August 22nd 2003 – Resurrection Cathedral, Chicago IL
The large ornate church echoed with the cries and whimpers of literally hundreds of mourners. This was not at all surprising, after all, the deceased was a seven year-old boy, one who had been loved by so many and yet had his life cut so short. Doctors, nurses, friends, classmates, and relatives had come to say their goodbyes.
Just behind one of the three doors in the wall of icons, sat the priest.
Father Crainbeck was a small man with brown hair which was starting to turn gray and large blue eyes. In his full robe and vestments, he looked more like a child trying on his father's work clothes than a parish priest. He always hated presiding over funerals, particularly when he had personally known the departed. Though he counted himself among those who would miss this child dearly, his position called him to set aside his own grief and offer comfort and inspiration to the rest of the child's community. What could he possibly say to them? This was a tragedy no matter how one looked at it. This boy had fought for his life time and time again since the day he was born. Never had he known what it was really like to be a normal little boy, no, he could never let his guard down, nor could his family or it was all over. Yet somehow, even with everything he'd had to deal with, the boy had carried himself with a radiating kindness and a boundless optimistic spirit that had without a doubt sustained him through his own personal war against time and his own body. Only when Father Crainbeck had arrived at the hospital that final time, to deliver last rites, had he seen that spirit drained and the knowing smile gone from his young friend's face. This meek, and yet determined little warrior, had finally lost. It just didn't seem fair. What could he possibly say the people outside to curb the horror of it all? Several minutes went by before it came to him, a passage that seemed to give meaning and purpose to this saddest of days. So he came out and took his place behind the pulpit.
"Today we celebrate the life of a young boy, one who we all knew, and who we all loved. We celebrate his life, but we also mourn because he has departed from us, but we must take comfort in the fact that this precious child has gone home to his Father. Let us remember the words of Solomon from the book of Wisdom. "The Righteous man, though he may die early shall be at rest, for age is not honored for its length of existence, nor measured by the number of years. He was pleasing to God and loved by Him, and while living among sinners he was taken up, lest evil change his understanding, or deceit deceive his soul. Having been perfected in a short while he fulfilled long years, for his soul was pleasing to the Lord, therefore he took him early out of the midst of evil." The priest said to the grieving crowd.
But there was one who grieved for this child more than perhaps many of those there, who was not in attendance, someone whose pain had been cast aside… the aging priest had a way of sensing when there was someone missing, whether he knew them or not.
August 23rd 2013, 9:00 AM
Reid was having the nightmare again. The one were Maeve was shot in the head as her stalker killed herself… In reality Morgan had shot the stalker in the head without hurting Maeve. But the horror of what had almost happened that night still haunted him when he was alone.
"Spencer! Wake up!" he heard a voice call out to him, then he felt a firm but gentle grip shake him. He opened his eyes to see Maeve standing over him. She smiled, he smiled back. Now that her stalker was finally out of their lives, they all but lived together apart from work, and it felt right.
"What happened?" He asked, as he looked around his apartment, trying to remember when exactly he had fallen asleep on the long, brown leather couch in the center of his small living room.
"We were watching a movie…and you fell asleep in the middle of it. After that I stayed and slept in the lounge chair." She reminded him.
He nodded in recognition. "Oh yeah…hey what time is it?"
"It's nine… are you late? If you are I'm sorry for not waking you sooner."
"Fortunately, since we just worked three cases non-stop without even going home, Hotch gave the whole team today and tomorrow off…unless we get called in."
"Good." She replied. "I hope the serial killers and kidnappers of the world can manage to behave themselves for the next two days." She said, he nodded and smiled exhaustedly at her.
Reid stood shakily and went to take a shower.
"Spencer…are you ok?"
"I'm fine…why do you ask?"
"Because I get the feeling you're not sleeping again…if the insomnia is back, you can tell me…"
"It's not the insomnia…" He said flatly, and that much was true… he was sleeping…but the ability to sleep wasn't the issue this time. "It's nothing, things have just been pretty non-stop the last month or so, it's running us all ragged, not just me." It still wasn't what was really going on with him but it wasn't exactly a lie either.
He was getting dressed when his cellphone rang with a text message from Garcia. They had a case.
He sighed, put the phone in his pocket, threw on a shirt, and tossed a tie over his shoulder. He was still buttoning the shirt when he came back out into the living room.
"I just got called in… it's about a couple of missing kids."
Maeve's eyes flashed with a mixture of pride and concern but she said nothing. Instead she just came over and hugged him and tied his tie…
"Just get them home and come back safely, alright?" she asked.
He nodded and kissed her, as always it was the kind of kiss that based on literature, most people dreamed about and if he hadn't been on his way out the door he would've been content to stay there forever, feeling the warmth of her embrace, the soft touch of her reddish brown hair against his skin… the electricity between them, but after a minute and a half, they parted. He grabbed his bags and left.
