AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one is a bit different than usual. It's pretty dark, but it's also slightly thematic and artistic. I know I don't exactly tell you which character each POV is from, but I hope it's pretty easy to figure out. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Love to hear what you think.
Red.
That was the first thing she saw and felt.
Black.
Was the last thing she knew before there was nothing.
And somewhere in between was the hysterical thought, "you know, that probably hurts. Maybe I should lie down."
He watched her go down in slow motion. Slow. Slowly.
Down.
Lying on the ground, eyes rolled back. Not moving. Not even twitching.
But breathing.
God, just barely.
No, no. This wasn't happening. This wasn't fucking happening.
He couldn't lose her.
Not any of them.
The fear of this, well it had woken him up nights in a cold sweat. They were all he had left. He needed them to be with him. And more importantly, they actually wanted him with them.
He was as much family to them as they were to him.
"Please," he said, clutching her hand. In the back of his head, far in back where there still lurked thoughts of winning back Haley, he realized that he'd made the stage from where he'd been standing in the back of the room with Rossi in less than fifteen seconds.
He shook the thought off, tried to focus, prayed for her to squeeze back. Prayed for her to surprise him like she always did.
Show off that shocking grit locked in the body of a country girl.
Nothing. No response. He squeezed again. Harder. Still nothing.
Not even a Goddamn pinky waving in the air.
And then he turned around and it was his moment for hysteria.
"Where's the fucking ambulance?"
A sea of frantic responses came back at him, but none of them made a damn bit of sense beyond the words "almost here".
Not good enough.
Not with all the red.
It was no one's fault, he reasoned.
They'd done their job. They'd created the profile, realizing with mind-blowing speed and efficiency that their killer was a narcissist who could be controlled.
By her. By the puppet master.
By JJ.
And so they had done what they'd done a thousand times before.
Put her on a stage, in front of a sea of blood-thirsty sharks.
And she'd smiled and charmed them, all while taunting the killer.
All while practically letting him know that everyone thought he was a thumb-sucking bed-wetter with delusions of one day making sweet love to his mentally abusive mother. In short, JJ had emasculated him.
And the whole while, he'd stood watching with the slightest of smirks, his hand settled on the butt of his gun.
Covering JJ.
But watching her perform as well.
He knew his place. He was the muscle of the group. And the big brother, that as well.
Which meant that he could be the biggest pain in the ass or the greatest protector.
Today, well he'd been just an admirer of her understated skill.
How she didn't seem the least bit afraid.
Even when the sound of a gun being fired had cracked through the air.
Even when she'd looked down and seen the red on her white blouse.
So damned much red.
Only when she'd fallen backward, with no one behind her to catch her, had he seen a streak of fear.
But by then, he'd been rushing the stage.
And the screaming had started.
She was sure he'd escaped past her. After all, judging from the trajectory the bullet would have had to have taken, he would have needed to be somewhere close to her.
Which meant that when the screaming had started and the reporters had begun scrambling around like chickens with their heads cut off, he'd probably just pushed right past her.
And fuck it if she hadn't let him.
The room was pretty much empty now.
Just the team and a few cops. Everyone was on their own cells, talking to anyone, maybe talking to each other.
It all seemed so absurd.
She'd been standing with Derek, admiring JJ. They both had. And she'd leaned towards him and muttered, "Ever wondered how often she plays us?"
He'd chuckled a bit and replied," Every day, girl." And she hadn't been sure if he had meant he wondered every day or if he simply assumed that JJ played them every day. She imagined a bit of both was true.
And so without clarification, they'd both gone back to watching her.
Because watching JJ was a bit like watching a cute guy with a lot of charisma slap his willing girlfriend around. She was utterly working the reporters, making them beg for food from her hand.
And they were, all asking exactly the questions she'd wanted them to. Never realizing that she was utterly manipulating the entire presser.
Manipulating them.
The right words, the rights cues and damn it if they didn't once again immediately fall into the same trap.
"What do you think he wants, Agent Jareau?"
"Publicity," she'd shrugged. "Attention. He's looking for validation."
"Don't you think that's exactly what we're doing?"
She'd laughed haughtily. "No, I think we're letting him – and everyone in this city – know that we're right behind him and when we catch him, he'll be forgotten. His victims never will, but he…we'll he'll be a footnote."
It had seemed like exactly what it was; a taunt meant to draw him out.
They just hadn't expected him to be one of them.
Them. Yes.
It only made sense that he had to have been one of the press.
It was how he'd gotten so close.
And how'd he been able to feed his tremendous ego.
They'd missed it. That hadn't been part of the profile.
No, the profile had said that he'd be a forgotten man. Someone who worked a simple and thankless nine to five job. Like a janitor.
Not a reporter.
But then that was the other side of ego.
They'd been looking for someone who needed validation, not someone who already got it and just wanted more of it.
Not someone who was so utterly obsessed with himself that JJ taunting him hadn't just upset him, it had sent him into a red fury.
A blinding one at that.
She was sure he'd pushed right past her on the way out, when the hysterical stampede had started. Maybe he'd even hit her shoulder, said "sorry" or "excuse me".
In any case, he was gone now.
And JJ was lying on the ground.
Covered in blood.
Her blood.
She remembered thinking something absurd like, "I have a shirt that color red."
They'd all wanted to ride with her.
They'd all argued to.
All but him because he knew it wasn't yet his place.
"One," the medic had said.
And so looks had been exchanged and it had been the newest member of the team who had taken control.
Because Hotch was too covered in her blood to do so.
Too panicked at the thought of another loss.
And because Morgan was too angry.
And Emily too shocked.
And Reid? Well no one had seen Reid yet. He had been back at the station watching the press conference on TV.
He hadn't called in yet.
Which was weird, but a thought for another time.
"Hotch goes," he'd said, voice quiet. Calm. It could have been mistaken for indifference, but that was far from the truth.
It was just that someone had to lead.
And Hotch was practically shaking.
So onto him to lead then.
Okay. Fine.
Hotch had blinked and silently, he'd felt a burst of reassurance. Hotch was reasserting himself, pushing and pulling for control.
Fighting for the logic in the situation.
He didn't have the heart to tell the younger man that there was no logic to be found in this.
It was just life.
Their life.
Staring down psychos every day, well sooner or later, one of those little bastards was bound to turn around and stare back.
This one had.
With a bullet.
"Go," he told Hotch, when the former lawyer hadn't moved an inch.
"Sir, we need to go now," the medic had called out. Hotch had nodded and slipped inside. He'd looked back at the others, then turned his attention to the blonde lying just a few feet away from him.
Covered in red.
His last thought as the doors slammed shut?
He'd seen too much red in his life.
Too damned much.
Watch. Rewind. Watch again.
"Why are you doing this?" Lieutenant Merrick asked, anger in his tone. He barely knew JJ, but he was furious on her behalf.
Because being in law enforcement was like being part of the world's biggest fraternity.
And when one of theirs went down, they all felt it.
Because next time, it could be them.
Next time it could be them who woke up, kissed their beloved goodbye, then walked out the front door never to come back again.
He had to snap himself out of the thought.
JJ neither had a beloved one to kiss good morning nor was she dead.
Hurt, surely…
Only hurt.
He didn't know, to be honest.
He was too afraid to find out. To make that call. To hear, "we did everything we could, but the damage, I'm sorry, it was too much."
He simply couldn't take anymore.
He couldn't take losing her.
Because she smiled when it was absurd to.
Because she knew every word that Rod Stewart had ever sung and could break them out a moments notice. All terribly out of tune.
And because sometimes, at the end of a horrific trip, when she was in the back of the plane, blanket over her, eyes closed pretending to sleep, he was sure he could see a few stray tears slip down.
Which meant that she still cared.
He'd never called her on the tears. Neither had any of the others. Probably because they all hoped to God that they could still cry when tears were warranted.
He knew he could.
But he thought, almost absurdly, if she were to die today, he didn't think he'd have any tears left.
He turned back to the TV screen and hit PLAY on the DVD remote. The press conference started to play again. Like he needed it to do that to remember.
He knew for a fact that he could do the same trick in his own head.
Rewind. Play. Rewind. Pause where necessary.
And so Lieutenant Merrick asked again. "Why are you doing this?"
"I'm trying to see," he'd finally gasped out, a bit surprised by the weakness of his voice. "If I can see who did this."
Merrick stayed silent for a moment, then said softly, "One of my guys will take you to the hospital. You should be there."
He turned, eyes wide. "Is she…did she…"
"No, she was alive when they put her in the ambulance, but I figured…I mean, if it were one of my guys, one of my buddies, well I know if it were me, I'd want to be there. I'd need to be there."
And Merrick was right. "Okay." He reached over to turn off the TV, but just as he was about to, Merrick said something that would stick with him for a very long time.
"God, I've never seen so much blood. It just seemed so...red."
She wished she had a camera inside the operating room.
Instead, she was forced to sit and wait.
Normally she could get any information she wanted within seconds, but hospitals didn't update their records every five minutes.
More like every twenty-four if they were even slightly efficient. If they weren't, well maybe sometime next year they'd update the birth and death records from 1973. The injury reports would take another six months.
And so she was forced to wait for a call.
And forced to try to stop herself from calling Derek every five seconds.
He was being wonderfully patient. "Nothing yet, Momma."
But she knew him well, could hear the strain and fear in his tone. Could tell that he was scared out of his mind.
Scared that at the end of the night they'd be six instead of seven.
Scared that somehow they'd been too slow in getting to her.
Maybe if it had only taken eight seconds instead of twelve for Hotch to get to her side…
She'd watched the press conference at least a hundred times, had memorized every answer that JJ had shot back at the reporters. Even a throaty laugh that she'd used to respond to one especially absurd query with.
And then the pop. Dull, a bit like a cork being shot from a bottle.
JJ had registered shock before pain. Her head had tilted slightly to the side, as if wondering what the new sensation her body was feeling was.
And then she'd begun to waver.
Just a bit at first, almost like she was rocking herself.
Her mouth had opened as if to ask a question, but if a sound had come out, the microphone in front of her hadn't registered it.
Or maybe the screaming of the reporters had drowned it out.
Thankfully, the camera feed had cut out before she'd toppled.
But really, that was a small favor. Mostly because she still had her own vivid imagination. One that was horrifically enhanced with the memory of her own shooting just months earlier.
And so now she waited.
And wondered if she'd have a chance to put a bullet into the brain of the man who'd hurt her JJ.
Darkly, she hoped so.
Reasonably, she prayed otherwise.
All the same to anyone else, she rather hoped to never have to touch a gun again. As in ever again.
The phone rang then.
For a moment, she did nothing.
Just stared at it. Then, her finger snaked forward and she punched the line alive. She said nothing for a second, then weakly, "Yes?"
"They think she's going to make it," Derek breathed, his voice sounding unusually strained and weak.
She had the absurd thought that maybe she could reach through the phone and hug him. Instead, she settled for exhaling.
Then, strong, in a tone that told him not to argue, "I'm on my way."
And so he didn't. "Okay."
He hung up then and she was once again left alone, in the quiet of her office, with only the soft rumblings of her computers.
And so she started laughing.
And then crying.
And then doing both.
And she did, her arm swept out and knocked over a bottle of nail polish.
She'd been putting it on when the press conference had started.
It was all over the ground now.
Bright red.
Consciousness was a funny thing.
Especially when you added in drugs.
The kind that made you see Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck dancing a rather romantic tango.
But somehow, his dark eyes cut through the pain and the drugs.
Because he was afraid.
And that wasn't right. That was more wrong that ever her drug induced delusions. It was somehow…elementally wrong.
He took her hand and squeezed and when she didn't squeeze back, he repeated the action. She looked up at him and into his eyes, a question on her lips, but then somehow, she just knew what he needed.
She squeezed back.
And saw him exhale.
After that, the blackness once again stole her away.
But thankfully, this one wasn't quite so dark and welcoming.
This darkness, well it didn't have a stripe of light shining behind it.
The kind that said, "Come right this way. Lay down your burdens and come home to rest."
She realized as the black took her that she wasn't ready to go home yet.
"How is she?" Prentiss asked as soon he stepped out of her room. There hadn't been an argument this time; they had all accepted that he should be the one to see her, but he could tell that none of them were happy about it.
In that dark place, he wondered if they'd react the same if it had been him who had been shot. Him who had almost died.
Would they all look so frightened then?
So angry?
It was irrational, these thoughts. Illogical, emotional and angry.
"She's okay," he said, forcing a smile. Trying to be reassuring for them.
He wasn't surprised that it was Morgan who blasted off first.
"We need to find this son of a bitch and -"
"Bring him to justice," he said quickly, trying to cut off the anger. Already his mind was whirling with legalese, wondering if he shouldn't force his team off the case, ask for Cooper's to come in and take it over.
But they'd never accept that.
So instead, he could just beg them to remember that they were the good guys. And that good guys couldn't cross the line between justice and vengeance. No matter how much they wanted to.
Colby had been a good shoot.
Lee, not so much.
And what he saw in Morgan's eyes, in Prentiss's, hell even in Reid's, well it was a kind of crazed anger.
They'd been like that with Garcia as well, but fate had saved their asses.
It had been a good and righteous shoot.
Again, Lee? Not so much.
He knew that look that he saw swimming around in Morgan's eyes. It reminded him so much of Elle's. It said that if he found the guy who'd shot JJ and no one was around to stop him, he probably wouldn't give a shit if the guy was armed.
And well, that train had to be stopped in the station.
Because all it led to was hell.
As he was sure that Elle, wherever she was, could well attest.
"We find him and bring him to justice."
He said this staring at his three younger agents. He knew that he didn't need to repeat the warning to Rossi.
Rossi liked JJ on a professional level and he thought she was a smart woman. Someone he respected and even admired for her skill.
But there was no personal relationship yet.
Not the kind that could threaten your soul under the wrong circumstances.
And for that, he was thankful.
Because right now David Rossi might be the only thing that could keep one of the team from crossing that line. No matter what promises they made. No matter what assurances they gave.
He wasn't sure that he himself should be excluded from that list.
Because in the end, it was all about being tired of the pain.
And they all were.
So very tired.
And so drawn to the blackness of vengeance.
Especially if it would make up for some of the pain.
She'd taken him aside ten minutes into their wait at the hospital and assured him that it wasn't his fault.
Normally he would have played along, pretended he knew that.
He wasn't in the mood for games.
He wasn't up for lying just to keep the others off his back.
"Bullshit," he'd said. "My job was to cover her."
And he knew that was right because he'd had his hand on his gun.
Covering her. Protecting her.
Only not very Goddamned well.
God, why hadn't they made her wear a vest? Who the fuck's stupid idea had that been?
Hers probably.
Because she hadn't been afraid of being shot and the white shirt she'd been wearing wouldn't have fit over the vest.
And showing the vest over the shirt on TV would have gone against the "no fear" message that she'd been trying to relay.
A game of perception that the Unsub had used to his advantage.
Em said she was sure he was a reporter and that made sense.
It changed the profile, but not dramatically.
What it did, however, was help immeasurably.
It was a bit like a grand-slam being hit in a one run game.
It broke things wide open.
Because everyone who would have been allowed into the press conference would have had to have shown a press pass first.
That they hadn't been frisked for weapons was an idiotic oversight.
One that had been possible because the press conference had been held outside in the sunlight because this small backwoods police department lacked a room inside big enough to hold the media.
And so outside and with only the check of a press pass lookover.
Which meant he was on a list somewhere.
Well he was on another list, too.
The kind that Hotch was warning against.
Too fucking bad.
His family. The ones who defended him, insisted that the police in Chicago were wrong, fought for him even after realizing that they didn't know near as much about him as they thought they had.
They – JJ – had still said they had the wrong guy.
He'd lay down his life for any of them.
He'd kill for all of them.
Even if doing so meant turning his soul black.
Derek was right; he had to be on the list. Problem was, there was fifty names on the list. Fifty reporters to vet.
So first they started with looking for who owned a gun.
Four according to Garcia. One of them a woman so exclude her.
The other three were thoroughly interviewed. None of them showed the massive ego. The profile just didn't match.
Unfortunately, that kicked them back to square one.
And with that came more arguing and a couple fists into doors. The tension was rising by the moment.
She felt like she wanted to scream.
The men were pacing the room; all but Reid, who was just watching video of the press conference on his laptop.
Over and over and over and –
"Would you stop that?" she finally shouted, causing all of the movement in the room to cease. Everyone turned to look at her.
"Em?" Derek asked. She ignored him and focused her glare on Reid.
"Do you really need to keep watching that?"
"I'm…I'm just trying to see if maybe he's in the crowd…"
"We have no idea what he looks like and the camera was on JJ when she got shot," she growled.
"It's worth a…" Hotch stopped, didn't finish the sentence.
"No, no it's not," she argued. "He's watched that damn video a thousand times. He could probably close his eyes and tell you what every person in it is doing at every moment. If he'd seen someone reach into his jacket and pull a gun, he would have been able to tell us it hours ago."
And then there was silence because everyone knew that was true.
And they knew that she was right on the edge of a mental collapse.
Anger. Frustration. Fear.
Because she'd never been shot.
Hit, hurt, beaten, thank God never shot.
And the fear of a bullet, well sometimes it kept her awake at night.
Right now, though, she'd take that bullet a thousand times if it meant that the younger agent – her good friend, the first one to accept her without pause or reservation – could have been saved the pain.
That realization, so bitter and frightening, well it sent chills through her.
Because that was the true essence of family.
Do anything, die for them.
In any case, that option wasn't on the table. Only finding this son of a bitch and making sure he could never ever hurt anyone else, well that was.
"Sorry," Reid stammered, closing his laptop. Immediately, she felt like shit. She took half a step towards him, wanting to comfort him, but then she stopped because everyone was watching.
Instead she said, "Let's break up the list. One of them did it."
Hotch nodded. Rossi nodded. It was a plan then.
They'd find him.
And part of begged every holy power that there was that she would be the one.
The other part, well it knew that only ugly darkness lay that way.
Hatred, fury and vengeance.
Black as coal, dirty and pure.
He could tell that they were all bending beneath the strain of this.
Not breaking so far, just bending.
Too far.
But holding on.
If they could just get through this case. Just find him, arrest him, toss him in a cell, get back on their plane and fly home…
And do it all before one of them said "fuck it".
Before one of them screamed "enough."
He and Hotch had decided to break up the "kids", keep an eye on them.
So now it was he and Prentiss. Morgan and Reid were with Hotch. The Police Department had all of their officers working the rest of the list.
The first interview of the day was a short man named Brody. Immediately he knew that Brody wasn't their guy. Still, by the end of the conversation, he was pretty sure that Prentiss wanted to shoot him.
He was also pretty sure that he'd actually considered letting her.
Not because Brody was their guy, but because he was probably the single most annoying human being ever put on the face of the Earth.
And because Brody had called Prentiss, "Baby Cakes" at least twice.
Which he'd been smart enough not to laugh at.
Interview number 2 had been a guy who clearly though he was Clark Kent, but he too had clearly not been their guy.
Numbers 3 through 8 hadn't been any more useful and so it was back to the station and hoping that the others had had more luck.
Even while being slightly absurdly thankful that he and Prentiss had come up empty.
And wondering if Hotch was hoping for the same luck.
Because the look on her face when she'd asked her questions, the tension in her body, the way her hand had constantly dropped down to her gun.
He'd had to remind himself that though he and Hotch sometimes – and very much in private - jokingly called them the kids, they were no such things. They were adults, full of grown-up emotions.
Like anger. And rage.
And hatred.
He'd wanted the bastard who'd killed those kids parents dead.
What he'd found had nearly shattered him.
Because how could you hate a man who couldn't be held responsible?
It had been a valuable lesson about vengeance.
But in the meanwhile, through the years, so much had rotted away.
Until all that was left was a blackened husk with a heart still beating deep inside
He didn't want that for them.
He desperately hoped it wouldn't ever be them.
And he was thankful beyond words that at least for this day, it wouldn't be Emily Prentiss.
At least for today, she wouldn't be black and dead inside.
He knew they had their guy before Morgan and Hotch did. Not because of the words he said, but because of the way he moved his hands.
He remember the tape.
A man in the third row, dressed in jeans and a white dress shirt that looked like it had just been tossed haphazardly on. He'd been wearing a wrinkled black and green tie and whenever the camera had caught him, he'd been adjusting it.
Fingers fidgeting nervously, like he was trying to keep them from doing something else.
But there was more and now staring at Donald McCoy, aged 26, he remembered it all so clearly.
McCoy had been fidgeting constantly, but there was also the business of how his hand had constantly dropped to his waist and then jerked back up. It seemed an innocent, if not slightly abnormal movement.
Like a constant twitch.
Or maybe someone timing when to pull a gun and fire.
There was still more, though.
Early on, McCoy had been near the stage. He'd even asked JJ a question. Something like, "You sound like you're daring him to kill again. Are you?" And JJ had smiled and replied, "Of course not. We're just reminding him we're here."
And then she had moved on.
The next question had been to a reporter from a major newspaper and at the end of his shot, the camera had swept away and McCoy had left his previous position. Another shot a few minutes later had shown him tucked way in the back, somewhat near Prentiss, his hand down around his belt.
And now, staring back at Morgan and Hotch, his ego was on display.
And a few minutes in, everyone knew he was their guy.
There was a couple seconds when it seemed like time came full stop. They stared and everyone tried to figure out what to do.
Wondered whether he would surrender willingly assuming that no matter what JJ had said, his sins would offer him notoriety.
But no, he suddenly turned around and ran, first throwing a heavy pot at Morgan. Morgan took off after him like a pissed off bat out of hell, with Hotch behind him screaming out his name.
Like he was trying to remind Morgan not to cross that line.
Idly, he realized that Hotch wasn't afraid of him doing the same. After all, a genius like him? Drugs, sure, cold blooded murder? Probably not.
McCoy didn't get far. Maybe he didn't want to. Within minutes, the three of them had their killer surrounded.
But all McCoy cared about was Morgan.
He turned towards him and grinned. "Want to be famous, Agent?"
"No," Morgan growled.
"No, you want me dead, don't you?"
"Morgan," Hotch warned.
"Yes," Morgan admitted.
"Then kill me. Pay me back for hurting your pretty friend."
He felt a surge of anger rip through him. Hurt. This hadn't been about killing JJ; it had been about hurting her and that was somehow worse.
And suddenly something black and cold inside of him wanted McCoy to hurt, too. To feel the pain JJ must have felt when the bullet had torn through her flesh, when she had felt herself falling.
He watched Morgan's fingers tighten on his gun, saw Hotch step in closer.
He didn't move an inch. But he wondered…
"I think the fellas in jail will do that just fine," Morgan replied.
"If I make there, right?"
"You'll make it there," Hotch asserted. "We're not giving you your moment. And we can stay here all day pointing our guns at you, but we're not going to shoot you. You're not dying by our hands."
And he knew Hotch was right.
And so did Morgan.
And in that moment, McCoy knew it was over. Defeated and demoralized, his ego shattered, he dropped down to a knee and held up his hands.
Hotch nodded to Morgan.
Who took no mercy in the way he slammed McCoy to the ground and cuffed him.
He watched Morgan lean, saw him whisper something to him. And even though he didn't actually hear what Morgan said, the way McCoy's entire body seemed to quiver said more than enough.
Something like "you got lucky".
Something like "you deserve to die".
And try as he might, he felt in agreement with those statements.
And he hated it.
Because it felt so horribly dark.
Like a pit with no bottom.
An insane urge flew through him…just a little…
No, none.
Get home. Go to –
No, here. Tonight. Find a meeting. Drink bad coffee.
Don't notice how black it is.
Talk until the throat turns raw.
Remember that she's alive and nothing else matters.
Nothing.
"You can go in and see her," the nurse told her with a smile.
"Is she-"
"She's tired and sore, but she's awake and she's lucid."
She nodded, said thank you and walked down the hall.
Just minutes earlier she'd gotten the call from Derek, the one that told her that they had their guy and he was currently in lockdown.
Which meant he was alive.
Which meant that none of them had crossed the line.
She was ecstatic.
She was furious.
She entered the room and saw her petite blonde friend.
"JJ," she breathed.
"Hey, Garcia," the younger woman said, trying to sound flip. "Guess we're changing sides, huh?"
"Don't even joke," Garcia warned. "I…I thought –"
"That's what I thought, too. About you, I mean. I thought I'd lost you."
She reached out, took JJ's hand and squeezed it. "Two tough broads, huh?"
"Something like that," JJ grinned, before coughing. She quickly waved her hand to signal that she was fine. Then,"So did they?"
"They caught him. He was a reporter."
"Figures."
And then they both laughed. Because doing so reminded them that they were both alive. Both refusing to just lie down and die.
But then, quietly, "I thought I was going to die."
She swallowed, "So did I that day, when Colby shot me. Did you see everything, too?"
"No, just red. Lots of red."
"Funny," she replied. "I remember the black. Nothing, but black and then a light. And I started walking towards it…"
"And then you woke up," JJ murmured, as if lost in her own thoughts.
"Yeah," she confirmed.
"Two tough broads," JJ confirmed.
And once again, together they laughed.
She thought it funny and charming and sweet that they had all insisted on bringing her home together.
All of them, even Rossi.
She was due to be out medical leave for six weeks or at least until she didn't feel the need to pop a Vicodin every ten minutes for the pain.
They helped her in; she told them she could walk inside herself, but Morgan, always the chivalrous knight insisted and so she let him.
Well at least he hadn't tried to carry her.
Next had come the offers to do everything from boil her a cup of tea to feed her fish for her,
Absurd, sweet and touching.
The final straw had been Emily offering to help her get into her pajamas.
Awkwardly offered, of course.
She smiled, assured them she was fine and in a round about way of asking them all to leave had said that she was really tired and just wanted to sleep.
They got the message loud and clear, turned towards the door, waved goodbye, promised to call in and check in come the morning.
As just as Hotch was about to shut the door behind him, she'd called them back and said simply, "Thank you."
For the red and the black.
-FIN