Queens, New York- Earlier that morning...
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
The continuous blare of the radio's wake-up call radiated throughout the small apartment, the incessant beeping rising in crescendo to a point where even the dead would not be able to sleep through it. From the bed next to it, a hand rose out and blindly came down on the top of the offending machine. The room promptly fell silent.
The covers slowly and agonizingly rose up and fell forward as the bed's occupant, wearing nothing but a pair of white sports shorts, rose up and sat in the middle, showing no signs of bounding up to start the day. In fact, the scene reflected much more the awakening of a flu sufferer who had just been roused after spending the entire night tossing and turning.
That was not the case here, but anyone watching would be hard pressed to bet against it. If there was one thing you could not describe the vast majority of young men as- young people in general, actually- it would be 'early risers'.
Scott Jackson sure as hell fit that profile to a tee; in the middle of the working week, when people got up at the crack of dawn to go out and earn a living in these uncertain financial times, he could barely drag himself up most mornings to walk on his own two feet. Even someone suffering from the world's worst hangover would have moved faster than him.
Not that he could blame a hangover for his reluctance to leave his bed. Not today anyway. There had been more than a few times that his love of a good time had a very nasty side effect the following morning. Nor could he blame being exhausted from a wild night of passion with a gorgeous woman. That hadn't happened in quite a while, and, as he looked over to the empty spot next to him, unlikely to happen again soon.
Looking over at the clock, he saw that it read 7:04 am, which left him approximately twenty-six minutes to get ready and wolf down a small breakfast before leaving for his job.
He sighed. "Damn it." Purely through sheer willpower, he forced himself to stand up and made his way over to the bathroom to urinate, shave and shower. As he lathered the shaving cream onto his face, his eyes finally cleared completely and he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror.
Truth be told and much to his credit, Scott was one person who could get up in the morning feeling like hell and still look quite decent before washing up. At just under six feet, with a medium-length crop of blond hair, green eyes and a semi-tanned complexion, he supposed he could thank his good genes for his rare bit of fortune.
Well, one side of his genes anyway. His mother Anna was half-Native American, something she hadn't told Scott's father when she married him. His father James, despite being a hard worker, would have been much more suited to the Deep South in the late nineteenth century rather than the Minneapolis, Minnesota suburb where they lived- at least in terms of his views on racial equality and relationships. After finding out the news, blowing up in a rage and calling Anna obscene racist names, James had divorced her, packed up and left Minneapolis for an unknown destination, leaving a thirteen year old Scott with just one parent.
If Scott's old man had taught him one thing, it probably was how to piss people off, and he had accomplished that magnificently over the years, whether intentionally or otherwise. In fact, he had embraced one very specific rule after so many years of experience; never talk about politics or religion with anyone you want to remain on good terms with. If he had embraced that rule earlier, maybe the list of people he was still on speaking terms with would be longer than he could count on one hand.
Still, despite this, Scott could acknowledge he hadn't turned out too bad, especially considering he thankfully hadn't adopted his father's narrow-minded views.
He quickly shaved, showered, dressed and sat down to a quick breakfast of oatmeal, fruit, juice and toast. No matter how much he hated mornings, there was no way he was going to give his boss an excuse to deny him, temporarily or permanently, his paycheck, especially since he was the only person in the great city of New York who had given him a job.
Heh. He shook his head in amusement. Oh, the irony.
It wasn't that Scott was stupid; on the contrary, he was quite an intelligent young man. After graduating high school and moving to New York, he had been accepted at New York State for Chemical Engineering and had earned high grades in his first couple of years. Unfortunately, right before the beginning of his third year, his mother had died in a car accident. While still recovering from the shock of the suddenness of that tragedy, he had learned that the little money she had had somehow disappeared. Scott had always suspected his father had something to do with that but of course couldn't prove anything. To make matters worse, the lack of money plus the fact that he hadn't been given a scholarship meant he could no longer afford to pay for tuition, forcing him to drop out of college and take a minimum wage job delivering packages by bike.
Yeah. It was true. What was a guy who had once been studying for a degree in chemical engineering working as now? A goddamn bicycle courier.
Six years. Six years he had been working his ass off delivering packages all over the city, trying to save enough to go back to college. And between his living expenses, food, subway passes and whatever rare methods of entertainment he dared allow himself every now and again, he wasn't even close to earning the required sum.
No choice now but to keep at it until he eventually got what he needed or somehow found another job that paid more. Maybe then he wouldn't be racing to wolf down a couple pieces of toast at 7:45 am, and instead he-
Wait a minute. Scott narrowed his eyes. Did that clock say seven forty-five?
"Shit!" Grabbing up his dishes, he all but threw them into the dishwasher before grabbing his subway pass and bolting out the front door.
He had approximately five minutes to get to the subway station a couple of blocks away from his apartment; otherwise, he'd have to wait an hour for another one. And by then, he'd be lucky if he had a job to go to.
"Hey, Scott, my man! What's up?"
Despite trying to catch his breath, Scott couldn't help but grin as he walked in the front door, greeted by the usual welcome.
"Hey, Earl. Not doing too bad." Earl Sykes was a fellow colleague, an African-American man of thirty-eight whose bald head and large, intimidating frame was offset by his genuinely friendly and warm personality.
"How's life treating you? You still all by yourself in that closet you call an apartment?" Earl asked.
"Life's been okay, yes I'm still there alone and it isn't really that bad," Scott responded all at once. "Come on, Earl, you know I'm still trying to recover from the last experience of sharing an apartment."
"Mmm. Suzy?"
"Suzy," Scott affirmed. His last girlfriend had been introduced to him by a 'friend' (depending on who you asked) from college, Chris Jordan. Chris had seen fit to introduce him to Suzy McMillan, a ditzy brunette with the personality of caffeine-charged rabbit and the brain of a rock. Scott certainly didn't see himself with her long-term, but the next few weeks had been some of the most fun, and exhausting, he'd ever experienced. Suzy had enjoyed acting out some of the more vigorous features of bunny rabbits when the sun went down, and Scott had been happy to oblige. Things seemed peachy- until one night, when the two of them were at the bar waiting for Chris and his date to arrive. When he did, Scott was surprised to see him alone- until Suzy jumped off her stool and they proceeded to engage in a tongue-in-mouth make-out session.
When a shocked Scott had asked them just what the hell was going on, Chris had given a massive shit-eating grin, then said, "Should have drunk your pineapple juice, Scottie-boy!"
Suzy had felt at liberty to add, "For me, it really sweetened the deal!"
The aftermath of their departure had marked the first time Scott had gotten totally drunk since high school.
Earl had been confused when he told him the story. "You just let them walk away? Why didn't you do something? Teach that guy a lesson?" Scott had helpfully pointed out that while he would have loved nothing more than to knock out a few of Chris' pearly-white, shit-eating teeth, doing so would have been highly improbable- mainly based on the fact that he likely would have broken his hand on his traitorous friend's iron jaw. Chris, a former offensive back with the college football team, was a solid mass of nothing but muscle and tipped the scales at 200 lbs; Scott, despite being lean with good muscle tone, was lucky if he reached 160. It sure wasn't because of laziness on his part though because no matter how much he ate or how much time he spent in the gym, he had been the same size since the eleventh grade. His gym teacher had said he had the perfect physique for martial arts- if he could only find the time and money for it. In the meantime, he felt like a diesel engine who burned coal continuously but whose wheels just kept turning round and round without going anywhere. Sometimes it felt like he was a walking calorie burner.
But even if he had been as big as Chris, he still doubted whether he would have reacted. Suzy clearly wasn't the right person for him, and not worth getting into a fight over. There was no denying that she was an attractive young woman, but her personality left a lot to be desired; she was whiny and and vain and was seldom pleased unless things were going exactly her way. If Scott had to admit it, he was actually relieved to see her go.
"You can't be wasting your life away alone, man," Earl was saying. "You wait too long, you find yourself lonely and envious of everyone around you."
"Earl, come on, I'm twenty-six," Scott protested. "I'm not that old. I've still got plenty of time ahead of me."
"That's what I thought when I was your age. And look at me now."
"Well Earl, you've never been pretty, but I really can't say I've noticed a huge difference." This bit of dialogue came from Celeste Dufraine, who was passing by. Celeste was a pretty girl of twenty-one with shoulder-length black hair, blue eyes and a complexion that made make-up seem like window dressing on her. A political science major at NYS, she worked part time to help pay for tuition. Apart from Earl, she was just about Scott's closest friend in the world; Scott had a slight feeling she wouldn't mind if they were something more, but their busy schedules made that practically impossible.
Earl laughed out loud at that. "Taken from you, girl, I'd say that's a compliment."
Celeste flashed a smile at him before turning to Scott. "You'd better report in. You're twenty minutes late and you know how the boss gets when that happens."
Scott groaned. "Great." Saying goodbye to his co-workers, he went to the back to log in, praying to God that his late arrival hadn't been noticed by the manager.
"JACKSON!"
On second thought, God was often busy.
"You mind explaining just why you're twenty minutes late for your shift?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Dickie. It won't happen again, I promise."
"You better hope not." George Dickie, manager of Empire Deliveries, was a short, squat man who always wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a brown tie and glasses with lenses thick enough to stop bullets. He stood with his hands at his hips, staring intently at the young man. "You'll have to work overtime tonight if you want to earn your paycheck. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Check your routes after you log in. I expect it all done by closing time tonight." With that, he turned and left without waiting for a response.
Scott suppressed a groan as he logged in. He had come to two conclusions since starting work here: 1) That Mr. Dickie was a first-rate asshole; and 2) If he wanted to have any hope of earning enough money for tuition, he'd have to eat shit and not get fired for telling his boss what he thought of him. He had occasionally entertained the thought of not coming in at all just for the hell of it, but had always thought better of it. Mr. Dickie, despite his less-than-threatening appearance, had a temper like a rabid dog; some days it was enough to make a Navy SEAL cry for his mother. Better not tempt it.
As he headed out back to the loading dock to collect his packages, he couldn't help but wonder what would happen if, for just one day, things would happen outside of his repetitive schedule. Something that would actually end up benefiting him for once. If there was ever a person who was in dire need of a break and some excitement that worked in his favour, it was him.
Scott huffed. Sure. Who am I kidding? I'm a freaking bicycle courier; what the hell could possibly happen?
He was first aware of the bright flash in front of him. He was then aware of the ground shaking. He became aware of being flung backwards off his feet. He was briefly aware of striking his head against something hard.
And then... darkness.
A/N: Please review and give me feedback!
On another note, I'm grateful for the positive response towards what seems to be a rare Prentiss/OMC story. Considering there are a number of Prentiss/Hotch and Prentiss/Reid shippers out there, I'm glad to see this relatively rare idea seems to be appreciated! :)
Also, if anyone has any questions at any point, feel free to ask me and I'll be happy to answer them!