Set after the Longest Night. To those who know me from my whopping number of two stories, Prayer Flags and Because You Are... from the Covert Affairs forum, yes it is I, I have risen from the dead, but now in new territory! Hope you enjoy!
"Oh, darling, our love is a rock, one bad day ca't come between us."
"Word."He chuckled, despite how bone-tired, heart-sore he was.
"Come home safe. I'll leave a light on."
He wasn't sure whether he did it for himself, or the unsub. Before he shot him, he spoke of heaven, but if there was such a place, despite how cruel his life had been, and the cruelty he inflicted on others' lives...would there be a spot waiting for him? He'd never find out, as the mesh of emotions that boils up when a killer looks you in the eye-and you know exactly why they did what they did-left him in the form of six, deadly bullets. Each consecutive blast from his gun substituting for the yells of rage and helplessness he wanted to release when Spicer was shot. Ellie, his heart clenched, flashing back to the moment when he exited the house, to see her standing there, that jagged haircut and her dark, sad eyes.
"Morgan…Morgan." His eyes flashed open, and he jerked slightly, startled out of his dream-like state. When he saw Hotch's face hovering over him, he lowered his largess headphones, which were still playing that slow, feel good jazz, and stared up at his friend, blinking rapidly as he became aware of his surroundings. No noise from the plane's engine, vacant seats.
"We're home?" he asked, stretching. Hotch nodded, Morgan saw the soft edges of concern bracketed his friend's eyes, but couldn't bring himself to address it.
"Go ahead, man, I'll grab my stuff."
As the elevator doors slid back, he swung his head out of habit to take in his surroundings. Empty desk chairs, dimmed lights, no jackets laying on the backs of chairs, everyone else had bolted for home. For sleep. Sleep sounded like a word born in paradise, but was beyond reach of his emotionally fucked self. He was focused on getting himself to his desk to collect his stuff, when, in his fatigued state, he suddenly realized he had overlooked a corner of the bullpen, initially invisible from the elevator doors. She stood at the bottom of the ramp to the bunker, all red hair, ruby lips, colorful glasses, and blessed warmth. His god given solace. He made a bee line for her, dropping his jacket on his chair as he passed. He stopped inches from being chest to chest, and stared into her understanding, rich brown eyes. He let the façade drop, the weight of the past several days causing his shoulders to droop, his head to throb, his eyes to burn. Garcia looked at him for a moment, before reaching up with her right hand, to trace the stitches on his forehead, then to slowly glide down his face, to cup his jaw. His jaw worked, as his eyes shut. He brought his left hand up, and curled it around hers on his face, his eyes still shut, relishing in the sweet relief that was his baby girl.
I know I'm awful about reviewing, but if you're up to giving feedback, I'm up to receiving it. ;]