"Drink?"
"What?" I hear Will speak to me, but I don't hear what he said. He mumbles sometimes and it annoys me. I know that I snapped at him because everyone looks at me. It's brief, but they do, and then they pretend like they didn't. They forget, for a moment, that I can fucking profile, too.
"Do you want a drink?" His hand on my lower back scalds, and I move away from his touch, quickly seating myself to get away from it. The hard wood of the chair feels better than my husband's hand.
"Sure." I don't look at him, but at my hands on the table, as I pick at the chipped black polish on my thumbs.
The seats around me are quickly filled by the team. Dialogue is stilted and short. Gideon sits, too. He and Rossi carry most of the conversation, catching up after so long. Spencer sits beside me and he's staring at his hands, too, pointedly ignoring Gideon. I look at him, I want to comfort him. I'm both grateful to and angry with Gideon, and Spencer's face is so pale that I let the anger win and I glare at him across the table on Spencer's behalf. He chose today of all days to show up again, as though it wasn't going to be hard enough. Spencer has completely retreated into himself, but I dont' have the energy to even attempt conversation so I just go on glaring at Gideon but he doesn't even notice. He doesn't even glance in my direction. Eventually, I give up on glaring, because he doesn't care anyway and because it's giving me a headache. I haven't had any water all day.
Will comes back with a white wine, and I'm annoyed that he didn't read my mind and know that I needed water, as well. As soon as he sets the glass down in front of me, I'm on my feet and heading back for the bar, leaving him standing there, staring at my back as I go. I hear Hotch mutter something, I think he says, "Let her go."
"Can I get some water please?" I ask the waiter. In his black shirt and slacks, he's the only one whose attire doesn't annoy me. He says very little, which I'm grateful for, and immediately produces a glass of ice water.
"Thanks." I don't turn away from the bar, I don't head back to the table. I don't want to hear about where Gideon has been for the past four years. I don't care. He could have joined the fucking circus and I couldn't give less of a fuck. I don't want to sit there and feel sorry for Spencer, because I'm annoyed that he feels sorry for himself right now, when we just buried my best friend, even though I know that's not fair. I feel sorry for myself right now, too, because I miss her so much that it feels like a gaping, bleeding hole in my chest. I don't want to be near Will, who has tried so hard to comfort me over the past two weeks, and whose touch I recoil from, because even he can't make me feel better. He doesn't have a chance in hell, but he's still trying, and I'm incapable of appreciating it, because at the end of it all, she's still fucking dead.
Someone joins me at the bar and I recognise the watch. It's the silver Rolex Submariner with a black face that I know well. The same watch he's worn ever since I've known him. It's eight grand worth of watch. It makes the Dior dress look cheap. I wonder who it was a gift from, because I know he would never spend that money on himself.
He doesn't say anything, hasn't said much to anyone since it happened. Come to think of it, I don't think I've heard him speak since. But then, I've been actively avoiding him. I've been avoiding all of them, but mostly him.
"You okay?"
He clears his throat, raises to his lips the half pint of bitter, small in his hand.
"No."
It's good to know that he can speak. Good enough for me, anyway. I don't push because I get it. I'm not okay either.
We stand in silence. I have nothing to say to him. I stare at my glass, counting the ice cubes again and again. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. And when counting stops helping, I assign them letters. A, b, c, d and e. D is the smallest ice cube. B is delightfully round. I'm studying ice cubes to avoid talking to Hotch. I'm pathetic. I don't care.
I spend most of the day disassociating. I'm there in body but not in mind. I don't say more than a few words to anybody. Penelope is worried and keeps casting me annoying, anxious little glances that I pointedly ignore. I'm doing her a favour; worrying about me keeps her eyes off of the cavernous, murky abyss in our group, and the weeping, festering wounds her absence has blasted inside of each of us.
Sure, it's eating me alive but at least I can keep Penelope occupied.
"Jayje, you should eat something." I don't know who says it, but I ignore them. A plate is placed in front of me, full of tiny portions of food that I'm sure is delicious. It's grotesque, I think, to enjoy food at a funeral, so I don't touch any of it. I can't remember the last thing I ate. The plate sits there, untouched, the soft bread of the sandwiches going hard, crispy pastry on the tiny pasties getting soft.
Will also keeps casting me concerned glances, which I also ignore. I'm busy assessing in my head how long we have to stay. Henry is with Jack, at Jessica's, and staying overnight. It was kind of her to offer and I think I was too quick to say yes but there's a bottle of vodka at home with my name on it. It's a terrible idea to mix alcohol, and I've been drinking white wine all day, but I don't care. I'm going to drink Vodka and I'm going to put The Proposal on TV. It's one of our favourite movies. Was. I'm going to chase that with Case 39, which we saw at the movies. Penelope hated it but Emily ate it up, even if she did correctly predict the twist.
I'm desperate to go home now. It's been a long day and I haven't been around the rest of the team for this long since the hospital. It makes me itch, being here, without her. Last time we were all together like this, sitting around a table, eating food, was a few days before I flew to Afghanistan for the first time. A farewell meal that was fun but bittersweet and angry but comfortable. They all made it clear how mad they were that I was leaving. None more so than her.
"It's fucking bullshit!" She said, in her usual colourful language; saying it as it was, like she always did. The rest of them had been pretty tight-lipped about it, but Emily had no problem calling Strauss out for her crap. "They know you're a fucking asset so why would they take you away?"
"Emily." Hotch said, in a tone that was gentle but warning.
"No," She held her hand up, to halt him, and she got away with it, because we were off the clock, and because, well, she was Emily, "It's like they don't want us to fucking solve murders and literally save people's lives."
She sat back in her chair, shaking her head, so that her ponytail swung erratically from side to side, her cheeks flushed with rage. Beside her, Spencer's eyes were wide, and he met mine across the table. I smiled, a tight, amused smile, trying to be reassuring. It was sort of nice to know that my imminent absence was such a source of contention. Maybe that was a little bit selfish, because Emily was clearly irate about it, but it made me feel warm, wanted, loved. They were all sad to see me go, and I was sad to leave; it was a comfort to know they would miss me as much as I would miss them.
Of course, at the time I didn't know what my mission was. I had plans to see Emily and Penelope every other weekend for brunch; those plans quickly fell through when I found out what my real assignment was, the real reason I was taken away from the BAU forcefully, and why I didn't really have a choice. In the end, it wasn't really Strauss' fault at all. I never got to tell Emily that. That dinner, when she was so angry and we were all so drained and upset, was the last time I saw her alive.
"Emily's right." Penelope said, and her usually cheerful, bright face was dark with a frown. "It's fucking bullshit."
We all snapped around to look at her, and even Emily's mouth was open in shock. Then, miraculously, we all broke into laughter. And that was when I knew it would be alright; that I would always have this family to come home to.
The job was dangerous. We all signed the paperwork, we all knew what we were getting ourselves into; the documents were explicit about it, and nobody signed them lightly. Contracts, disclaimers, affidavits, non-disclosure agreements.
Not once, in all of my time away, in all of my years working for the BAU, with that team, did I think I would bury one of them.
Not once did I think we would bury Emily.
Will and I walk through the front door and the house is quiet. I stand there, in the hallway that is cold and seems unfamiliar to me now. Will edges around me and flicks on the light and I flinch.
"Drink?" He says but I don't answer him. Wearily, I drop my bag on the side table and walk through the house, into the kitchen, and leave him standing there, staring after me once more.
The vodka is thick from the freezer, and I don't even add a mixer before throwing it back. It burns and I'm glad. I'm pouring a second drink as Will walks in. He's taken his shoes and his coat off; I'm still in my black trench and heels. He stands in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and surveys me in silence. I don't look at him. I don't know what to say to him anymore, and I don't want him to see that in my eyes. We're already five feet apart emotionally, and everyday I make that trench a little wider.
So, instead, I pour him a drink, too.
"Thanks." He mutters, stepping into the room to take the glass from the counter. He goes to the fridge, tops his up with coke. By my third shot, I'm wishing I'd eaten more at the wake. The little finger sandwiches looked pretty good. I don't even know what food we have in the house, I haven't been shopping in weeks. When Will offers me the bottle of coke, I take it and top up my fourth drink.
"Your feet must be killing you." It's an invitation to get comfortable, to take off my shoes. He knows, then. That I feel like a guest in my own home. That coming back is like stepping into someone else's life, someone else's skin. My life is an old coat; too loose on the shoulders, too tight on the waist and so long that it tangles between my feet, tripping me up. He knows it doesn't fit me right now.
I'm not sure it'll ever fit me again.
I ignore him, again. I'm being an asshole. I want him to call me out on it, so I can pick a fight. He won't though. He says I'm 'going through something', and he's being the good guy, giving me space, letting me get away with being a bitch. Of course he is, Will is exactly that kind of guy. It's grating. Fine, if he won't pick a fight, I will.
"Can you stop putting Henry in the tacky clothes your mother sends?" I say, without even looking at him. This time, he's quiet and unwilling to take the bait. Fine. I push. "Your sister might want to dress her children like Dutch farmers from the 1800s, but I don't."
"Just stop, Jayje." He drawls, tiredly, moving towards the sofa, "I know what you're doing." He sits down on the sofa, his knees wide apart, and rests his elbows on them. As he runs his hand over his face, I notice that he's let his stubble grow longer than usual, that there are dark circles under his eyes. For the first time, I'm struck with the thought that perhaps I'm not the only one struggling here. Will is working a full time job, and basically raising Henry alone. But then I remember, his best friend didn't just die. His dad did, though, and even if that was a few years ago, maybe he understands. So, for the first time in a long time, I go to him.
My leg brushes his as I sit beside him, heavily, and cradle my glass in both hands, and this time, I don't flinch away.
My nails are bitten down and I think I'm adopting her habits, turning into her. Maybe it's my way of trying to keep her alive. All I know is my fingers are sore and cracked.
"Got you some cream for that." Will says, and not for the first time in our lives, I think he might be able to read my mind.
"Thanks." I say, quietly, and wonder if my marriage is over.