The Ride Home

The silence wasn't a thick silence, the kind that hangs over everyone and strangulates them. It was the kind of silence that wraps and comforts like a baby's blanket, the kind that drifts like mist over the lonely hills as one stargazes, revelling in where the city lights have less power. It was this kind of silence Amelia craved. It let her know Reid was sound asleep with his slight snoring, made the faint sound of Morgan's music blasting in his ears much clearer, the rustling of the pages in Amelia's book much more nonpareil.

Her head snapped up from her book when Hotch sat down across from her, folding his hands on the table. 'Didn't mean to startle you.'

Amelia shook her head. 'You didn't.' That wasn't fully true, but the start hadn't been so bad she'd be forced to admit it. She folded down the page corner and set the old, ragged book down. Its edges were peeling, the binding was too loose, the pages too yellow, but they kept the old woody smell she liked about ancient books.

'Maybe you could show that to Reid; I don't think he has a doctorate in Irish poetry yet,' Hotch suggested with just the hint of a smile.

Amelia snorted and rolled her eyes, looking out the window. If she stretched her neck just a bit, she could see the twinkling lights of the city shining up at her, like a glowing meadow of yellow and red.

'I mean it, Braell,' Hotch said, much more seriously now. His black eyes bore into her, unblinking. 'You should make more of an effort to connect with the team. At this rate, a few more cases and they'll think you're trigger-happy.'

'She was going to kill him,' Amelia argued, frowning. She'd done her job, right? Wasn't it her job to have her teammates' backs, to keep psychotic women from stabbing them to death? 'Should I have tried to empathize with her so she only got in twenty stabs out of forty?'

'You made the right call,' Hotch responded, unmoving. 'But for most people, when they pull the trigger they feel it themselves afterwards. This is the second time you've taken the shot without a flinch. No, it wasn't for the kill,' he added, seeing Amelia open her mouth in protest, 'but nevertheless, it's highly uncommon to be so comfortable with firing a gun.'

'Then what do you want me to do?' Amelia asked. 'Am I just supposed to fake it?'

'If that's what it takes,' Hotch said grimly. 'The more you display suspicious behaviour, the quicker they'll suspect. Generally they don't like to distrust one of their own, but you're still on a mini-probation of sorts, and prolonged suspicion will only tear apart the team.'

'Okay,' Amelia processed out loud. 'Then what's the golden line that gets me off probation?'

'Empathy,' he answered simply. 'As important as it is to protect your teammates, you have to show that you're capable of empathizing with them as well as the killers.'

She nodded, and began planning. Maybe she could comment one day on the way Reid only wore mismatched socks, or ask Garcia about her weekend plans. She could start accepting their invitations to the bar to relax after a long case, even if she didn't drink much. She could maybe even invite them herself.

'Maybe…' Amelia began, almost tentatively, 'maybe I'll take you up on that poetry thing with Reid.'

'And while you're at it, you might want to tell him good job on realising our unsub was a woman.'

Amelia frowned. 'I don't think he needs me to affirm his identity crisis.'

'Not to affirm an identity crisis,' he clarified. 'Your natural tendency is to think that accolades are useless and should be avoided. But for others it's a way to show you care. I hope to train you out of whatever habits I can. Not all of them, obviously; that would be impossible. But I want to make you more aware of the world.'

There was no cure for her; Braell knew that. She was a psychologist, after all–she'd read all the papers and the books. 'I appreciate the sentiment,' she told him, looking out the window at the fairy garden beneath them. 'But I'm not sure how effective it will be.'

'Effective or not,' Hotch warned her, 'your career here hinges on it. I'm taking a big risk with you, Braell. I've read your files and spoken with the evaluator, and your childhood therapist. I've been able to make an educated guess about you. Educated, but still a guess. And trust me, Braell, the minute you show me my guess was wrong, I'm taking you off the team.'

'And to the penitentiary, I know.' Amelia sighed. 'I'll do my best, Hotch.'

He nodded. 'Outside of your diagnosis, I suspect you're a good woman.'

'Another educated guess, I presume?'

A small smile briefly flickered over his features, and then he walked away. Amelia watched him go, seeing him settle down with his case files, Morgan leaning back on the seat with his eyes closed, music pumping through the earbuds. Reid was asleep on the sofa, mismatched socks just visible. The book he'd been reading had fallen to the ground and she could see that about a quarter of its pages had been bent in the process.

A way to show you care.

As quietly as possible, Amelia crept over to where he was sleeping and fixed the pages. They had visible creases in them now, but she replaced the book upside down so that the weight of the other pages might correct it a bit. Despite the slight rustling, Reid didn't stir–he was out like a light. Amelia smiled to herself and headed back to her seat to finish the poem she'd been reading before Hotch had come.

TERENURE

I laughed at the lovers I passed

Two and two in the shadows,–

I, as solitary as one old horse I saw

Alone in the meadows.

The lovers so many I passed,

In mute embraces:

A roadside flower, joy,

In the hid places.

I wondered, sure, to notice joy

As common as a weed–

Out of my loneliness wondering,

Laughing, indeed.

I loved all the lovers I passed

Two and two, in the shadows:

I, solitary as one old horse, was standing

Alone in the meadows.

–Blanaid Salkeld (1880-1959)