Been this way since eighteen

But lately her face seems

Slowly sinking, wasting

Crumbling like pastries

I had to turn it off. My phone, I mean. I literally had to turn it off. He continuously texted me for… well, I don't even know. I turned it on airplane mode after the fifth text following the ones I already had.I left it like that for a few days. If anyone needed to all me, I always tell them to use my home phone, because I always answer that one. Normally, I have the little 'have read' receipts on my cell phone, but just so he knew I didn't open them. I turned those off too. Then, later, I shifted though the messages just to see what in hell's name he was so excited to text me about.

"So I have something to tell you"

Oh, good god.

"Like, you're going to love me after this. Seriously."

Here it comes.

"So I know you've been really depressed about your job loss on top of your menstruation and all that jazz"

He just used 'menstruation' in a text. I don't even think that's legal. 'All that jazz'? What even is that?! Why doesn't he just send everything in one message? Doesn't he have a data plan like everyone else? How does he pay for it?

"And I found something while I was at the FBI and you are going to love me. Like, take me on a date and maybe hold my hand love me"

Nope. Never. Not for a million dollars in a million years.

"I found a job opportunity at the BAU and they're taking applications for someone just like you."

What. What. What is this? Is there a piloting job there? Not exactly what I had in mind, bu- What am I thinking? Taking a job offer that Sloan of all people offered to me? Never.
"It's a techie job!"

Never in one million years.

I ignore the rest of the messages on my phone. Maybe I'll change my number later.

Now, hear me out, I'm not one to bat an eyelash at a reputable job when it's offered, but I'm incredibly-extremely- overqualified for it. And it's not like there aren't jobs out there that I'm qualified for. There are pilot jobs everywhere, even if I'm not willing to take them. I mean, I bet there are. I haven't checked. But how many aspiring pilots are there in the States? No, what bothers me is Sloan acting like I would be desperate for this job. Like, thinking that I would be clamoring to have that application in my hands. Acting like I'm so incompetent that I would be perfect for a job that the average sea-monkey could do. That's the thing about him, about Sloan. He had this way of complimenting you and insulting you at the same time. I'm not cold and it's not that I don't like people who are overly-peppy. I just don't like people who adapt the whole 'I-must-one-up-you-at-everything-and-make-you-feel-bad-all-the-while-sounding-like-an-optimist-prick' mentality. That is precisely Sloan and it is precisely why I have never taken him up on a date offer.

I should probably take the signal from the universe to actually make a resume or send in an application somewhere, but… I don't know, my rent is due at the end of the month, and I have enough money saved that I can pay it if I needed to. Maybe now's the time; that wanderlust-y sepia tone memories that you get in your twenties. The pictures you see on tumblr of attractive young adults at Coachella or on a road trip on a bus across the country with your friends. Maybe that's why they're doing what they're doing (Or at least why they have the time).They wear things that are attractive and care free. Eclectic. Quirky. Sadly, my closet has a stunning lack of Coachella-esque clothes. I don an old hoodie and pull my hair in a ponytail. Coachella enough. Minus everything else and just… Carefree. My Walkman smiles up at me and practically jumps into my hand. I don't have enough money to hitch a ride to go anywhere, but there is a park by my house. Nice, with pretty trees and it smells like petrichor on days like these. Petrichor is the smell that plants make when it rains because they're releasing their oils that kept them hydrated when it wasn't raining. It's basically the 'right after it rains' smell when you go outside. And it's one of my favorite things. Brisk September days with newly dried park benches and people walking the streets without it being congested.

Some days I like to watch them, the people- In a not creepy way. I'm not some creepy weirdo who stalks people in the park and goes home and thinks about it. I just like looking at them, the way they dress or present themselves. The way they speak or the way they ignore things. Like book characters, but they're actual human beings that became actual people and everyone is different even when they seem so. However, the world seems to be making more villain types than heroes as of recent. More people who turn blind eyes to wreckage or cause it without thought. You find a lot of that in D.C. It's really clean physically (excluding the metro) and not-so-clean morally. Fast talking politicians and lawyers and just no good people in general. Intentions are egocentric and rarely kind if intended towards others. Even me. Look at me. I'm just some girl who can't even get a job and just watches the people of a beautiful city tear each other apart piece by piece. I think if guardian angels are a thing, D.C. is their Vegas. Sure, everyone has a job (for the most part) and these jobs are pretty nice and many of us have a nice home space and maybe even some friends, but that doesn't stop us from being the biggest jerks possible at every minute or minor inconvenience that comes out way. We're like violently reacting chemicals all just being put in the same tank

When I get tired, sometimes I watch the children instead. Again, another unintentionally creepy sentence. I am not a pedophile, I promise. They just have so much more light in their eyes. More heart. They have standards and morals and they help each other when they fall down. They toss beach balls pretending to be bombs and play superhero and adventurer because they still feel like they have something to believe in, although they don't know that. I don't even really know that. It's just what I think. When the tape winds down, and I hear the last words of whatever tape I had packed- "Bowling For Soup"- I start the trek back home. You can judge all you want. 'High School Never Ends' speaks to me on a level I can't even describe. I assume everyone who would disagree with me on the matter was homeschooled.

My apartment feels empty when I get there. Lifeless. The lights fix that, somewhat, maybe. Not much. I think perhaps my excursion to the park was just a way to get the unemployment off my mind. Dirty Coachella hippies be darned, this sucked. I do not feel 'existential' or 'self-cleansed of all negative energy'. Not now. If I had done that before I was fired, maybe. Probably. I always did. Now I just feel like a people watching weirdo with Peter Pan disorder and a raging case of the unemployment blues. I can't stand this, being useless. I can't stand looking out onto the skyline and knowing that the most powerful people in the country were right outside my door, actually making a difference. College courses. Education. Training. There were people with less than what I had and with a better job. With me alone and obsolete, I create all of the things I paid for to get what I wanted obsolete as well. And it's not even like I can just cry into a bowl of ice cream with my nearest and dearest group of pals. All of my friends from high stayed put or moved elsewhere. Nobody near here and I'm not the best at 'keeping in touch'. I haven't talked to any of them in a long time… And pilot school… there's not a lot of girls there, not that I couldn't be friends with guys, but guys in pilot school aren't exactly the nicest of people. Not that I wouldn't love to be friends with prejudiced assholes with questionable competency and personalities of a wet pancake, but I digress. Maybe I'll text someone from back home later if I still feel like I need it. Someone like my mom or my cat.

After I returned my Walkman and its respective tape to their proper place (the coffee table) I return to my lovely lounging clothes. What's great about that is that the only difference between that and the clothes I wore to the park is that my lounging clothes lack a ponytail and pants. I walked past my window when my eye was caught by something bright. Fireworks. There was a ball game going on tonight, and these marked the end of it. I remember my first ball game in D.C., I thought the fireworks at the end were the prettiest fireworks to ever grace the skies, and I suppose I still do.

I was originally going to read, but I fell asleep watching the fireworks and listening to my music, the blend was surprisingly…calming.

Derek's P.O.V.

I hear the 'ding' of the plane and take off my headphones. We'll be landing in a few minutes. I'm usually the last person to get up and prepare for landing- making sure I have my luggage, cleaning up my files, finding my wallet, the works- but not today. This is probably the second time it's made the noise to warn us that we'll be landing soon, and the kid's still sleeping. He's out cold, with his face mushed up on the nearest window like a sugar crashing five year old on his way home from Disney. His glasses are crooked and his sweater fits him funny because he's been in the same position for how many hours. He puts up a good face, Spencer, but he's on a team of profilers. We all know when something's up. I'm pretty sure it was the last case we went on, before this one. The unsub was older than him, around 40, with a family history of Schizophrenia and other assorted mental disorders. He had also gone to some of the best colleges in the country. Reid was sweating, grinding his teeth, working as hard as he could to make sure that guy wound up in jail. Even though he sympathized with him, as soon as he saw what this guy had done, he worked as hard as he could to stop him. It worked, as far as forms of motivations go, but it was also pretty emotionally traumatic. The entire time we closed in on the unsub and saw his eyes, void of remorse, I knew that all the kid could see was just a reflection of his what his future could be. I know he fears that, even though he doesn't say it. I just wish I couold tell him it was fine. I wish I could tell him I knew, but the truth is? I wish I knew at all. Not that I think he has the emotional stretch or potential to do any of this, but schizophrenia is an incredibly unpredictable disorder. It does incredibly unpredictable things to people and there's rarely much anyone can do to change it.

I wake him up a minute or so before the plane lands. I wouldn't worry about him gathering his things, he probably had them ready the instant he was on the plane. His voice is sleepy and quiet, but he sobers up quick. He straightens his glasses and watches the skyline fall before him. The rest of the team files out once we're on the ground, but I can still tell he's sleep deprived. He knocks into things and I see his feet like cinder blocks, thumping one in front of the other.

"Pretty boy," I say, snapping in front of his face to get his attention. "How's about I give you a ride home tonight?" He squints at me though his glasses, registering the words a few seconds after I say them.

"Hmm? Oh, no. Sorry Morgan. I don't feel like bar hopping. I take the subway." He utters, making his way out of the central area, dragging his bags behind him. I chuckle, to show him that I'm still his friend and that he should trust me and to hide my worry for him.

"No, seriously Reid. I'll give you a ride home. You look like you need it." He smiles and presses his lips together, raising his eyebrows half-heartedly.

"I sincerely appreciate your offer, Morgan, but I'm fine taking the Metro." He keeps walking, leaving me at the top of the stairs of the plane.

"Reid!" I raise my voice, throwing my bag over my shoulder and hustling down the stairs after him.

"Yeah?"

"Listen man, I'm serious. You don't look so hot and I don't want Hotch yelling at you because you were late because you fell asleep on the subway and got robbed blind of everything. Let me take you home as a favor." He looks more frustrated now than anything. That's fine. He can be that way. I just want him to be okay.

"Okay. Morgan? If it will make you feel better, then you can drive me home. My apartment complex isn't too far from here."

"Great. Get in my truck out front, follow me."

To be honest, I think Reid would have been fine had he taken the subway by himself. I just want to take him home because I want to see if he will fall asleep on the way there. Is isn't too late in D.C. time, so him falling asleep would be a sign of significant sleep deprivation and fatigue. Plus, if I can help him up to his place, I can see inside and get a better feel at how he's really been feeling lately. Reid is a noticeably clean and organized person, so blankets on the floor or clothes not put away could be a sign of advanced sleep deprivation or perhaps a thinner train of thought, leading him to forget where things are, be less aware of other things like a dead lightbulb or a towel left on the floor. Work and home space can be an evident marker of how someone is feeling without them even knowing that they're saying it.

By the time we get to his place, he has assumed his previous position on the plane in my car, a steady trail of spit sliding down my window.

Dammit, Reid.

Anyways, I grab his bag and shake him half-awake. He groans and mumbles something under his breath. I sling his luggage over one shoulder and go to the other side to help him out of his side of the truck. He must not have much experience with these types of vehicles, because he opens his door and takes a step out and practically falls out of the truck and onto me like a limp noodle. He weighs just about as much. I help him up to the lobby like he's drunk, but I can't remember the last time I saw Dr. Pretty boy over here take a drink. He's just that tired.

After some complications on the elevator, I get him up to his room and usher him in. Once I'm in, I rest his luggage on the floor beside his coffee table and scan the apartment while he passes out on the couch. What I see is just what I thought. Towels, clothes, bedsheets on the floor. He's probably been having nightmares about it, as his dreams get pretty vivid when he's emotional. I realize that if I stay any longer, he might realize what I'm doing. I look at him again and change my mind. He wouldn't register an earthquake if it happened right now. Over the soft sounds of the winding down city, I can hear something above his ceiling. Music. From one of the apartments above Reid's.

Crumbling like pastries

And they scream

The worst things in life come free to us

They sure do, kid.

"Hey Reid. Get some sleep." I say over my shoulder as I get ready to leave. I don't really expect a response, but I get one.

"Thanks, Morgan." There's a pause.

"And Morgan?" He asks, no louder than a cat's cry. "I know why you did what you did tonight."

I freeze. "And?"

"Thanks."

Hotchner's P.O.V

Strauss called me into her office once more for the third time this week, this time to assure me that she took every precaution to make sure that I would definitely not be flying with the team for at least a week. It's kind of ironic. She wants me to take her space while she interviews some possible BAU candidates. She has always hated me. Hell, not that many years ago she tried using Prentiss to get rid of me because she thought I threatened her space where she was. Now she's asking me to take it while she has a field day talking to kids not much older than Reid looking for a job most of them were unknowingly not qualified to have. And I get to be stuck with the paperwork. To be honest, The BAU didn't need the sudden influx in funding. When Strauss was asked what we needed most, she said 'more employees'. But to be honest, I think that's to increase competition in the lower rungs so fewer people get to the higher rungs. Like shoving everyone under the bus she's driving. We don't need more employees. But I'm a professional, and I can't say that out loud.

But it doesn't mean I don't think it.