The Lost Ones
Chapter Seven
A/N: Thanks to Windy City Dreamer for doing the things that she does. Also, this chapter may be somewhat "crap" for lack of a better word, due to my epic battle with bitter adversary, the Common Cold.
Feeling frustrated and just the slightest bit dejected, Morgan found himself following Emily's suggestion. Everything he knew and everything he might know was all going down on paper. Technically speaking, it was going down on a napkin, but he had to start somewhere.
It was nearing late afternoon, and he had made little to no development since Emily's departure and Wellington's snubbing. Though he was loath to admit it, he needed help. There was a reason law enforcement officers worked in pairs; beyond watching each others' backs, a partner was someone who you could bounce ideas off, who would fill in the gaps where you found yourself lacking.
He knew, realistically, that he wasn't going to solve this on his own. He needed someone that was willing to help, someone that had had his back for almost every step of the way so far.
'You know what you need to do, Derek.'
Sighing, he put the balled up napkin in his pocket, returning the pen to the waitress he had borrowed it off, in addition to a wink and a ten dollar tip.
Derek Morgan had a federal agent to track down.
***
Emily Prentiss was at the very least, tipsy. She was not normally one to drink away her troubles, but she had been incredibly frustrated at the events of the morning, and had thought that one glass wouldn't hurt. That, of course, was three glasses ago.
There was a pile of tapes sitting next to the VCR; things she had taped weeks, even months ago, and was just now getting the chance to watch. Of course, these television shows usually made a lot more sense sober.
The first knock of the door, she didn't register. The second, she heard, but it took her several seconds to understand that it was, in fact, someone knocking on the door.
'I'm coming,' she called out, sounding a little more frustrated than she had intended. It had taken several seconds to find the remote control, and several more to find the pause button.
'Who could possibly be knocking at the door this time of night?' She checked her watch and realized that it had barely gone seven o'clock. She had started drinking earlier than she'd thought.
She looked through the peephole, and saw the face she had been expecting to see all afternoon. She knew he would have made it here eventually, and if she were to be honest with herself, she had been almost looking forward to it.
Taking a deep breath, she drew back the dead-bolt and opened the door.
***
Morgan stood at the doorstep with some trepidation.
He didn't usually do this.
He didn't usually stand at the door of a woman he'd met just that day, with a bottle of wine in one hand, and a bag of Chinese food in the other. He was something of a ladies' man, yes, but on most occasions, he preferred to let the woman actually know that he was coming.
He knocked a second time, and let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding when he heard her voice.
Seconds later, the door swung open.
'You interrupted Buffy,' she said pointedly, arms folded across her chest. It took him a few seconds to realize that she was joking.
'She looks nice,' he thought. In jeans and a loose sweatshirt, she had dropped the façade of professionalism, but still retained something of a casual elegance. It didn't surprise him, considering she lived in a neighborhood like this one. There was definitely money in her background.
She stepped back to let him in, and he got a proper view of her apartment. Sophisticated, but not snobbishly so. Style, but not to the point that character was forgotten.
'Bowls are in the cupboard under the counter – no, the left one.' She nodded as he found the right cupboard, and withdrew two bowls.
'Fork or chopsticks?'
'Chopsticks are fine.' As he served the food into the bowls, she found him a clean glass.
'Are you okay to start with red?' She indicated the bottle that was already open. She didn't need the temptation of two open bottles.
'Yeah.'
They sat across from each other at her small kitchen table. It didn't feel right to talk about the case just yet, and talking about anything else felt almost awkward.
Morgan's eyes drifted towards the bookshelf on the opposite wall, and, scanning its titles, he found a topic worthy of discussion.
'Mother Night or Slaughterhouse-Five?'
Her brow furrowed slightly, as if she had not been expecting a question of that nature. Upon realizing that he was serious, she relaxed slightly, smiling.
'That's a tough one. I can't pick both?' She almost pouting as she said it.
'Nope. That's cheating.'
She gave a dramatic sigh. 'Fine. Mother Night. I guess I kind of relate to the whole "pretending to be someone else" thing.'
'Rough childhood?'
She gave a sarcastic laugh. 'My mother is in politics,' she said, as if that explained everything. At his inquisitive expression, she elaborated. 'You get used to being who people want you to be. Sometimes you lose yourself along the way, I guess.' She sniffed back a sob. 'I'm sorry. I'm pretty sure that's the wine talking.'
'My father died when I was ten,' Morgan said suddenly. 'I spent my whole life trying to be the person he was. Now I'm not sure if I can.'
'What kind of person was he?'
'He was a good guy. The guy that people liked, the guy that would give up everything for someone else.' His eyes drifted; he didn't want her to see them watering. All the people he looked up to seemed to die – was that all on him, he wondered.
'You are a good guy.' She spoke with such fierceness, that he half expected it to be the wine talking again, but then he saw the determined look in her eyes. 'You wouldn't be here if you weren't. You wouldn't care as much as you do.'
Their shared confessions had lightened the atmosphere somewhat. As a consequence, they could now discuss the case without too many awkward moments.
'Alright then, Officer Morgan,' Emily said. 'Let's brainstorm.'
***
Eric Carlson found a fist striking his face. It was unexpected, especially considering the fact he had done his very best to stay away from the gang violence that the city was rife with. It added insult to injury that he recognized the face of the man attacking; this was the man who had kidnapped that kid, Stevie, just two nights ago.
'What the fuck, man?' It was hard to speak, with blood dripping from his nose. He had the sinking feeling he knew why this man was here; it wasn't to beat him up. 'I didn't tell the cops shit,' he lied. It didn't really seem to matter anymore.
If this man had his way, by the end of the night, Eric Carlson would become just another person who had fallen off the edge of the world.