Related episode: 4.04 Hopeless
Expressionism - atonal and violent style used as a means of evoking heightened emotions and states of mind
If there is one universal truth about those in law enforcement, it's that they are one and all caffeine addicts, especially for coffee. Good coffee, bad coffee, scalding hot or luke warm, it didn't matter.
The same is true for retired federal agents, like my on-campus ally, Megan Reeves, who was one of the school's counselors. She had been on a Major Crimes team in Los Angeles, but had decided to pursue her degree in psychology and her first acceptance for a job was Strader University several months ago. Megan was also a friend of a friend's of Reid, so when he had heard about it, he made sure that she would know about me.
What was nice about Megan was that I could tell her anything that was going on, all my worries and insecurities, especially as they related to the people I loved on the BAU team, and she knew all the context and implications without any additional explanation. For that alone, I valued Megan and appreciated her willingness to listen to me.
Late one day, after I had already finished orchestra rehearsal and got in an extra hour of time in a practice room, I found Megan in her office, now fully furnished and decorated somehow in the madness of the first few weeks of the fall semester. She was engrossed with her computer, her hair swept up in a loose knot. Given what I carried in my hands, I simply waited.
Sure enough, I heard Megan suddenly inhale sharply. "Coffee?" she asked, looking up and around until her gaze rested on me. Or rather, the two carry cups of coffee I carried.
"Hi, Rachel, good to see you. How are you doing? Oh, I don't suppose that second cup of coffee is for me, is it? Thanks so much," I rattled off sarcastically.
Megan shot me a look full of censure as I walked further into her office and took a seat across from her on the opposite side of her desk. I gave in to the look and handed over a cup and some individual packets of cream and no-calorie sweetener.
"Yes, thank you," Megan muttered, doctoring her cup and taking a healthy draught, heedless to the temperature.
"You okay?" I asked cautiously. I was used to seeing people in this state (see, Hotch, Reid, Emily, just to name a few), but Megan was surprisingly normal considering her former career.
"Oh, just a long day," Megan answered, leaning back into her chair. "I swear, I honestly didn't think that college students would be more exhausting than criminals."
"Criminals get locked up," I explained. "College students get sent out into the world to do more damage."
Megan laughed as I meant her to. "Really, thank you for the coffee."
"It is past six o'clock," I pointed out. "You should get something to eat."
"I've got more paperwork," Megan said regretfully.
"I'll bring you something," I offered.
"Rachel, you really don't need to—" she tried to protest.
"Megan," I interrupted. "I am the author of The Care and Feeding of Federal Agents. I'll be back in a half hour."
I left before she could argue with me more. I could have found one of the dining options on campus, but I would always prefer the Crown Café. Natasha usually worked the morning and early afternoons for the breakfast and lunch rush, leaving the less busy dinner time to her staff to cover on most nights. I ordered a turkey club wrap for Megan and a portobella and cheddar panini for myself.
Even if the café wasn't too crowded, the other shops in DuPont Circle had plenty of traffic, so I had been forced to park several blocks away. I was half way back to my car when something—a sound, something in my peripheral vision, just a shiver down my spine—had me stopped dead in my tracks and searching for the source of my caution. My paranoid nature had me reaching for my phone just in case I was feeling Foyet watching me when I realized what had caught my attention.
At first, it was a distant roar like a storm, then car alarms added to the cacophony. I heard shattering glass and shouting, and only then did I start to notice the blue and red flashing lights from dozens of squad cars.
Before I knew it, dozens of people burst out from around the corner. I just barely made it to the side of the closest building when I saw what could only be called a mob making its way toward me. I lost count at fifty people running around, smashing windows, kicking trash cans, and causing general damage everywhere. I could hear similar sounds coming from the other parts of the circle. Cops in full riot gear were right behind them.
I plastered myself against the wall, trying to tuck myself into a niche between stores. My position saved me from the crossfire until a brick found its target and shattered the window right next to me. Instinctively, I raised my arms to protect my face, keeping the street in my peripheral vision and thanking my luck as the mob surged past me.
Now, I would have thought that the cops would realize that since I wasn't moving, I wasn't destroying anything, and I turned out to be bleeding from the flying glass, I wasn't part of the mob. But I also knew that in this situation, no one was taking any chances. But that didn't stop me from protesting and complaining when a cop grabbed me by the shoulder and started to drag me away to the truck where other miscreants were getting loaded up.
"Rachel!"
"Officer, stop!"
Other familiar hands grabbed at me, pulling me free of the well-meaning, but tunnel-visioned cop.
Rossi exchanged words with the cop before sending him back out there while Hotch glared down at me.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded harshly.
"I was picking up dinner," I protested. "What the hell is going on?"
"We picked up word on social media about a riot," he explained curtly. "You didn't know?"
"Hotch, you know I don't live online," I complained, because he did know. "I had no idea." I suddenly realized what direction the mob had been headed. "Oh my God, the café and bookstore…"
"Local enforcement is disbursing the rioters," Hotch cut me off curtly. "The café and the bookstore are just outside the established perimeter."
I heaved a sigh of relief. While I recovered, Hotch took notice of his hands which I now realized where streaked with blood. I looked down at my arms and noticed the various bleeding scratches that crossed my arms and hands, at least a dozen in all. And they only just started to sting.
"Shit," I swore breathlessly as the wounds began to throb.
Hotch grabbed my shoulder—a spot without any damage—and led me away without a word of explanation. His face looked like thunder, so I didn't push him. Among all the emergency vehicles, Hotch all but pushed me into the back of an open ambulance, called over a paramedic, and briskly ordered the woman to take care of me.
The cuts were superficial, but messy, the shallow wounds bleeding bright red blood. I struggled not to flash back to the last time I had had blood on my hands (Foyet), or the time before that (Garcia), or even the time before that (my mother). Breathing deeply through my nose was not effective since it just brought the copper scented air into my nostrils. As I knew from Reid, smell was one of the strongest senses for memory.
Hotch's hand wrapped around the back of my neck, a sudden warm and comforting presence that grounded me. He kept his hand where it was even after the paramedic finished pulling the glass pieces out of my arms, dousing me with peroxide, and wrapping light bandages from my wrists to my elbows.
"Thank you," I said quietly once it was just the two of us.
"Are you all right?" Hotch asked me, drawing away so he could look at me straight on.
I nodded, though I felt a wave of exhaustion sweep through me. It couldn't have been more than a half hour since I had walked out of the café with dinner for Megan and me. Megan, who was still waiting for me and might be getting worried.
I pulled my phone out and amended my thoughts on "might be getting worried." I had text messages from Megan, Michael, and Garcia who had all heard about the rioting and realized I might be around due to the café or the bookstore.
"Will you tell Garica I'm fine, please?" I asked Hotch, pulling out my keys at the same time.
Hotch grabbed my keys. "You're not getting your car out of this square until tomorrow morning. I'll have someone drive you home."
"I was going back to campus," I tried to protest.
"You don't have any night classes so you can go straight home," Hotch overrode me.
"I shouldn't leave my flute case in my car overnight," I protested more strongly this time.
"I'll try to have someone get it for you, but it will be hours before this area is fully secure, even later before they'll let people drive out."
It was worth a shot, but I knew Hotch was not only in federal agent mode, but also protective mode to the extreme. I wouldn't be surprised if he sent me with an escort and placed surveillance on my apartment. The night was still young.
To my surprise, Rossi was my driver—my usual chaffeur, Anderson, no where in sight—and he carried my messenger bag and my flute case. While he drove, I sent texts back to Megan and Michael to let them know I was okay. I didn't mention anything about the glass or scratches
Any other time in my life, I would be pestering Rossi for more details on what was going on, but given everything else I had going on and already preparing for my nightmares coming up in the night, I really didn't care why the FBI and the BAU were involved in teenage riots.
Also, the paramedic had slipped me a local anasthetic that had me drowsy.
"Hey, kiddo, I'm too old to carry you up the stairs," Rossi's teasing tone breaking through my daze.
"I'm fine," I groused, undoing my seatbelt and slowly getting out of Rossi's car. Not surprisingly, Rossi did walk me to my door and inside my apartment.
"Don't you need to be getting back out there?" I asked, trying to ignore the agent's presence in my apartment while I went through my night routine of turning on lights, feeding Hannah, and putting my purse away.
"Locals are rounding up the trouble-makers," Rossi answered nonchalantly. "Hotch, Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ are working with them."
"How is he doing?" I asked, keeping my voice quiet enough that Rossi could pretend he didn't hear me to avoid giving me an answer if that was how he wanted it.
"He's getting through it all," Rossi replied.
I shot the older agent a look over my shoulder, but left it alone otherwise. Rossi never felt the need to shelter me as Hotch and Garcia often did, but he was also fiercely protective of everyone in equal measure. And that included keeping any weakness he noticed in Hotch private from everyone else.
Rossi was poking around my fridge and I was guiltily picking up the scattered blankets, pillows, books, and music that I had left lying around when I had left for my morning classes when my door opened.
"Rachel?"
Michael rushed in, ignored Rossi completely, and headed straight for me, seizing me in his arms in a suffocating hug. He pulled away slightly to look into my face, searching for traces that I was all right. He pulled me close again, tight enough that I gasped.
"What happened to you?" Michael demanded, letting me free in an instant and noticing the bandages.
"Just some broken glass, I'm fine," I assured him.
"I heard about the riots at the garage," Michael explained. "When I realized where it was all taking place, I couldn't remember if you were working tonight or not."
"I wasn't, I was just picking up dinner."
Dinner which I had lost in the scuffle my stomach growled to remind me.
"The vegetarian here has no bacon in her fridge, of course," Rossi broke in and I saw that he was grabbing pasta and onions from my pantry—eggs, butter, and cheese were already out on the counter. "Run over and get some from your place and I'll make carbonara."
Michael shook himself ever so slightly to dispel the tension in his body and smiled. "You know, for a vegetarian, she's not that bad. At least she's willing to eat a little bacon even if she won't buy it or won't cook it herself."
"You're both hilarious, you know," I remarked dryly.
Since I was already being teased for my dietary preferences, I insisted on putting a quick salad of romaine, carrots, radishes, and balsamic vinaigrette together, especially since Rossi barred me from my own kitchen while he took over my stove top. But I really didn't mind; cooking was one of Rossi's coping mechanisms like me. I was already planning on baking cookies or something later tonight if I had the energy.
I only had a small table and two chairs, so Michael ended up eating his share of carbonara and salad leaning against the kitchen counter. Whatever Rossi said about the others on the team taking care of the case without him, I refused to let Rossi clean up and shooed him out the door. I might suspect that I would have another federal agent sent to watch over my apartment building as soon as he was gone, but I knew better than to fight it.
"You're really okay?" Michael asked me after I had started my dishwasher running.
"Yeah, more tired now than anything else," I answered honestly enough. The local anasthetic was starting to wear off and all I wanted to do was take some more pain killers and crawl into bed.
Michael insisted on staying with me longer, so when I went into my room to change into sleep shorts and a tank top, I also put on a loose-sleeved button down shirt. Yes, Michael and I had slept together months earlier and there wasn't an inch of me he hadn't seen, but that didn't mean I would prance around naked or near enough.
I read my Intro to Business text book while Michael flipped around TV channels and Hannah curled up between us. Many of the news stations were covering the DuPont riots.
"Seriously?" I asked after learning the origins of the mobs. "Just a bunch of bored, stupid teenagers?"
"And you always accused me of being judgmental toward our peers," Michael reminded me.
"Doesn't mean I didn't think you were wrong at the time," I added.
Eventually, I ended up dozing off to the sound of the television. Michael woke me by gently shaking my ankle which had somehow ended up in his lap. He had learned after the one time of shaking my shoulder how badly I now reacted to that ever since Foyet's attack.
"Go to bed, Sleeping Beauty," Michael chided me, a soft smile on his face as I sat up, gently rousting Hannah from her warm spot literally on top of my hip.
"Then get out of my apartment, Grumpy," I grumbled.
"Get me if you need anything."
"I'll be making a pot of coffee in the morning for whatever FBI detail sits on the street tonight, so come by for a cup if you want one," I offered.
Michael chuckled as he walked out. I locked up behind him and set my alarm. I left a light on and headed for my bedroom. Once I was horizantal, I slipped into exhausted oblivion.
Yoga the next morning was difficult, even after I had taken another dose of painkillers and stretched carefully. Checking under the bandages revealed that already most of the cuts had scabbed over properly. None of them had required sitches, thank God. I still had plenty of medical supplies in my apartment from my stabs wounds, so re-bandaging wasn't an issue.
True to my word, I brewed two pots of coffee, set up two mugs and two to-go cups, and rummaged up some muffins and oranges for a portable breakfast. Michael showed up and since my first class wasn't until 9:15 a.m., I made scrambled eggs and waffles for us.
Out on the street, I found what I expected: a dark SUV parked across from my apartment building with two guys in suits with sunglasses sitting in the front two seats. I walked over with my messenger bag over one shoulder and a cup of coffee in each hand.
"Good morning," I greeted cheerfully. "I don't suppose you guys can give me a ride to my car?"
I fended off questions all day about the bandages, and then I fended off questions the rest of the day about the riots. Megan even tracked me down right before my business class to check on me in person. And then I found Reid waiting outside my apartment when I got home from orchestra.
"How are you?" he asked me, nervously pushing his hair behind his ears.
"Getting really tired of that question," I replied. "At least with you I don't have to explain what happened. How is it going with the case?"
I held the door open for Reid as he pushed himself in with his crutches. The same day Hotch and I had been attacked by Foyet, Reid had gotten shot in the knee on a case.
"We identified the unsubs, the others are going after them," Reid explained.
"Did Hotch sideline you?" I asked.
"I'm effectively sidelined until I'm cleared by a medical doctor," Reid told me.
I looked over my shoulder at the genius as we slowly made our way up the stairs—my building didn't have an elevator.
"Let me guess, you tried to clear yourself," I teased. "Three doctorates doesn't mean you can diagnose and treat yourself."
Reid looked sheepish, so I was thinking I was right on the button.
"Oh, Agents Lee and Taylor thank you for the coffee this morning," Reid changed the subject. "That was thoughtful of you."
"The Care and Feeding of Federal Agents," I quoted myself from the day before. "I'm an expert."
Notes:
So with this chapter, I wanted to show the tension between Hotch and Rachel. Yes, Hotch turns Rachel over to Rossi, but he still worries about her (borderline overprotective?). I also just wanted a scene for Rachel to casually walk up to an FBI protective detail as if it were the most normal thing in the whole world. Because of course it's normal.
As always, thanks for the amazing feedback already. It's good to be back.
Cantoris