Chapter Ten.

FLAME: Intense passion or ardour; burning emotion.

Flanders didn't wake up screaming and thrashing about. He just opened his eyes and waited for someone to realise that he was no longer sleeping.

It was wonderful to have his own head back... a reasonably empty head. No voices nattering at him. Nothing telling him what a bastard he was or giving him detailed information on female anatomy. He looked up at the white ceiling, blinked at the strip lighting... moved his head slowly, his brain sloshing around inside his shattered skull. It was more than slightly painful, but Floyd wasn't going to give them the pleasure of seeing that. He mentally bit back on it and waited... waited... waited for someone to notice movement.

When a whole minute dragged on and no one had come running in hitting him with a cattle prod, he decided it was time to let them know he was already bored laying here.

'Hey!' He called out into the silence. Not even the beeps from a machine. Nothing. He pulled on the restraints but they had him secured pretty well. He could have ripped himself out, but he didn't think that he had enough going on in his skull to tell his limbs what to do if he managed and rolling and flopping around on the floor like a beached whale wasn't the way to go.

'HEY!' Louder this time. He coughed... spat something out and made the bed rattle slightly and finally that sound of a door opening and light footsteps.

'Dear god.' A squeak of a voice. Terror? Strapped down with half a brain and he still managed to terrorize people. That was kind of wonderful.

'Water.' Floyd licked his lips.

'Dear god.' That voice again and the door closed and the person was gone. Well that was a nice way to be greeted back into the land of the living! At least the bloke recognised him... maybe not quite as a god, but getting there. Slowly. Very slowly. Perhaps by the time of the next Big Bang he'd at least have his damned wings back again! That put a bit of a smirk on his dry lips.

He wiggled his fingers. Curled his toes... sniffed and clenched his fists. This was getting fucking ridiculous! Where the hell was everyone? And on that thought the doors opened again and someone else repeated the two words the other man had spoken, but this person came closer, looked closer... stood so Floyd could see him. Middle aged, greying at the temples... receding, clean shaven, but deep lines of an over worked and stressed person marked a pale face, slightly pock marked.

'Can you hear me?' He leaned in closer.

'I need water. Thirsty as a Sahara whore. Yes I can hear you.'

'Can you see me?'

'Yes I can fucking well see you. I can smell you too... water... then I need you to make a phone call for me. Hurry. Time is short.'

'Dear god.' He jumped back out of the way. 'This is impossible. This is...'

'A miracle... I know... I know... now the water and the phone... now?'

It was the following day when David Rossi walked into the room. By then Floyd had persuaded everyone who mattered that he was completely harmless and strapping down a cripple was pointless to some very high degree. He still couldn't make his legs do what he wanted them to do – basically run, like a rhinoceros was trying to fuck him with it's horn... run, run, run and never look back. Hide in a cave somewhere, eating rats and sucking on the moss and waiting until the end of times... But, for now there would be no running... stupid legs.

There was some alarm on Rossi's face when he saw the lack of restraints... not even a single bit of plastic tie or a handcuff of any description to keep Flanders on that bed.

So Dave paused at the door, looking to Floyd as though he had on his best swag; jeans, shirt open at the neck to display a few curls of greying chest hair, and a smart jacket. He looked, as usual, a complete arsehole... (had he dyed his hair?) but Floyd forgave Dave, for now at least, because in Rossi's case, dress sense and Floyd's ability to manipulate him didn't match. At least looking at the old geezer Floyd thought this was the one who would do what he requested.

'Nice to see you looking so...' Rossi paused as he pulled a black plastic chair closer to the bed. Not too close... not terribly close at all, but closer than being out in the corridor on the other side of a security door.

'…Alive.' Floyd finished for Dave who was running a finger on the knee of his jeans.

'Alive is suitable, but I was going to say well.'

'I see. I do! I do see. I understand your reluctance to get to close to me, but I'm a shell of what I was and I'm not well and I'm not really, very much... not absolutely alive either. I do therefore need you to do something – somethings – for me. I've let them prod and probe me enough now. It's time I got going.'

Rossi jumped back to his feet. Floyd was actually shocked to see that someone so old and fake and weathered looking could move so fast. He raised a lazy eyebrow at Dave and told him to settle back down again. He didn't mean that he was leaving now, or ever... it was something else entirely that he meant. Dave sat back down again, tugging on the thigh of his jeans so the crotch didn't feel uncomfortable on his old man balls – at least that's what Floyd assumed he was doing it for. There was a twinkle of pleasure to know that he'd never have to age and become some old fart... nor would Spencer. They'd both been let off that completely. How wonderful.

'I'm dying.' Floyd then said. He was determined not to use bad language. He had in mind to show Rossi what an intelligence they would be losing here. 'I've been in discussion with Spence – Spencer, with Reid and we have come to the conclusion that my death is the only way forward from this point.'

Dave blinked, rubbed at his temples and sighed. 'Spencer?'

'For sure, yes, Spencer. We sat and talked and though he is violently pissed off with me for what happened, there is a margin of forgiveness available, but this depends on much of what happens next. I will not permit him to possess me. I will not allow that and if that meant escaping from here and walking in front of a train then I would do that. I'll not be used in that way – but it's no matter, because I'm going to stop my heart and I will die. I need your word on something first.'

'Floyd.' Dave looked very uncomfortable. 'Spencer is dead.' It looked as though he was waiting for shock to register on Floyd's face, but there was none. There was a small nod of the head.

'Well of course he is. Levin slit his throat. Why are you telling me he's dead? We've had this discussion, remember? At the grave-yard, in the lych gate... you'd hardly be going to visit his grave if he wasn't dead. You think I'm a fool? You think that having part of my brain expelled and left to dry on the gravel makes me a fool?'

'Then tell me how you are talking to him?' Dave looks puzzled... or is he just doing an old man face, Floyd can't tell. He's almost wishing he'd asked for JJ to come see him. At least she was so full of botox that facial expressions didn't come in to play.

Dave leaned forwards very slightly. Floyd could see the marks in his hair where the comb had been scraped through it. It was for a moment beautiful. It reminded him of wind blowing through a field of grass, cutting partings and magical pathways which then disappeared as soon as they showed. He would have liked to have run a finger along those marks on Rossi's head and felt for the grooves, dips and bumps which made up the surface of the scalp. It was fascinating, so much so that Rossi was speaking and Floyd couldn't get his mind to concentrate. Couldn't pull his thoughts away from Flowery Meads on a warm summer day.

'Floyd?' The scrape of the chair and the movement of the head he'd been concentrating so hard on, broke the illusion and it was just Dave's head again. Floyd didn't speak but looked at Dave trying to figure out if there was any point in carrying on this chat about dead people. 'Floyd, you are unwell. There seems no point – in talking to you today, so I'll come – back another day.' Dave had an odd habit of splitting his sentences up in slightly the wrong places. Floyd had noted this before but it seemed very pronounced just now.

'No!' Floyd went to sit, went to leap off the bed and break the bastard's arms, but all he did was slide slightly to one side. 'No... Dave you have to do something for me. I need to have it in writing what I want to happen to my body when I die.'

This has caught Dave's attention. He rubs at his stupid beard and looks down his nose at Floyd who is laying awkwardly but doesn't appear to want to move, or cannot move. At least not yet.

'I don't think that I'm the person you need to be talking to. I can arrange a lawyer to come and see you.'

'Has to be today. I might die tonight. It's that close! Can't you tell? Rossi... just write it down because it's vitally important. If I don't want to be crippled and haunted for eternity – it has to be done right. Are you ready?'

Dave stood, straightened his jacket and gave Floyd one of his sanctimonious looks. Rossi seemed good at that, but it also seemed to be a play, an act – fakery. Nothing ever felt quite as it should be around Rossi, yet Floyd didn't totally dislike him. He certainly felt no hatred towards the man. He just despaired of the man's superiority complex.

'Get paper and write it all down.' Floyd ordered him. 'Now.'

'You could just tell me.' Dave offered. 'I will see things set right for you.'

'Not good enough. It's very particular. You've seen how I keep... well... how I seem to live through anything thrown at me, to stop that... to put an end to this, it has to be done correctly. Get paper, pen and a coffee or whatever and come back and do that for me. I'll never ask anything else of you, well not much else of you. Just what's on the list. For some unknown reason, I do trust you, even though you led me to my almost death, knowingly, even though you've done that I trust you... a tiny bit... just a speck, but that speck looks like a planet next to the dust flying around my head that is what Hotchner is... Please, you want me to beg you?'

'I don't want you to beg me. I'll get what you need.' And Dave left in a whoosh of automatic security doors.

Floyd lurched back upright and stared at his legs for a while, silently willing them to start doing something, but there was still a block there. His hands were shaking like he had some kind of palsy and his body felt numb and ancient. Maybe that's all it was. Age finally catching up, but the doors opening and Dave (the hero) reappeared with a note pad and a biro. He sat, holding the pad in one hand and the pen in the other.

'Tell me what needs to be done.'

'When my heart stops and my breathing ceases I must not under any circumstances be resuscitated. I should be taken from here and to a place of cremation. I need my clothing... not this stuff, but my jeans, shirt, waistcoat, boots... my lighter in my pocket and a gold coin. They must be on my person at the final moment. I need to be decapitated, the wound on the neck sealed with flame and then placed atop my shoulders. I will be cremated. After the job, which will take a considerable time – I'm quite fireproof – a bit of a bugger when you need to be cremated, but I think if my head is removed it will be easier – my ashes to be taken to Spencer's last resting place and scattered. I understand that the lighter and coin will have melted and they need – it's actually imperative, that they stay. If necessary, dig into the grass on Spencer's grave and bury them. It's important. It has to be done. If you follow all of that, then you'll never see me again.'

Rossi was staring at Floyd... he's stopped writing a moment ago when decapitation was mentioned. 'You want your head removed? Floyd...'

'You look disgusted by my request. It's not so much to ask is it? After I've been kept here as some sick sort of experiment in regeneration of the cells? Can you, or can you not see that done?'

'The appropriateness of some of this is questionable. I can certainly see that you have your lighter and a gold coin, of course. I can take your ashes and scatter them... I don't feel after all that happened that putting your remains with Reid's is the right thing to do.'

Floyd sighed. He wished to hell and back that he could get off the bed and pummel him with his fists, hard, but he let out a resigned sigh. 'Dave, it's the most right thing that could possibly ever happen. Let us be at peace together. It's all we've ever wanted or needed. It is my final request. Can you see it done? I will ask until someone agrees. If not you I'll ask Hotchner, then Morgan... so let the gods be kind to me and not have to degrade myself by going down that route. I need my things, I need my head removed and I need to be put with Spencer with my silver and gold... will you do it?'

Dave again stood. He had an arse with a spring in it. 'I'll see what can be done.' He nodded, turned and whooshed away out through the doors.

For a while now, as Floyd sat there like a bag of potatoes and wondering why the hell he couldn't get his legs to do more than nothing... not even a curl of the fucking toes now! For a while he had Spencer back there in his head... not nagging so much as – well – making small demands and putting questions to Floyd and some of those questions he had absolutely no intention of answering.

'Why did you ask Rossi?' That was the first question. It made Floyd jump. He had been whining in his head about his legs with such venom that he'd not even realised that Spencer was there.

'Because, though he stinks of cologne, it's a slightly better stink that the one Hotchner uses, and I don't think Hotchner would have considered my requests.'

A small tickle in Floyd's brain followed as he pictured Spencer settling down somewhere comfortable in his shattered and ruined skull.

'You think you can manipulate him.' Spencer then said, almost in a disappointed whisper. 'Why ask for your lighter and a gold coin? What is the need?'

'They are my things. I want them.'

Again that tickling sensation. Floyd wished the bastard would sit still!

'Why ask for your ashes to be put with me?'

Floyd sighed he looked at his floppy pale hands and then licked his lips. Would Spencer detect a lie? He had no idea. Maybe not. Spencer was new at this sort of shit after all. 'Because I wanted to be near you. I do love you, Babes. I want to know that my remains are with yours.'

Silence. No tickling... nothing. Floyd wondered if he'd gone again... but then a slight shifting let him know there was still someone bedded down in his brain.

'When it's over, what will happen? To us, I mean... I mean, what are your long term goals?'

'Fuck sake! You know! I will cross the river with you. We will live for an eternity feeling loved, fulfilled and never need anything else. It is paradise, Spencer.'

'And Sam? What about Sam? I thought we were going to get him.'

'Of course. And Sam... we'll go get Sam. That's what I meant. The three of us together forever in love and...'

'I see.' And there was a very strange snap... and Spencer was gone.

A great relief! Floyd didn't want it – Spencer... his love... no he didn't want that trawling through his mind for too long, getting all snug there, knowing truths. It wasn't Spencer's place to know truth. He'd learn along the way. Some things never change, can't be changed...

Hopefully.

With Rossi, things were not quite going to plan. The staff at this laboratory had wanted to cut Floyd open, take out his insides and see what made him what he is. They were not inclined to just incinerate the most unusual creature they'd ever had to study. They also absolutely point-blank refused to decapitate him. Only a sick man would make such a request. A very sick man and if he's as sick as this list of needs seem to indicate then they couldn't even begin to agree with them. It was not going to happen. The man was going to be used for medical science. His parts studied under microscopes and bits grown onto mice... maybe clone him, all that normal sort of thing. It was now up to Rossi to get a court order to stop the experiments and allow the man – Floyd – to rest in peace. Even the most vile of murderers had that right – and Floyd was the most vile of murderers. It actually didn't take long to sort out. Within a few hours he had papers in his hands to say that Floyd would be cremated and his ashes scattered.

There was no mention of removing the head. There was no mention of the silver and gold. There was no mention of where the ashes would be scattered, but they were minor things and some of those Dave could sort out himself. He was pleased to be able to inform Floyd that everything was sorted. He would do what had been requested.

Dave sat on the plastic chair again and looked at the enigma sitting there seemingly helpless. He wasn't convinced that he was and so kept a slight distance between them and he certainly wasn't going to touch him.

'It's late. I have to go.' Rossi stood. 'I'll be back tomorrow.'

Floyd sort of nodded, but that blinding pain was back again and his vision had gone strangely cloudy. He had thought he'd check and double check on the details of his disposal, but couldn't be arsed to speak. It just seemed like far too much effort. He would have to trust Rossi. Floyd closed his eyes and let out a long held breath.

It was nearly over.

He would thank the gods – but the gods had very little part in this.

This was Spencer's doing.

If Reid had not been such a dick then he'd still be alive. It was Spencer's fault... his fault for being so damned interesting to be around. His fault for being beguiling and seducing him with those eyes of his... and his mouth... and those sweet suckable nipples.

As he lay there thinking of the delicious things Spencer did with his mouth and how that would be his for ever... a forever beautiful Spencer, all his... not having to share – being free, feeling that need and greed from his love... his beau, his paramour is darling and forever to be cully. It was as he thought those wondrous and delicious thoughts that he let himself go.

Firstly he stopped his breathing... closed his eyes... waited... counted to fifty-seven and then stopped his heart.

It was more of a hibernation than a death. It was no true death. Floyd could stop breathing and hold his breath whenever it took is fancy to do. It meant nothing, which was why he really did need his head to be removed. He had such an intense survival instinct that unless it was done as he requested he would, he knew, fight his way out of any flaming enclosure. It's just not simple to kill something as marvellous as he is – was – no IS and forever will be! A marvellousness which could never be repeated or copied. He was aware of how awesome he was.

Vaguely he could feel the hospital clothes being removed. He felt his legs being stuffed into his jeans... he was dressed like a child would dress a doll, that is, not very carefully and bending arms back into almost impossible positions. They stuffed his boots on his feet. Put his waistcoat back on and then lifted him and lay him on something which felt cold through the thin, worn fabric of his rolled up shirt sleeves. So far so good. All he needed now was his lighter and a coin... all he needed was for them to actually do the fucking job and remove his head.

Soon.

Very soon.

A whiff of a familiar smell.

Hotchner? What in living fuck was he doing here. He could smell him leaning over, checking, making sure he was dead.

'Good.'

Well fuck you too, Agent Aaron Hotchner... Fuck you and your dirty brat.

Floyd sort of expected the whole team to come and gloat, but no, it was just Hotchner. Well at least he'd not have to go out with their voices giggling in his head.

A hand slipped something into his waistcoat pockets. 'Lighter and a gold coin.' That was Rossi. Thank You Rossi. Thank you.

Then a sliding sensation... a bump... a small jolt and the sound of a door closing. A metal door. The smell of heat. The stink of burnt flesh. A sudden and terrible rush of an inferno... Hell was not this fucking hot! They'd not removed his head!

They peered through small observation windows. Not at first... not when they thought this was just going to be a straight forward business... but it wasn't. And they did look... with horror...

And Floyd did try to escape... he screamed, slammed his feet against the small door... howled as he exploded into flame, seeming to float around the chamber like... well like some sort of mystical demon... his fists cracked into the wall of the incinerator... his face, dripping flesh... eyes wide with accusation...

How long did it last?

It seemed to take forever... they saw Floyd gradually melt away as new skin attempted to grow over the cracked and black burnt flesh... they saw teeth which popped like popcorn in his mouth, push back out of his gums like he had a never ending supply of teeth in his head, which split open like a melon, spraying the side of the incinerator...

Half an hour passed before the screaming stopped.

Dave had puked in a waste paper bin and Hotcher had walked very quickly out of the concrete room and too the toilets where he emptied his stomach in a more controlled manner. They agreed with each other that this would never be mentioned. Never spoken of. It would haunt their nights forever, they both knew that... but at last it was done. It was over.

As all things cooled down, a nugget of silver and another of gold was handed to Rossi. He slipped them into his pocket. Other bits were collected up, large fragments put in a grinder everything swept into a clear plastic bag with a metal twist tie at the top and this was handed to Dave who looked at what he'd been given and wanted to ask for forgiveness. He wanted to beg Floyd... explain that not all he asked for could be done, but it was much too late for that now.

Somewhere was a very pissed off and hurt Floyd...

Ashes were scattered over Spencer's grave. Honestly, Rossi had had no desire to do it and would have happily flushed the waste down the toilet... then he thought of scattering him in a woodland, but in the end it was back to the graveyard and through the lych gate and kneeling at Spencer's grave he tipped out what was left of Floyd, pulled out the metal nuggets and pressed them into the ground.

'It's over. Finally we are rid of you.' Rossi said, slightly prematurely. Maybe.

Now all Floyd had to do was persuade Spencer that crossing the river, just the two of them was a far better idea than trawling their arses to hell in search of Sam... who always got in the way... no one liked him... forget him...

But first he needed to lay in the river and cool down a bit.