Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds

Morgan and Elle knocked on the suspects door. There was no answer.

"Mr. Hareld!" Elle shouted. "Police! We have a warrant." There was the sound of feet running from inside. Elle nodded and Derek raised his foot. He kicked the door in, hitting it so hard it almost fell off its hinges. Morgan stumbled slightly, shocked at just how hard he had hit the door. Shaking it off he ran in to see the suspect running down the fire escape. He ran after him, thinking that he was already too far to catch him. Crawling out the window, he could see the man hit the pavement running.

He went down the fire escape faster than he would have thought possible, running full speed (Which was much faster than he thought) He tackled the man before he made it to the street.

"Shit!" He said as Morgan landed on top of of him. He cuffed his hands. Morgan read him his rights, standing him up. "Shit, man, you are fast." So, it wasn't just in his head. He thought about that as he all but carried the extremely resistant man to the squad car. Elle was suddenly right next to him. He jumped sightly.

"Geez, Elle, you scared the crap out of me." He said, turning to face her.

"Morgan." She hissed at him, his brow furrowed.

"What?" He was confused. Was that… worry on her face?

"Why the Hell would you do that?" She sounded angry in an attempt to cover up the concern.

"What?" He asked again, "What did I do?" He demanded. She just stared at him.

"You jumped off the freaking fire escape!" She all but shrieked. His brow furrowed again.

"I did?" He asked.

"Don't joke around, Derek. You are lucky you didn't break your legs." She scolded. He was still confused. He wasn't even hurt…? Had he really jumped from the fire escape? He felt stronger and faster than usual today. Weird. He shrugged, not thinking anything of it. After all, people could do crazy things on an adrenaline rush. Right…?

…

Penelope pushed open the large door forcefully, letting light into the otherwise dark room. People sat at computers in rows, looking at her.

"Where is that son of a bitch?" She snarled at no one in particular. Shane walked out of the back room, a pleased smile on his face.

"Care to talk in my office, dear?" He asked.

"No, I don't care to talk in your office, and do not call me dear." She snapped.

"Well, we can't talk in front of all of my clients, now can we?"

"Yes, we can." she said. His eyes hardened.

"Talk in my office, or no talk at all." He said. She hissed out a breath.

"Fine." The word was all but snarled. He smiled again, gesturing for her to follow.

"Where is it?" She demanded.

"Where is what?" He asked, feigning innocence.

"All of my stuff." She said. "You are the only person I know that would take all of my personal belongings from my apartment to get me to talk to you." She crossed her arms.

"Look, baby, just give me another chance." He said, his voice persuasive. "We can be as good as we once were."

"Where is all my stuff?" She hissed again.

"Do you swear to listen if I tell you?" He asked, knowing she always kept her promises. She reluctantly nodded. "It's in my old storage locker. Code is still the same." she nodded again.

"Now, what do you want?"

"I just want you to remember how good we were. I was there for you. What changed?" He asked.

"You did."

"I can change back!"

"No, you can't. This is who you are. You just want to… fight all the time! Everything's an argument!"

"Well, maybe if you-"

"Don't try to turn this around on me!"

"Well it is your fault."

"No, it's not!"

"You left me."

"Then why are you trying so hard to get me back?"

"Because you need me, even if you don't know it." They were both so into it, they didn't even notice the lights flicker.

"I don't need you, I never have and I never will!"

"I made you what you are!" The screens on the computers in the room began turning on and off.

"No-"

"I picked up the pieces of you after your parents died, I harnessed all that potential-" The lights blew out, light bulbs shattering with the overload of energy. The screens of every computer blanked, as the word 'no' blinked on and off of the screens. She yelled as this all happened, cutting off her ex. They both blinked in the dark, as Shane spoke again. "Woah." Was all he said. 'Woah' was right.

…

Spencer woke that morning and instantly wanted to go back to sleep. It felt like he had a killer hangover, when he hadn't drank at all the night before. He stumbled out of bed and into the shower. The warm water eased the pounding in his head slightly. He got out and dressed. As he was buttoning up his navy blue shirt he paused. He felt something, like contentedness… but he didn't feel it. It was like it was there, like he could touch it. But… how? He followed the feeling, and found his housekeeper. As he got closer to her, the feeling got stronger, something between happiness and contentedness.

"How are you this morning, Mrs. Gonzales?" He asked. The older lady spun from the food she was making.

"I'm great, thank you Dr. Reid. How are you?" She said kindly, her Spanish accent less pronounced than it had been when he first hired her. He paid her more than enough, subconsciously feeling guilty that she did things for him that he could do himself. He also enjoyed her company and wanted her around.

"Uh, a bit of a headache, but other than that I'm fine." He smiled.

"Do you need any-" She began, but he cut her off.

"I'm fine, don't worry about me." He quickly interrupted, still feeling a bit awkward when anyone tried to take care of him. She muttered something along the lines of 'I'll always worry' under her breath as she turned back to what she was cooking.

"Breakfast will be done in about five minutes." She said.

He made it to work, his head still pounding, about an hour later.

"Ah, there you are." His manager said, grabbing his arm lightly. Spencer gasped as if shocked when thoughts that were not his own ran through his head. Strong emotions accompanied the thoughts, and he pulled away. The feelings and thoughts were clearly separate from his own, but it was too much. "Woah, sorry Leo, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine, just a headache." He said, grabbing his head. As an afterthought he added, "And please, don't touch me." The man seemed shocked, but only nodded.

Getting home that night, Spencer had had just about enough. The headache had only gotten worse as the day wore on, too many feelings that were not his own invading his mind. Any time a person touched him, the feelings got stronger and he could hear their thoughts. He thought that he was maybe going crazy like his mother.

"No!" He said out loud to himself, and an expensive vase that Lila had gotten him for his birthday shattered against the wall. He stared at the shards for a moment as curiosity invaded his mind. He realized his housekeeper was still here and had heard the crash, he sighed, rubbing his face. What the Hell?

…

Hotch was sitting at his desk doing paperwork, when the door to his office flew open. It hit the wall behind it with a bang, and he looked up. He recognized the man as the father of a young man he had convicted. The young man was a 20 something year old frat boy, who had killed a seven year old girl in a drunk driving accident. Here his father was, and he looked angry.

"You son of a bitch!" The man snarled.

"Excuse me?" Hotch said, standing. He had a few good inches on the man, forcing him to turn his angry gaze upward.

"You got my son locked up, you bastard!" He yelled.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to leave."

"No, you locked him up!"

"I didn't lock him up, sir, he got himself locked up." Hotch said calmly, knowing that this probably wasn't the best response. But anyone hurting a child, even if it wasn't intentional, infuriated him.

"How dare you?" The man shrieked. "It was an accident!"

"It was a choice to drive intoxicated." That seemed to be the last straw for the man, and he pulled a gun. Hotch's eyes widened as the man raised it and pulled the trigger. Hotch threw his arms up, as if to stop the bullet. There was a bright flash of light, and a scream.

But it wasn't Hotch's. He opened his eyes, first noticing that there was a shield like energy surrounding him. He put his arms down abruptly, and the shield went away. He looked at the man across from him, and had to stop the gasp that threatened to escape his lips. The man lay bleeding from a gunshot wound. Before he could even go to him, the man let out a final gurgling breath. His eyes clouded over and Hotch just stared. What had he done?

…

Emily Prentiss had become suddenly ill after going to the zoo with her niece, and had come home to get some rest. She sat her purse down on the couch and walked into the kitchen. She rummaged around the junk drawer until she found what she had been looking for. Pulling out the thermometer, she pulled off the plastic cap and walked into the living room. She sat down on the couch next to her purse while she waited for the thermometer to confirm her suspicions. The little thing beeped and she checked the temp. Yup, she had a fever.

She didn't have an assignment since the last one had been deep undercover. She so didn't want to think about that.

"Lauren Reynolds is dead." She said out loud to herself. She went to her room and changed into pajamas. After that she decided that simply chilling with a movie would be best. She sat on the couch, letting The Godfather play as she drifted off to sleep. When she woke, Emily felt… different. She stood and stretched. She hopped off the couch, but something was off. Why was she close to the ground? She looked down at her paws… paws?

She reared back suddenly, but nothing changed. She walked past the large window and looked at herself. She was a cat. Oh god, she was a large black panther. She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was something that sounded like a meow. She really didn't want to be a panther anymore. She repeated that in her head while willing herself to go back to normal. When that didn't work, she closed her eyes and tried to calm down. She took deep breaths and let them out slowly. She continued to do this until she gradually she felt herself become a person again. She sighed with relief when she was sitting on the floor as herself again. And then she noticed that she was completely naked, except for a large torn t- shirt she had fallen asleep in. She quickly got up and away from the window. What had just happened?

…

JJ was cooking dinner in her apartment. She was making stir fry, which she was suddenly craving. She ran around the kitchen, doing this and that. She turned and knocked a glass of water off the counter with her elbow. She reacted the way someone reacts when something is unexpectedly thrown at them. With instinct. She threw her hand out as if to catch the water and it just… froze.

Mid air, the water had stopped falling. She just stared at it, dumbfounded. It had now formed a sphere, and was just floating there. She dropped her hand, and the water fell to the floor. It splashed everywhere, and she cursed. She grabbed a rag, throwing it on top of the water. She moved the rag around with her foot, when shrill noise pierced the air. The fire alarm. She spun to see her stir fry on the stove, burning.

"Crap." She said, reaching out to turn off the stove. When her hand got near the flames, they reacted. Like a sentient being, the fire reached down and stroked her hand. She gasped, pulling her hand away quickly. She looked down, fully expecting to see second and third degree burns. What she had not expected was to see the perfectly fine skin on her hands. She looked up, swiping her hands at the fire again. It went out. She felt her eyebrows raise. How did she do that?

…

Rossi sat back in his chair. He wasn't lying when he said writers block was a son of a bitch. He closed his eyes, willing his thoughts to come. He wanted the ideas to be like water, flowing. He opened his eyes and huffed. It hadn't worked. He stood, walking over to his liquor cabinet. He reached out to open it, but seemed to miss the knob. He grunted. Trying again, he had the same result. But the second time, he noticed the real problem.

His hand was going through the door. He stood, stumbling back. He was suddenly across the room. He looked around. He was on the other side of his desk. He looked at his hands again, noticing this time that they seemed less solid. Like how images on a projector looked. He reached out, tentatively trying to pick up a piece of paper. His hand went right through it. He stared. He was getting too old for this kind of thing.