she was super omg sad, like so damn sad, crying all the time, oh the poor thing, my heart… all she wants to do is dance with the sexy prince, Reid, how could you? Why would you do this to JJ!? (…) Oh she'd look so sad, I can't handle this—"
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"This is getting ridiculous," Rossi snapped, sitting upright and shrugging out of the sleeping bag. There was a very loud sigh from the direction of the apparently fast asleep Hotch. "You people have no idea of narrative structure."
"Here we go, Mr. I Have Books Published," Morgan rumbled, still sore over being cut off, but slightly cheered by being described as 'bodalicious'. "Like to see you do better."
Reid looked plaintive. Rossi smiled warmly at him, almost fatherly, and the plaintive look turned to fear.
And he opened his mouth:
"All was not lost, however, as there was someone nearby who saw the beautiful Cinderella's plight and wished to bestow his blessing down upon her! Someone fantastic, someone magical, someone fabulous (It's you, isn't it, Rossi? —It's so him—No doubt it's him). Yes! You're all correct.
It's the fantastically fantastical Fairy GodRossi! (Oh my god—I'm dying, holy shit—You're never going to live this down, Dave—Hah! I knew you were awake, Hotch!)
Seeing the young maiden's plight, the Fairy GodRossi swept down on effervescent gossamer wings, wielding his mighty wand (… Dave… —…That's a dick joke, isn't it? —Cinderella is ruined. Ruined forever. I can't believe you've done this), turgid with power— (Dave!) fine, fine. I mean, his modestly admirable wand, someone bulbous with… grace… and magic. Stuff. And he said, "Fair maiden! Look kindly upon thee, for I am here to help you! Dry your tears, weep no more, for my blessing shall coat your—why is Reid crying? Oh, it's not that inappropriate. Fine. I'll keep it Reid-rated, happy?
Fine.
The kindly maiden, completely unburdened by any sexual innuendo, gazed upon the Fairy GodRossi—stop laughing, damnit—and said, "Dear beloved (I don't want to be Cinderella anymore—I don't want to be alive anymore), I see your incredible power and beg of you, please take me to the ball! I only wish to dance a little with the deliciously delectable Prince… Aaron (Dave! —… I really don't want to be Cinderella anymore!)! Such a swanky hunk of man he is, so fine in his suits and ties, and if I don't dance with him, then surely my scandalous stepsister, Morgana, will, claiming him for his own husband (Shit yeah I will—…)."
And the Fairy GodRossi was kindly and graceful and also a real gentleman, so he said, "Why, of course fair lady! See here, hark at this pumpkin and these friendly mice! I shall turn them into a coach and horses for you to travel in to the ball—""
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"You know, the Disney version is entirely manufactured, right?" Reid was scowling, tracing his bare toes on the hem of the rug. "There were no pumpkins or mice in the traditional version."
"Traditional smaditional," Rossi scoffed. "This one has a GodRossi. Clearly superior."
"I think I prefer this one," Emily added.
"I don't." JJ carefully avoided making eye-contact with Hotch, who'd clearly given up on pretending to sleep and was glaring at Rossi with all the considerable force of his disapproval. Rossi seemed unconcerned. "The traditional version is much prettier. Cinderella wears a gold and silver dress and slippers embroidered with silk and silver to the festival, and completely hogs the Prince's attention all night."
"The prince approached her, took her by the hand, and danced with her," Reid murmured, a smile appearing, looking whimsical. Rossi shifted slightly, seeing that smile and something familiar in it. Something that reminded him of being small and warm and safe in bed. "Furthermore, he would dance with no one else. He never let go of her hand, and whenever anyone else came and asked her to dance, he would say, 'She is my dance partner.'"
"Maybe you should continue from here, JJ," Hotch said, and there was a careful measure of please continue, I can't bear the stupid in here much longer that JJ winced at. Morgan and Rossi just looked smug. Garcia snored quietly from where she'd fallen asleep nestled against Morgan's side.
JJ nodded, winking at Reid. And, so she continued:
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"The evening fell and still Cinderella… danced with the prince. In an entirely appropriate and professional manner with enough room between them that the only point of contact were their hands guiding the other. And when midnight fell, for the GodRossi had mentioned to her that her coach and silver-gold dress would turn to rags at midnight—failing to mention this to his listeners, and also failing to mention that she's wearing rags at all because you guys are awful at bedtime stories—she fled from the ballroom with the prince on her heels.
"Please, don't go!" he asked, in a polite and professional manner, not pursuing her too avidly in case it caused a HR complaint that would be a bureaucratically convoluted nightmare to straighten out. "What is your name?"
And she didn't tell him, because what would a prince want with a woman like her (What prince wouldn't want you though? —Aww, Spence!)? And a little because she felt awed by his mighty castle, flattered by his attention on her, but not entirely sold on the prospect of becoming a figurehead princess to be flaunted on his side as a model of empty beauty and the lack of power granted to women in a feudal—"
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Emily rocketed out of the sleeping bag, face gleeful. "Oh, we're making it progressive," she said, and Reid blinked, opened, his mouth, frowned, and then seemed to consider that perhaps this wasn't the worst that could happened. "Well, in that case—":
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"Oh royal shitballs! The magical coach and horses that the Freaky GodRossi had conjured up with his perverted magic were gone! Because, distracted by the lure of a fine shoe shop nearby, he'd wandered away and let the magic go early (…Alright, I'll allow that)! Oh no, she thought! What now! Because the prince still—sorry, Hotch—chased her, drawn by her beauty, and she didn't know how to escape before he saw her in her rags! She ran from him, leaving behind her pretty shoes, because they were basically fucking impossible to run in, why not glass combat boots instead? But the Prince grabbed the useless shoe and pelted after her.
All was lost! He would catch her and see her shame! And THEN, right at the last minute with a ROAR, Emily the AWESOME ROYAL assassin screamed up on her black, magical, flying 2012 Kawasaki Ninja 650 (Woah, sick bike, Em—THIS IS ENTIRELY IMPROBABLE, THIS IS A MEDIEVAL FEUDAL SOCIETY—There's a fucking magic fairy, genius) and swept the fair maiden away to safety. Vrooooom! Reid, if you keep squeaking at me, I'm going to have them drive around and around and around endlessly on my magical motorbike, got it? Quiet now? Good boy. Don't pout.
Finally! They ROARED up outside Cinderella's house, their hair wild with the wind and faces aching from smiling at the goddamn fucking freedom of it (… Were they wearing certified road safety gear in case of the event of an acci—YES.), AND THEY REMOVED THEIR CERTIFIED SAFETY GEAR FOR THOSE PEDANTS IN THE AUDIENCE and found that everyone was waiting outside the slimy moat for them. The wicked stepsisters, the boring stepmother, the prince, even the Freaky GodRossi.
"Try on this shoe!" screamed the Prince, entirely fed up with his team's bullshit by the point (Wait, what? —…That's an impressive scowl you've got going on there, Aaron—Is it morning yet?). "Finish this damn story or I'll—"
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"NO MORE!" Reid howled. "Come on! You're missing the most important bit—the sisters have to try the shoe on now, the GodRossi wasn't there, there was no moat and no motorcycle and this narrative doesn't even make sense! Don't you guys even care about—"
"AND THEN THE ASSASSIN LEAPT FORWARD AND CUT OFF THE STEPMOTHER'S HEAD," hollered Emily, JJ devolving into a fit of giggles next to her. Garcia woke with a start, blinking sleepily at all the shouting.
"What?" Morgan shouted back. "That didn't happen! No one lost their head, it's a damn fairy-tale!"
"Actually, both stepsisters were blinded in the traditional—"
"I don't understand why my version was the one that got censored, and yet Prentiss is allowed to decapitate Reid. How is that in the spirit of team unity?"
Hotch stood. And coughed.
The bickering stopped.
"That's enough," he said firmly, folding his arms over his neatly pressed pyjamas, complete with embroidered alarm clock on the breast. "Everyone, sit down." They sat. "Sleeping bags on." They all looked to Reid. Reid looked at Rossi. Rossi looked at Hotch. "Reid, in mine. Now. Good. Close your eyes, the damn lot of you. It's story time.":
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"Silence fell. Everyone stared at the lifeless body of the stepmother, all feeling terrible that such an awful act had occurred because of their inability to communicate effectively as a team. Why had they allowed a shoe to cause such a divide in their community?
The Prince stepped forward. "That's enough," he said, and looked each and every one of them in the eye. "This isn't how we do things in this land. We work together. We support each other. And we don't penalize and ostracize members of our community for petty reasons. The stepmother isn't wicked or boring—her mind and talents have been used for good all over the community, and her only wish, however heavy-handed, was to share the knowledge she loves with her family. The stepsisters can be silly and vain, but only because they feel overshadowed by Cinderella. They needn't worry. They're invaluable members of my kingdom. Cinderella; you're more than just a potential wife. Go where you want, don't let yourself be shoved in some direction because of tradition or expectation. The… GodRossi… I ask of him that he helps me unravel this mess that's been made, so we can move past this. Together."
The people were shamed. They stood quietly, side by side, and thought about what they'd done.
"You're correct," said the GodRossi—I mean you too, Dave, close your damn eyes—, and waved his wand. The stepmother's head was reattached to her body and she got up slowly. "I am humbled by your logic, oh Prince. Stepmother, come away with me to a land made of libraries where everyone loves to be informed and educated at every opportunity." The stepmother agreed, kissed her children goodbye, and left. She left her children with the house—for Cinderella didn't want it—and they turned it into a hostel for homeless rabbits and otters.
And as for Cinderella and the royal assassin, they realized that there was nothing they loved more than travelling the land, and they rode away together into the sunset. The end."
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They stared at him. He cleared his throat, nodded sternly, and climbed down to slide into the sleeping bag next to Reid. "Goodnight everyone."
"… Are we lesbians in this story?" Emily whispered to JJ.
"I said goodnight."
"What happened to the prince?" Rossi asked suddenly. "What? I need conclusions in my stories. I can't help it."
"He went home to his castle and did paperwork in peace, good night."
Quiet fell in the cabin. The snow pressed against the building outside, muffling the dark. Inside, the fire died down, breathing evening out as one by one they fell asleep. Only two remained awake.
"Hey, Spence," Emily whispered, cuddled close to JJ with the other woman lightly snoring against her shirt, looking down fondly at her friend. "You awake?"
"Mmm?"
"… Do you know any more stories? Traditional ones?"
He laughed quietly, wriggled around to smile at her, and began in a whisper as she listened intently with her eyes closed: "Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower, and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep…"