No Way Out Part – A One-shot
Disclaimer – I own nothing but the ideas
I had written a one-shot for the second part of the Frank story arch but wanted to go back to this episode and do the same thing as I felt the storyline had such an impact on the team. So here it finally is.
In a similar style as the previous one-shot I wrote this a little insight into each character after the events.
. . .
Prompt
Hotch: I thought I'd seen everything.
. . .
Hotch was quick to separate off from the team, as they returned to the bullpen, and head for his office. He wasn't in the mood for the normal end of day pleasantries; he was aware that his usual stoic mask was slipping as the horrors of the day sank in.
In all the years he had been doing this job he had honestly come to believe he had seen the worse this world had to offer. Obviously he had been wrong to believe he was no longer able to be shocked. How ignorant of him to hold such a belief.
However today had totally floored him, if the details of the case were not bad enough then finding the scene of the crime had finished him. Not that those around him would realise the impact of seeing those racks of tools and instruments.
Having dumped his briefcase on the dark leather couch, Hotch made his way to his desk. Reaching down into the bottom drawer he pulled out a bottle of scotch and a glass. It was something that was frowned apon, but he didn't know of anyone, with their office, that didn't have a bottle hidden somewhere. Some days just called for it. Today was one of those days.
Pouring several fingers worth into his glass he dropped the bottle down heavily onto the table. Right now he should be heading home but there was no way he was in the right frame of mind for that. He liked to keep this side of the job as far as way from his family as possible.
He needed to clear his head. Another one or two of these would do it, clear or muddle it enough to hide what he no longer wanted to see. Then it was a matter of calling a cab and carrying on.
. . .
Reid was quiet, something that wasn't technically unusual. Yes he was known to spout of random facts at any opportunity but the rest of the time he tried to keep to himself. He had found it was for the best.
Right now was one if those times. He was struggling in every sense of the word. His mind was a blur of bloodied silver walls, anatomical diagrams and racks of tools. Unfortunately he knew what most of the tools had been used for and it wasn't any standard home project. Instead they had helped a sadist systematically dismember his live victims.
Barely containing the bile that threatened to rise from the pit of his stomach, Reid clutched his satchel and made his way towards the exit. Nothing in the academy had prepared him for how you dealt with this side of the job.
Tonight was going to be a rough night and he didn't feel the need to share it with his colleagues.
. . .
Emily maintained the air of dignity and decorum that her mother had insisted on installing in her over her childhood years, as she hovered around her colleagues.
She could hear her Mother's voice echoing through her head 'No matter what, Emily Dear, you hold your head high. If appropriate, and at all possible, you smile. Not a fake grin like some village idiot, something subtle and elegant. But most important of all you never let them see you cry."
And they didn't see her cry, even if inside she was sobbing uncontrollably for those who lost their lives to sadistic Frank. But Emily knew, given time, all that she saw today would get packaged away and dealt with, just like she compartmentalised everything else in her life.
. . .
Gideon sat at his overcrowded desk, his hands planted firmly on the hard surface as if he was physically trying to ground himself.
His expression would make it clear to anyone who dared to approach that he was not to be disturbed. Yet behind the set staring eyes his mind was racing, processing the facts of the day, trying hard to learn something from the experience. After all there had to be something worthwhile hidden in such an ordeal, if not why did that bother?
Leaning back in his chair, his arms dropping lifelessly by his side, Gideon began to ponder that very thought.
Why did they bother?
. . .
Switching each monitor off in turn, Penelope left one, as she slumped in front of the last blank screen, her chair swaying comfortingly beneath her.
She stared at the surface that had recently held images if such horrors she didn't want to think about let alone remember.
She wished to live in a fluffy world where good overcame evil every time. The bad guys never won.
But unfortunately she knew that wasn't true. Which was why right now she wanted to escape the real world and immerse herself in a fantasy world, where good would triumph, and evil would be thwarted.
Pushing herself forward out if her chair she turned off the final screen, closing down her working day. Grabbing her things Pen left behind all that she had seen. She plastered a smile on her face and set off home.
Her safe and secure home.
. . .
There was a reason Morgan picked houses like this - ones out of the city, away from civilisation. Town houses were great for a quick buck. They were usually a rapid turnaround with a list if people waiting to view the minute it hit the market.
But this was something else. Not so much a renovation project but therapy. Far enough away from the 'neighbours' to mean he could come here any hour of the day, or night.
As the first signs of the new day broke through the windows Morgan continued to pound away at the wall he was removing. Brick by brick he dismantled the structure, each impact hammering through his body until it hurt.
But he knew when he finished he would feel better than he had when he started. Physically he'd be in agony. But mentally he'd be ready to move on.
. . .
JJ turned away from the blinding light lancing through the slight gap she had left in her drapes. Screwing her eyes tight shut as she bundled herself under the blankets she screamed silently.
She hadn't slept yet and didn't rate her chances thought the rest of today. Cowering under the bedding she began to sob softly. Why couldn't she be ever cheerful like Garcia or strong like Emily?
How long would she last in this job if she let each case affect her like this?
. . .
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king."
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring