Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sucks, I know.
Derek wasn't sure when it had happened. Didn't know when it had started, didn't know when he had reached the final stage of indifference, of stoic acceptance that this... this child strung up by her intestines and a macabre of razor wire, was just a part of life, was simply how things were. Though he had never seen this particular M.O. before, there was no difference between this crime scene and the thousands of other ones he had visited.
Derek paused.
M.O.? Was that really what he had reduced this gruesome death to? A simple acronym for some obscure Latin phrase that he couldn't even really remember? Something not even important enough to take a full breath to say? Two simple letters to sum everything up to be boxed away with a shelf life that lasted as long as his memory? Maybe a bit longer if one of the fame seekers choose to write a book about it for all the voyeurs to enjoy, perverting and twisting the memories all the more into some cheap thrill? And then the shelf life of that book would be what? A few years before it was reduced to some sort of dollar, bargain store to be nestled away between the King James pocket Bibles, the cheap paper word searches with too large of print, and the obscure autobiographies of people that no one cared enough about to write their names in the history books. This life, strung up like some sort of mutilated Christmas tree, a life that had never been given a chance to even really begin, would be reduced to nothing more than scientific terminology and a few pictures of glassy eyes in a neatly constructed tan file. A file to be locked away in some government basement to gather dust until said basement was flooded from a burst pipe or something of similar nature, thoroughly destroying all evidence of existence simply because the government couldn't be bothered to care enough about these lives.
And Derek couldn't bring himself to care. Couldn't bring himself to so much as bat an eye as the medical examiners struggled to bring down the swaying cadaver without compromising the integrity of the makeshift intestine noose that may still hold evidence. Even as one of the medical examiners excused himself to empty the contents of his stomach in the other room, Derek couldn't see what it was that made the other so squeamish. This was routine, just the same as taking a shower and washing behind the ears or brushing his teeth in the morning.
How long had he been doing this job? He couldn't remember, just like he couldn't remember when it was that his entire being had been filled with this nothing. Was there anything at all left inside of him? Certainly at one point in time he must have been whole; certainly at one point in time these lives must have mattered to him. Must have meant something more than a case number.
When had he finally been able to close his eyes and see nothing but the darkness? No swirling faces, no silent pleas for help or rage for never having been saved, no leering unsubs, no eyes following him? When had he finally been able to sleep without waking up in a cold sweat, shaking with the fear that he had let another die? Because that must have been when Derek had grown up.
Grown ups realized that this was just what happened, that this was just the way things were. Grown ups knew that monsters were real and that there was no Superman coming to save the day. Grown ups knew that for every evil killed there were hundreds, thousands more just readying to swarm in and take up the newly vacated position. Grown ups knew that it always got worse and that there was no morning coming. Grown ups knew that there was no point in fighting – not because you couldn't save everyone but rather because you couldn't save anyone.
When had Derek stopped playing pretend? When had he become the real thing, really an adult?
He couldn't remember.
But he liked being able to sleep, he liked the indifference, he liked not caring.
And as Derek's gaze darted over to where Spencer stood, still taking in the scene, Derek knew that Spencer was still very much playing pretend. Just a lanky kid in grown up clothing. Spencer stood with his arm cradled against his stomach as if he were holding himself together, a hand raised to partially hide his obvious look of utter horror, eyes widened as they memorized every single detail to be forever ingrained in his mind. As if he had never seen a body before. As if this were a new experience. As if he actually still cared about the lifeless form.
What was there to care about? It was a hallowed out shell now, right? It wouldn't answer if you spoke to it. There was nothing left there.
"You okay, Pretty Boy?" Derek drew out softly, slowly making his way over towards the kid, unconsciously taking great care to disturb absolutely nothing around him. It was evidence after all. It was no longer toys and dolls, no longer a rubber playmat with foam ABC's. It was just evidence. Evidence that needed to be documented, logged, and processed before it too disappeared into a box.
When Derek came to stand next Spencer, he gently placed a hand on the younger male's shoulders. He gave a slight squeeze, murmuring, "Pretty boy?"
"Yeah? I just... I'm," but Spencer trailed off, unable to say that he was fine when he really wasn't, when he wondered whether or not he would ever be truly fine again.
Spencer still hadn't been able to tear his eyes away, as if he didn't realize that Derek was standing right there, trying to gain his attention. Faintly Derek wondered if Spencer was seeing that same thing that the medical examiner had seen. The same thing that Derek seemed to have missed.
"Reid," he tried gently, trying desperately to think of something to comfort the other profiler. "This... these things... they just happen, kid."
But Spencer stiffened almost as soon as the words left the other's mouth, finally turning to face Derek with a look of disbelief and anger. Instinctively Derek dropped his hand from Spencer's shoulder, confusion spreading across the darker skinned male for the sudden hostility.
"Reid–," he tried but was promptly cut off.
Spencer jerked his hand to gesture towards the body and snarled with such venom that Derek flinched back, "These things, these things," his voice shook with rage, "don't 'just happen'. These things have a name: Sarah Maria White. Maria after her grandmother, who is currently taking a cruise in Mexico which means that she cannot be contacted to be told about these things. So she'll come home, presents and souvenirs in arm, stories to tell, to these things. There's a picture of them right up there on the wall, Sarah and Maria after Sarah's first ballet recital where she danced in the chorus as one of the twelve Pages of The Nutcracker. Of course, I could understand how you might miss that considering the layer of blood splattered across the photo–."
"Reid," Derek tried again, hands thrown up into the air as if to show the other that he meant no harm.
"But really, if you look close enough at the picture, you know, beneath the congealing blood, you could see that these things once had a smile, once laughed. You could see how these things were once a little girl in the second grade who won the citizenship award every year. You could see, once upon a time, how these things–."
"Spencer!" Derek finally shouted as he stared at the other profiler. Spencer was still seething though he had finally stopped his tirade upon the older male's use of his first name. For a second, as Derek watched Spencer clench and unclench his fists at his side, he was sure that the scrawny kid was going to hit him. Instead, Spencer merely pushed past Derek, excusing himself from the room and leaving everyone to wonder just what had taken place. Derek wasn't even quite sure, but he was all too aware of that his entire body was now engulfed in a crippling pain that threatened to send Derek to his knees.
When the male finally turned back to face the body, his breath caught in his throat. Finally he saw what the medical examiner had seen, finally he saw what Spencer had seen, finally he saw just what Maria would see. He felt sick and without thought, Derek coiled an arm around his waist, needing desperately to hold himself together. Without a word, he turned and fled the scene, going as fast as his legs would carry him.
It was only once he was outside, away from Sarah, gasping for air, that Derek stopped. He inhaled and inhaled, trying to get fresh, clean oxygen into his body. Oxygen that wasn't tainted with flecks of Sarah's blood.
But no matter how much he sucked down, he could still feel Sarah's blood inside of him. Oh god, that little girl...
"Morgan?"
Derek looked up, startled at the voice suddenly calling his name. Spencer gaped at the other, eyes widening due to an emotion that Derek didn't quite recognize.
"Morgan, I'm sorry," Spencer sputtered, taking a small, hesitant step towards Derek as if he were some sort of wounded animal that might either flee or attack. "I... I didn't mean what I said. I shouldn't have said that to you. I was just upset and... and Morgan... please, Derek, please don't cry." Spencer was stumbling for his words, desperation laced through his voice and mirrored on his face.
What? Cry? That was entirely news to Derek.
Was he really crying?
Whether or not Derek was actually crying or if it was simply Spencer's mind believing that Derek looked like he was about to cry was completely lost on the male. He didn't wait long enough to find out either. Instead, he closed the distance between the two of them, pulling the smaller frame against his own in a tight embrace. Spencer surprisingly offered no protest to the abrupt physical contact, didn't even so much as stiffen like Derek would have expected from the younger male whom always seemed hesitant to allow others into his space.
A moment passed before Spencer hesitantly wrapped an arm somewhat awkwardly around his friend's shoulder. Spencer clearly had no idea just what he was doing, the whole situation entirely new, but the darker skinned male didn't care any. He was simply content to be there with the other.
Finally, Derek whispered, "You were right. Sarah White... I will never forget her name." He would never forget her face. Derek doubted that he would ever be able to close his eyes again without seeing her body. But it was alright. Because he needed to feel.
"Morgan," Spencer started softly though once more he trailed off, unsure of what to say.
"I was playing pretend," Derek whispered. "I was playing pretend because it hurts too much."
Slowly, Spencer's other arm came to cradle around the other male, holding him, supporting him. "It's okay..." he whispered softly though Derek would never know if Spencer had actually understood.
But Derek closed his eyes. He didn't know when it had happened, but he wondered faintly when Spencer had grown up or if he had simply been the grown up the entire time.