Regrets and Laments

"Doing the right thing for someone else occasionally means doing something that feels wrong to you."
~Jodi Picoult.

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

Will LaMontagne looked at the faces in front of him with the kind of tired defeat that comes from utter fatigue, the kind that seeps into the bones and soul. Sandy had left earlier that morning to pick up Henry from Penelope's, and Hotch and Rossi had appeared in the hospital waiting room to tell him about Spencer Reid's arrest the previous night.

His taxed-out brain was still calibrating, still trying to process everything.

"I…I can't tell JJ about this," he admitted heavily, looking at the two men for some kind of support. "She can't handle it right now—and Henry, he can't know—"

"He doesn't," Rossi assured him gently. "And there's no need to tell JJ about any of this yet—which means the hard part falls to you. You're the one who knows, who has to go in there and pretend like everything's fine."

"What should I tell her? You know she's gonna ask how the case is going." Will had aged a decade in the past three days, and it showed in every line of his face.

"Tell her that they've got a suspect," Hotch offered. "It isn't a lie."

Will nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"I'll tell her that y'all came to see her, too—the whole team," he added.

"Tell her that we can't wait to have her back," Hotch's voice was gentle, lined with compassionate sincerity. "And once she's back in a real room, the nurses will have to drag us out."

Will grinned at the mental image—in part because he knew it wouldn't be far from the truth. Life with Jennifer Jareau included the continual threat of having their house overrun by her nest of adopted siblings who also happened to be her work colleagues. Right now, Will wouldn't have it any other way. Orphaned and uprooted to a completely different region of the country, he'd arrived to D.C. as a stranger in a strange land, as the old saying went—JJ and Henry had been his reason for moving, his only family left in the world, but the BAU had quickly made him feel like part of a greater whole, part of some big extended family. Granted, he had his own colleagues, who'd also been supportive and helpful, and although there were even a few he considered friends, none had reached the level of feeling like family, like the way JJ was with her team.

"Hang in there," Rossi pulled him into a hug, only further reinforcing Will's concept of the BAU.

"I would say keep me posted, but I feel like I'm better off not knowing," Will admitted. "Besides, I've got enough to worry about on this front. But I will say this—find this bastard and give 'im hell, will ya?"

"Without a doubt," Rossi informed him. With one last round of farewells, the two agents headed back down the hall. Once they were out of earshot, the Italian quietly asked, "So what's our next move, boss?"

"We need to have a look at that evidence—we can't really start fighting back until we know what we're up against," Hotch admitted, his dour expression belying the fact that he didn't have much faith in their chances.

"I hate to admit it, but I don't think Mac's gonna let us have a go at it," Rossi tucked his hands into his pockets. "That woman's a stickler for rules—too much professional integrity."

Hotch didn't miss the note of admiration in his colleague's voice. Nor did he forego the chance to gently prod, "So when are you going to admit that there's something going on between you two?"

"When there's something actually going on between us, I suppose," the older man returned nonchalantly. "Which there isn't."

"Currently."

"Really? You want to play this game now?"

"Well, obviously Mac does," Hotch didn't even attempt to hide his smirk as he walked out the front door of the medical center. "Or else she wouldn't have planted that very enthusiastic kiss on you yesterday afternoon."

David Rossi actually stopped walking, staring at his boss in utter shock.

Hotch turned back to him, "What? It was out in the open, and I happened to be standing by a window in the MCC van."

"And did you share what you saw?" Rossi's brow lifted in critical questioning. He was moving again, making his way back to his car.

"Of course not." Hotch allowed himself another grin as he opened the passenger door. "I'd be a bad blackmailer if I gave away all my information for free."

Despite the heaviness of current events, David Rossi had to laugh.

Evidence Lab, FBI Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.

Jeff Masterson had dutifully and stoically accepted the fact that every major event in his career as a federal agent was forever going to be accompanied by the sound of generators, with the grace and longsuffering of a martyr. That didn't stop him from absolutely hating the sound, no matter how quiet it seemed.

There had been generators in Nairobi, at the mall that had been bombed by jihadists. There had been generators on the ninth floor, where he'd spent the last few days meticulously picking up bits of evidence from the rubble. And now, there were generators here, in the lab, where he and Roe would be locked away for hours and days on end, like new-age miller's daughters, trying to weave straw into gold—although in their case, they were trying to pull an evidentiary narrative from stacks and stacks of data. And no little Rumpelstiltskin would ever appear to magically do it all for them.

Now that the blast site had been fully vetted by the evidence recovery team, workers were going up to cap off any open wires and repair any damage that could start an electrical fire, before resupplying power back to the main building. Jeff held on to the hope that they could achieve this as quickly as possible, thereby eliminating the need for the generators and their constant metallic whirring. It was the only thing that kept him sane.

All thoughts of sanity and generators were immediately abandoned the moment that Macaraeg led them into their own section of the evidence lab, which currently housed all of the confiscated contents from Benjamin Fuller's house.

"Whoa," was Rowena Lewis' response, her hazel eyes the size of saucers. "Mac, how did you load all of this up in a single night?"

"With the help of some eager young things," their unit chief gave a quick wink. She'd slept like the dead the night before, and within a matter of hours, she would be in Madison, Wisconsin, watching her only child graduate from college. Perhaps she should be a little less excited about it, but she'd decided that since there was so much darkness in the world, she shouldn't feel guilty about what few moments of happiness life did afford.

She pointed to various parts of the room, mapping out what each collection of items was, and their corresponding significance. She added, "O'Donnell's offered to send in some additional help, but there's a certain section that can only be handled by us three."

Curiosity instantly appeared in her colleagues' faces.

Mac led them over to the long set of metal tables, which held almost two dozen large plastic evidence tubs. With a heavy sigh, she patted the one of the lids, "These are from Fuller's library. Some of them are just notebooks from school, from classes at the Academy—nothing big, but I'd still like you to comb through them. But first, I want you to go through the containers labeled nineteen through twenty-one. Those are the goldmines, so far. They're Fuller's personal journals."

Roe gave a sudden hum of understanding—obviously, it made sense to go for the items that you knew would provide some kind of evidence.

"Now, here's the thing," Mac ducked her head for a moment, worrying her thin lips between her teeth. She turned back to her two team members, trying to remain as detached as possible. "I didn't tell you this last night because—well, because I knew it wouldn't be welcome news, and this is a fact that has to be kept in utmost confidence. And, I wanted to tell you face to face. Personally, I haven't had the time to read through all of these—no one has, not entirely—but last night, Agent Dawson and Agent Eden found several entries implicating Spencer Reid as a collaborator in the bombing."

"That's bullshit." The words flew out of Rowena's mouth.

"Right now, that's a fact," Mac reminded her, arching one brow in unspoken warning. "And right now, our job is to treat these journals as absolute truth—until we can find something that corroborates with an opposite narrative. Our job isn't to interpret the evidence—we just collect it, and document it for the investigating team, without bias. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, ma'am," Jeff gave a curt nod of understanding. Obviously, they had personal feelings about this development, but the determination in his gaze informed his unit chief that it wouldn't stop them from doing their job. "We'll do what needs to be done."

"That's all I needed to hear," she informed him. She spared a sympathetic glance for Rowena, "For what it's worth, I don't want to believe it either. But we can't let our personal desires have any kind of influence on the work we're doing here. I'll be gone until very late tonight, and I am trusting both of you to uphold the integrity of this Bureau—and the integrity of this unit in particular. You don't share what you find with anyone other than O'Donnell or Dawson, or one of Dawson's team. Got it?"

Two heads bobbed in agreement. Mac was satisfied.

"Good. Now, I've got a plane to catch." She offered one last smile, one that implied her faith in them and their abilities. "Try not to be too brilliant while I'm away—don't wanna make me look like a slacker."

"Aye, boss." Jeff grinned as she moved past them, back towards the lab entrance.

"And," she turned back to them, her amber eyes filled with regret. "I am sorry. For both of you. I really am."

Somewhere between D.C. and Quantico.

"So…can you at least tell me what I'm supposed to be apologizing for, just so I know where to begin?" Derek Morgan kept his eyes on the road ahead, but every fiber of his being was focused on the reaction of the blonde woman seated next to him. Last night, before the BAU team had finally left Penelope's place, Morgan had been able to convince Penelope to let him drive her to Quantico in the morning, to retrieve her car.

Of course, if he were honest, he could admit that it was less about the car and more about finding a moment to be alone with his Babygirl—alone and forced to stay in the same space, no matter how ugly things got. It made him feel horrible, resorting to such tactics, but the clawing need to know what was going on and to fix it as quickly as possible overpowered his guilt.

Penelope didn't seem shocked by the question, which only furthered the sense of foreboding in Derek's veins.

She let out a light sigh, "It's not—you haven't done anything wrong, Morgan—"

"Then why the hell have you been giving me the oh-mister-you're-in-the-doghouse-now treatment?" He tried to be playful, to do anything to alleviate the oppressive air that had filled the cab of his truck ever since Penelope had climbed inside.

"I…I don't know." The helpless tremor in her voice ripped at his heart.

"Babygirl, please talk to me. Please—I don't even know what else to ask, or how to ask, I just…I just know I can't go without you talking to me."

It was a sweet sentiment, and if it were coming from someone else someplace else, it might even be seen as swooningly romantic—but this was Derek Morgan, and Penelope knew that he didn't harbor any feelings like that for her.

"Do you ever listen to the way we talk to each other?" She asked, slightly redirecting the conversation.

"All the time."

"And what do you think about it?"

"About what? Penelope, we've had this conversation before—this is how we talk, and there's nothing wrong with it. It's our language—ours, something we don't have with anybody else—"

"And doesn't that seem a bit strange?"

"Why should it be strange?" His face quirked into an expression of confusion. "It's us, being us. Nothing more natural in the world."

"Let me rephrase that: why wouldn't you talk this way with anybody else?"

"Because…nobody else is you."

Sometimes the man was too damn sweet for his own good. Still, Penelope had a point to make. "No, Derek—because nobody else is safe."

He didn't respond, didn't take his eyes off the road, but she could tell that he was actively listening to every word that she said. So she continued, gingerly, "Derek, you're a gorgeous guy—"

"And you're a pretty hot ticket yourself—"

"That was not the point, and please don't distract me. The point is, when a guy like you walks up to a girl and says those kinds of things…women tend to take you seriously." Penelope took a deep breath. "Except for me. I know…I know you mean them, in a way, but you don't mean them."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—whoa. I don't mean them? Babygirl, I mean—"

"I'm not saying that you're lying, or being…whatever. I'm saying that when you tell me that you love me, when you call me your girl—you mean it, of course you do….but you don't mean it that way." She held her breath, waited for the words to sink in. When he didn't reply, she gently continued, "And I know it's the same way with me—I can be as openly flirtatious with you as I want to be, and I know at the end of the day, you're not waiting to ask me out and make an honest woman out of me or any of that crap. We're…safe, for each other. We can joke and say deep, soul-baring things that normally only people in romantic relationships say to one another, and it's OK, because we both know….we both know what it is. And whatever it is, it's been the basis of a pretty solid friendship for over a decade now, and it works, and I'm not saying that I want to change it, not in the least, I just…."

"You just what?" He held his breath as he waited for an answer.

"I don't want to change it, but I think we should."

He felt his heart stop for a full beat. Now he turned to look at her, the shock and the hurt evident upon his face. "But…why?"

"Because," she offered a small smile, still trying to be as delicate as possible. "Because we know what this is….but others don't. Sam didn't, not really—and I'm sure there are at least moments when Savannah isn't sure, either, and…and she doesn't deserve the uncertainty. I don't want our friendship to be the reason that you spend the rest of your life alone."

"First of all, I'm not alone—I am living with Savannah, in case you forgot," Derek Morgan was back in command-mode, trying to handle this situation before it got completely out of hand. "Second of all, even if I end up without a girlfriend or a wife or whatever, I won't ever be alone. I'll still be with you."

"Yes, but not with me," she pointed out quietly. "And you deserve a full-package deal. We both do."

He took a moment to choose his words before he actually spoke, "Penelope. I understand where you're coming from, I really do. I'm just not sure why it's happening now—unless Sam said something that's messing with your head. And if that's the case, I will gladly go to him and set the record straight—"

"I don't think that you showing up to defend my honor against my ex-boyfriend is going to send the right message," she informed him wryly. This time when he glanced over, he saw the beginnings of a smile on her face, and he felt a flutter of hope in his chest.

"I just don't want this…whatever this is happening between us right now," he admitted quietly. By now, they were nearing Quantico, which seemed eerily abandoned in the early morning hour. "Because I do love you, and I don't want to live without you in my life, Penelope Garcia. I've had enough trauma this week—I don't want to lose my best friend as well."

"You haven't lost me," she assured him, reaching out to pat his arm. "I just…I don't want you to lose other parts of your life, just by keeping me around."

"You're worth the sacrifice," he returned without a second's hesitation.

Oh, this sweet, darling man. He still didn't get it. Penelope knew that this conversation would have to happen several more times—they had more baggage to unpack, more items to discuss and sort through. For now, she'd let the matter rest. Derek Morgan responded best when he was given time to ease into things, she knew that from a decade of experience.

So she easily changed the subject, "Can we just take a moment to acknowledge the fact that Sir Hotch was the one who called Emily multiple times over the past two days? And that she's on her way here now?"

Derek Morgan gave a victorious laugh, "I know! I am telling you, the predictions we've made about those two are going to come true, one way or another."

He wasn't a stupid man. He understood this for what it was—a deflection, a momentary flash of respite from whatever quagmire they were wading through. But he'd take it, even if it was only for a moment. Rest when you can, fight when you have to—Penelope Garcia wasn't done, and he knew he'd need all of his strength to continue talking her off the ledge. For now, he'd enjoy a moment of simply being who they were supposed to be.

"Maybe they just need a little push," Penelope suggested. "I mean, we'll have them on the same continent again—not actually working together in a professional capacity…."

"So maybe we can encourage some kind of very unprofessional liaison?" Derek guessed with a sly grin, which only made his passenger erupt into laughter. Many years ago, after a few too many drinks, they'd made a mental list of the perfect pairings for each of their coworkers—JJ was out of the running, Rossi and Reid had gone to non-team members, but Hotch and Prentiss had been paired up. And honestly, Derek and Penelope had been rooting for that head canon ever since.

"If anyone can make it happen, it's us," he informed his best friend, who nodded in vigorous agreement.

"So, step one: get Reid out of the slammer. Step two: get Hotch and Emily on the love boat," Penelope surmised.

"That would be the plan, to a tee," he gave a nod of approval.

The playful banter continued, each trying so hard to seem truly recovered, for the sake of the other. But deep down, they both wondered if they'd look back on this morning as the day that their rock-solid friendship began to crack.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Dora Carrington bowed her head, taking one last deep breath before getting out of her car. She was playing a losing hand this go-round, but she'd play it til the cards ran out.

Cruz wasn't an idiot. It wouldn't take him long to know that there'd been some kind of leak—Jordan had refused to tell her what she was doing next, but Carrington could easily guess that it ended with the BAU being aware of Reid's arrest. And once that happened, the next logical question was: who told you?

As soon as she entered the room, she knew that he knew. The look of heartbroken devastation on Mateo Cruz's face was so blatantly evident that even a blind man could see it.

He rose to his feet, his voice barely a whisper as he said, "Dora, we need to talk."

She merely nodded, not trusting her vocal chords or the sudden tears that sprung to her eyes.

This was it then. So anticlimactic, given the stakes, given the fear and the stress surrounding it all, given the years of her life that she'd dedicated to this place, given the gravity of what she'd done.

But Cruz was a good man, a kind man—she knew that, and perhaps that had even fueled her resolve to betray him in the first place. She'd known that whatever happened, he wouldn't be cruel or unjust.

They walked down the hall, into another empty room.

"Why did you do it?" He didn't even bother asking if she'd done it—they both knew.

"I…I'm not sure I can put it into words," she admitted, her voice shaking just as much as her hands. There was a sick feeling in her stomach, like how she'd felt just before coming out to her parents, when she was certain that her confession was going to ruin whatever hopes or pride they had in her.

"Try. Please." He looked up at her now, settling against the edge of an empty desk. He was a judge, wanting an explanation from the criminal before passing down his sentence.

"I—I did it before I realized what I was doing. I saw what was happening to Dr. Reid and I—I was so shocked, I just needed to tell someone what I'd seen, to know it was real. So I called Jordan."

"Why her?" Cruz looked genuinely curious.

"She cares about Dr. Reid. They're friends."

"Same applies to his colleagues at the BAU."

"Yes, but…I didn't think she'd do something about it—well, that's a lie, I suppose deep down, I knew she'd do something, she's Jordan, it's how she is, who she is—but I just." She suddenly stopped. Then she looked up, directly into her boss' face, taking a deep breath. Gone was the bumbling girl, in her place stood a woman owning her actions. "I felt helpless. And I was tired of feeling helpless. So I tried to do something good—something I knew was the right thing to do."

"And do you still feel like that was the right decision?"

"Honestly, I can't say. But I can say that I don't regret it. I know how this will end for me—if I'm lucky, I'll just be fired, and if I'm not, I'm facing possible criminal charges. And I am sorry that I put you in this position, but…but I'm not sorry that I did it."

He took a moment to study her. "Why not?"

"Because regret's useless. It keeps you focused on the past, which you can't change, instead of the present, which you can." There was a slight quiver of emotion as she added, "Chief Strauss taught me that."

An unreadable look passed over his face. Quietly, he admitted, "I'm never going to be what Chief Strauss was to you, am I?"

"No, sir." He actually saw the young woman blink back tears.

"That's why you chose Jordan—she's your last connection to Erin."

No response. But he didn't need one—the answer was a plain as day. With a heavy sigh, Cruz pushed himself back onto his feet.

"I'm not going to charge you with anything, Dora. But I can't possibly let you stay."

"I understand, sir." Those words were easier to force out of her throat than she'd expected them to be.

He simply stared at her for a moment, the distress on his face tugging at her already-fractured emotions.

"I trusted you, Dora. The way that Erin trusted you. I depended on you, just like she did."

She simply offered an apologetic smile. The unspoken answer was understood between them.

You trusted me, but I didn't trust you—not the way I trusted Erin. You're a good man, but you weren't good enough.

He returned to an air of all-business. "I will contact you to let you know when you can collect your personal belongings from the office, which might be a few days, given the circumstances. I'm not voiding your credentials—not until all of this is sorted. That kind of thing in a time like this raises questions, and personally, I don't want to deal with all that. I'm hoping that you won't abuse that favor."

"I won't," she was quick to assure him. "I won't come back until you tell me to."

He stopped at the door, turning back to her one last time, "You know, it would've been so much easier to bear, if you'd had some kind of ulterior motive. But it all boils down to my character, and how you see me. Not an easy thing to accept."

"Sir," her voice caught with emotion. "Sir, you are a good man. A good boss, but more importantly, a good man. I didn't do it out of spite or contempt—honestly, I wasn't thinking of you at all—"

"I know." He interrupted gently. And again, the rest was unspoken but understood.

You were too busy thinking of a dead woman—someone who didn't even need you anymore, not like I did.

He opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Carrington slumped into a nearby chair. This wasn't how her life was supposed to be. This wasn't who she was—some reckless, love-starved woman who ruined her career and jeopardized the course of justice for the approval of a daughter of a dead woman whom she'd once admired.

In a few minutes, she'd walk back to her car, drive back to her house in the suburbs, and start trying to sort out the absolute trainwreck that had become her life. But for now, she'd simply sit here and weep. Though she couldn't say why or for what she was weeping, not in the least.

"Occasionally we all do wrong things from right motives. Only time can prove us right or wrong. The past is the past. Nothing can change it now, and who is to say that it was all wrong, anyway?"
~Mary Balogh.

*Author's Note: I'd like to take a moment to ask two (sort of similar) favors of you all. First, big huge CONGRATS! to Angela, who writes for this site under the pen-name Annber03 (and who happens to be an AMAZING writer, if you haven't had the chance to read her work, you absolutely should), and who has been picked up by SpoilerTV to review the current season of Criminal Minds! If you miss an episode, or maybe have a few lingering questions about this week's episode, or just want to read some really brilliant and often laugh-out-loud hilarious observations about it, this is the place to go, and she's the gal to read. So the favor I'm asking is that you DO go visit her on the SpoilerTV site and give a review, if you like what you read! (Spoiler alert: you totally will.)

Second favor: for those of you who've read my other work "Out of Africa" (and for those of you who haven't—for shame, I say!), I'm asking that you help me out, here. That particular story is currently in a fandom competition on Inkitt. I generally don't enter competitions or otherwise solicit votes, but hey, here we are. If you enjoyed that story, I'm asking you to please vote it up on the Inkitt site. Please note voting ends Oct 21, 2015. (Side note: Soon I'll be posting some of my other non-fanfic based stories on that site as well, under the pen-name MarvelousMadMadamMim. Please consider yourself cordially invited to check it out).

And a huge THANK YOU to everyone who has supported my work so far. The best part of storytelling is actually sharing the story, and you've all made story-sharing a wonderful experience. Thank you, from the bottom of my ink-stained heart.*