Hi everyone. Originally, this was supposed to be a Reid POV, post 'Lauren' one shot. Well, that didn't exactly work, so now each chapter will detail a team member's POV post 'Lauren.' Enjoy! :)
"Here we come to a turning of the season
Witness to the arc towards the sun
A neighbor's blessed burden within reason
Becomes a burden borne of all in one."
-The Decemberists, "Don't Carry it All."
These days, he doesn't know how to face the team, his son, and his own reflection, staring deep, hard-set cores into the bathroom mirror still blemished by shower steam. Pink cheeks and unmasked eyes replaced by drooping, wrinkled skin and steel gazes. Looks that mask his feelings, the years, and any hint of the truth. Sometimes, during these days when shock wears away and grief makes itself comfortable, he can't stand to watch, to bare witness to their pain, to know what he does, and to remember her. Because, even if he knows what really happened, he's not immune. He feels grief too, but it's just in a different form, it's a different battle, and, these days, he's not sure if he can carry it all.
These days, he doesn't want to be the leader, their leader, anymore. It's been a long time since he was truly someone's subordinate, but he squashes the memories of Gideon almost as much as he does other ghosts that linger in everything elongated shadow. On his worst days, he thinks of everyone they've lost, everyone he's lost, and he acknowledges that he may be next. One day, composure will disappear and walls will tumble because, in order to stop the stray bullets and constant never-ending wars of black, he'll cross the line. Maybe not now, maybe not soon, but, one of these days, he'll learn how to lose control, although he already feels like he's spiraling, and it's emptier than the casket buried underneath the stone marker etched with her name.
Sometimes, when he's sure that the bustling bullpen hides his observations, he stands on the catwalk, perched above it all, and watches the unfolding. And it's one hell of an undoing. Morgan's the first one he notices not because he's a mess, far from it, but because he's trying to mask his pain, his grief, and he's almost succeeding. He'll never openly tell Morgan this, but the realization that Morgan is like him in so many ways hurts his heart so badly that it aches, pulling on connections he severed so long ago. The younger agent is trying to be strong, mainly for Garcia and Reid, but when Reid is busy and bent over paperwork and Garcia in her computer cave, the man's eyes wander to his partner's desk, and everything evaporates. There's a raising of eyes to meet his own, a burning look, and a quick walk to the nearest restroom or deserted office. These days, he has to stop his legs from following because, if he does, he's not sure he can withhold the truth.
There are times when he catches Dave in some far-off stare, some memory, and he leans forward between a plane aisle or during a rare moment of stillness in, yet another, strange city or precinct, and asks the whispered, yet concerned, "Are you alright?" Sometimes, he receives an admonishing look, one that says he should know better, but, more often that not, there's a slight head nod and silence. During these times, he wants to take the older man by the shoulders, wants to tell him everything, but he's surprised Dave, of all people, hasn't figured it out yet. Instead, he exhales deeply and offers to talk. When it's refused and he gets the late-night call from some random bartender, he never protests, pulling on wrinkled clothing and driving to wherever Dave has gone to wash down his sorrows. This game of pick up is his penance, his eventual path to an absolution that may never come, and he drives through darkened streets thinking he's not doing enough. He's never done enough. At these times, he hates himself more than anything.
Sometimes, he stares at JJ's number still programmed, still speed-dialed, into his cell phone and he wants to call her. He longs to scream, to tell her that he can't be witness to grief's clutches anymore, but then he thinks she's ridden with guilt too. Only she doesn't have to see it on all the bloodshot eyes decorated by purple half crescents and heightened by stubby, bitten fingernails. While unnecessary words no longer are exchanged and the deck of cards gains layers of dust next to the completely unused chest set on the plane, he longs to pick up his phone, demand a report she does not have, and blame her for everything. It's not fair, this blame, and he knows it. He knows it as much as he knows that he's tiptoeing around everyone because, a year prior, they had seen his own pain. During these times when he has to stare out plane windows to garner some strength, he reminds himself of oaths, of promises, of friends, and, when that fails to bring comfort, he remembers JJ's words in the hospital:
"You know we did the right thing, Hotch." But it doesn't feel like the right thing. Not with Rossi crying, Seaver staring at nothing, Reid falling to pieces, and Morgan trying to hold Garcia together. As long as he'll live, he'll never forget the sight of her blood caking Morgan's hands. When he couples that sight with Reid allowing himself to be hugged, to be physically comforted, he thinks he may be sick.
"I don't think I can do this, JJ." But the look she gives tells him he has no choice.
The rare days off give him some solace, and he walks his son to the playground underneath oak trees filling with green shoots parted by warm rays of light. Sometimes, Seaver follows, and he doesn't question how she knows where he is or where he's going. She keeps her distance a few paces behind, always too many steps behind, but she's there. She stands at the playground's periphery with her hands in pockets, withdrawing before she really had a chance to grow. He recognizes the guilt, sees how she feels intruding, and, when Jack is preoccupied with swings and sand toys, he stands next to her. The don't speak during these times, but he'll never admit that her innocence startles him, surprises him, and eases the burden he carries.
On slow days, Garcia crosses the threshold, leaving her humming computer cave to flutter to each team member. She brings Rossi homemade baked goods, staying in his office until he's sure he hears the sound of Italian opera through the too-thin walls and floating upwards from floor heating grates. It's Garcia who gets Morgan to smile and, even if it dissipates almost immediately after forming, but he sees this as a welcome sign to the land of normal. He wants to tell her to keep marching, to keep trying, but her tears are layered too. Some days she wears neutral colors that make him think of rainy skies and gray mornings. When he closes his eyes, he remembers how blinding her clothing, and personality, once was. He'd by lying even more these days if he said he didn't miss it.
In the beginning, he wasn't sure who would be worse, but it seems like Morgan and Reid are tied in some epic duel, some losing battle, over who will react in the most unsettling ways. Sometimes, Morgan's blood shot eyes and dropped, false, stoicism scares him, troubles him, but it evaporates before he can place why there's a lack of anger. Then, Reid retaliates with a harsh word thrown like a casual fling across round conference tables, ones he though would not break, and his eyebrows raise. Other times, Reid looks like a ghost, white, haunted, and lost, wandering around the bullpen, drinking out of and refilling his worn coffee mug. His skin clings to his bones, becomes translucent, and sometimes he catches himself tracing the blue veins on the milky white arms, searching for the small dot, the small prick, that he knows, this time, will cause another funeral. These days, when he finds no proof, he tries to speak gently to the young man who has lost so many before her. For his efforts, he receives empty stares that prickle goosebumps on his flesh. When Reid leaves with a nod, but no more, he sighs, running a worn hand over tired eyes. These days, he has to remind himself that he can no longer protect Reid, even though he'd destroy himself trying to.
He comes to term with his guilt at her grave site among trees that begin to fill with tentative green leaves and then brilliant flowers. Sometimes, he stares at the three words, ones JJ had chosen, and he tries to remind himself of what's right. There are times when the world, and his knowledge, feels crushing, so he finds his way to Hayley's grave to confess who he's become. Other times, he tells the empty memory how alone he feels, how incredibly scared he is for her, for the team, for the thin strand of trust he knows can be broken with two words, and he can't stop the tears. Grief overcomes him, takes hold, and he wishes he were stronger. He wishes oaths didn't mean lies, and he wonders when the world, his world, their world, will collapse.
These days, when he finds himself standing in the bask of a pink summer night sky, he finds the memories of her, the real ones, and he lets himself reminisce. She's standing in his office with a cardboard box, she's soaked with rain and sadness telling him she needs to be human, to be real, but her eyes are wide, accepting when she acknowledges that she probably does compartmentalize better than most. He closes his eyes, opens them, and turns to go, promising her protection through his own growing rift.
He always leaves with a nod, a hardened stare he knows she'll recognize, and he hope she takes strength knowing they're safe. He hopes she's strong. He wonders if she's safe. And, when he can no longer stand the uncertainty, he drops his gaze to his feet, watching as the black loafers lead away from the biggest lie he has ever supported.
These days, he understands the weight of silence.