Loyalty

It was cold in Quantico – unseasonably so, when the weather was supposed to turn for spring. Frost still hardened the ground, and on the roads a forgotten Christmas banner had been trampled until it was filthy and almost illegible. Against the iron-wrought sky, the BAU headquarters rose up and stood as a bastion.

Inside the bullpen, Derek Morgan returned to his desk with a fresh, hot coffee, and sifted through the paperwork he had yet to finish. In front of him was Spencer Reid, hard at work on a project he could not see for the partition between them, who acknowledged him with only a fleeting smile. Emily Prentiss soon came with her own coffee, and nodded to them both.

"Reid?" She said when she saw the books that surrounded him. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, just a pet project I've started working on between cases," he replied. "I'm researching the relevance of monarchies and how they affect global standing, economic status and the overall political well-being of their countries. I don't know if I'll publish my findings yet."

Derek reclined in his seat – as much as he could, of course, for it could be stiff and unyielding – and let out a chuckle. "If that's how you're dealing with the slump, Reid, I'm taking you out to a club soon."

"Really? The first participant of Derek Morgan's mentorship program," said Emily as she settled down on her chair. She turned it towards them, her fingers laced over her stomach, and gained a thoughtful expression on her face. "It has been a while since we had a case, though. If we're not careful, we might actually start to relax."

"Don't jinx it!"

The sound of Penelope Garcia's voice caught them off-guard. Their heads turned in surprise, and out she came from the hall, her dress dotted with colourful bursts of flowers and her cardigan a mute pink. When she appeared from her computer room, it often seemed as if the bullpen became lighter, as if her loveliness shone through as an ever-present ray of sunshine. Under her arm she carried a bundle of files, and smiled warmly at them. "Hello, my darlings, how are we all?"

There were a few murmurs of response, then Derek gestured with his coffee cup to her burden. "What're all those?"

"These, my dark knight, are the illegal websites I have to go through for all that nasty stuff that keeps us in work," she responded. Had her smile wavered he may have been concerned, but Penelope, rarely one to succumb to defeatism, simply paused at his side and laid the bundle atop his desk. "Gruesome stuff, and unfortunately one of the many fun parts of my job."

"There must be fifty papers in there," he observed. "How'd you manage to get through all that in one morning?"

"Sheer will and unlimited coffee refills," was her response, patting the top of her folders. Before she could pick them up and retreat once more to her office, Rossi appeared, an experienced, warm smile on his face, sparing a glance through the window to Hotchner's office as he approached them.

"I think Hotchner's stir-crazy," he commented. The team looked towards their supervisor. He was on his phone, pacing the room, but his shoulders did not hold the same tension that he had when he was hearing troubling news. Just the rigid, authoritative posture he always held, tempered by years of experience.

"I'm not surprised. How long's it been since he relaxed? A decade? Two?"

"That's generous," Rossi perched himself on the edge of Reid's desk, eying the work over his shoulder. "If JJ doesn't find us a case soon, we might even see him get a hobby."

"Hotch? A hobby? Now that's crazy." Morgan put the coffee to his lips and took a long draw. As the bitter taste swirled in his mouth, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye; the door to the bullpen, and a small, muted red blotch sweeping through it.

If not for the reactions around him, he would not have paid it any more mind. But Rossi stood up from his perch, his brow furrowing in confusion as Reid looked up, and Prentiss slowly rose out of her seat. Garcia also turned, and from her throat a slight strangled noise croaked forward, her mouth forming an almost perfect 'O'. When he looked, he too found himself standing, but when he recalled the moment later he would not remember getting out of his chair.

There was a child in the bullpen. A girl, perhaps eleven years old, her hands shoved in the pockets of a red trench coat that was darker in places, as if she had spilled something on it. The boots she wore seemed too large for her feet. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back into braids that tightened her face. Quite a severe stare, Derek thought, as he crouched on one knee in front of her.

"Well hey there," he murmured, his tone warm, comforting, "what're you doing here, sweetpea? Are your parents nearby? Did you get lost?"

"This is the BAU, isn't it? The Behavioural Analysis Unit?"

The determination in her voice surprised him. It held the crisp, clean tone of a southern English accent, and Morgan's brow rose.

"Yeah, that's us," he confirmed. For a moment her eyes were still hard, as if she were reading him for signs of dishonesty, and then she swept the team's bewildered stares. She had their full attention. Morgan could not quite tell if that was what she wanted, but what she had expected.

"I've read your books," she mentioned to Rossi. Before he could respond – he had opened his mouth to do so – she continued. "You want to talk to me. You have to."

"What's wrong, sweetpea? Why do you think we have to talk?"

"Because—" she pulled her hands from her coat, and collectively those that stood flinched, "—because it's important."

Underneath the lights, a crimson slick of blood glistened on her palms.