Flashpoint

"You are your own worst enemy. If you can learn to stop expecting impossible perfection, in yourself and others, you may find the happiness that has always eluded you."
~Lisa Kleypas.

Somewhere between Quantico and D.C.

Due to the lateness of the hour, traffic was light, at times nonexistent. Jack Dawson barreled down the interstate in the big black SUV, keenly aware of the fact that something was going on with his passenger and unsure of how to broach it.

Jessalyn Keller was a quiet soul by nature, but this was too quiet, even for her. She didn't even glance out the window, merely staring at the black dashboard instead. That was usually a sign of her slipping into a depressive state. The silence, and the staring. And sometimes she'd look at him, as if she were in a fog and couldn't quite make out his face. Or she'd get irritable and snappish, easily frustrated—which he guessed was why she and Eden were at odds, though for the most part, those two fought regardless of their current moods.

"You wanna talk about it?" He asked, almost reticently. He kept his eyes trained on the road, but all of his attention was directed at her.

Nope, especially not with you, Jessalyn's mind shot back. Instead, she switched one frustration for another and simply sighed, "This thing with Reid. It's…I don't know."

"Is that what you and Eden are fighting about? Reid?"

"No." That was truthful, and Jess found that she could infuse honesty with her running deceit. "We fought because I was frustrated over the situation with Reid, and it was easier to snap at her than at him."

"Ah."

"Yeah." Jess gave a mirthless smile. "Ah."

"You're frustrated because Reid didn't tell us who the UNSUB is." It wasn't a question, not in the least. Of course, he understood her frustration because he shared it.

Jessalyn tossed out her hands in a gesture of helplessness and confusion, "I mean, he was so adamant. And then suddenly—poof, it's all gone, it's as if we never had that conversation at all, like I just imagined it, like some kind of crazy person."

And here Dawson finally understood the depth of her frustration, realizing that it was tinged with fear. Jessalyn Keller already lived with one form of mental illness, and now she lived in terror of somehow succumbing to another—or at least having her colleagues' think that she'd become unhinged, irreparably damaged by her condition. He fought back the urge to reassure her that no one thought she was crazy, or that she'd imagined Spencer Reid's request to see his team—but he knew that she'd think he was placating her, and worse, she'd hate the thought of being pitied or seen as less than.

"Although if anyone is crazy, it's Dr. Reid," she decided, frowning slightly as she looked ahead into the night. "I mean, the way that guy was acting—you should have seen him before, constantly moving around, unable to sit still. And then the instant he's in the room with Hotchner, he just goes board-straight. I mean he could have been a statute, except for moving his mouth and his hand…."

She trailed off, big green eyes still hazily gazing into the darkness surrounding the vehicle. Dawson could almost physically feel the moment that her brain clicked in recognition as she turned to him fully, her entire demeanor suddenly alight with energy.

"Holy shit, Jack—I think I know what Reid was doing. He was tapping his finger, right?"

"Nearly drove me up the wall," Jack admitted with a curt nod, still confused but willing to follow Keller's rabbit trail.

"Only one finger. In a pattern—or what seemed like a pattern."

Now Jack understood, turning to give her a quick glance of surprise.

"Yeah," she confirmed his unspoked question, her eyes dancing. "I think he was using Morse Code."

"Call Sura. O'Donnell had the interview recorded."

Keller was nodding as she pulled her phone out and began dialing.

While they were waiting for Sura to answer, Jack asked, "You really think Aaron Hotchner knows Morse?"

"He wouldn't have to—so long as someone else watching the interview did," Jess pointed out.

"Blake. He didn't start the tapping until Hotchner told him that Blake was there."

Keller's eyes with wide and she pointed at him, silently decreeing, You're totally right.

"Roza," she smiled when she said the name. "I've got a job for you."

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

"Lay it on me, lover," Sura was on the phone with Keller, but she was looking at Shostakovich, who was currently installed on the couch in their temporary headquarters. He merely arched his brows suggestively, and she stifled a laugh at his response.

"We think Reid was using Morse Code during his last interview—he was trying to communicate with his team," Jessalyn's voice was quick and almost breathless, and Sura found her sense of adrenaline catching. "O'Donnell had the whole thing taped. I need you to look at the footage and see—"

"Look, I can watch the video and watch him doing whatever, but I don't know Morse Code," Sura informed her.

"I do," Jonas piped up.

Sura looked at him incredulously.

He gave a slight shrug, "I was a boy scout, back in the day."

"That really explains so much about you," she returned flatly, sotto voce.

He was too curious to appreciate her sense of humor—he was already on his feet and moving closer to her desk.

"Joe knows Morse Code, apparently," Sura returned to her conversation with Keller.

"Perfect. Have him take a look, then."

"Will do." Sura hung up and gave Jonas a flashingly sarcastic smile. "Welp, boy scout, time to earn your federal case assistance badge."

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

For a moment, it felt like being in a washing machine. Jennifer Jareau felt her brain rolling and tumbling as her groggy eyes tried to bring the room into focus.

"Well, hello there," Candy Mellinger's unmistakable voice was followed by her equally-unmistakable face, which leaned into JJ's line of vision. "How're you feeling, Jennifer?"

"Not bad, actually," JJ surprised herself with the truthfulness behind her own words. "What—what time is it?"

"A little after ten o'clock at night."

JJ hummed in understanding, closing her eyes as she slowly sat up, waiting for the heady rush of nausea that never came.

"How's your head?" Dr. Mellinger kept her eyes trained on JJ's face, searching for any signs of pain or discomfort.

"It feels…stuffy."

"That's the bandages. Don't worry, you'll be out of them in no time. Any headaches? Any vision problems? Do you feel sick?" The doctor slipped a penlight from her coat pocket and tested the blonde's pupil response.

JJ took a moment to listen to her body before responding, "No. No, not at all."

"Good," the doctor was beaming as she gave a curt nod of approval. She scooped up the chart that she'd set at the end of the bed, glancing at it out of habit rather than actual necessity. "So I talked to your husband earlier tonight—looks like you're going to be released into gen pop."

The prison term threw JJ off for a second, but she quickly recovered, "Wait, I'm leaving ICU?"

"Not right this second," Candy gave a wry smile. "But first thing tomorrow morning—that's if you can make it through the night without incident."

"Then how much longer will I have to stay in the hospital?"

"A week, tops. It all depends on how quickly your recovery goes." Now the doctor softened, reaching out to place a gentle hand on JJ's shoulder. "Jennifer, you survived a huge fall and two rounds of surgery on your skull, with a rash of seizures in-between. Your body needs time to recover. If you try to push yourself too far, too fast, you'll end up back where we started—so I'm keeping you in the hospital until I know for sure that you're ready to go home."

JJ merely nodded, knowing it would be useless to argue.

"I suggest getting some sleep," Candy gave a grin. "Once you're back in a regular hospital room, you'll be able to have visitors around the clock."

JJ grinned as well, knowing that Candy was referring to her son and her husband, who would undoubtedly be spending the majority of the day with her, once they weren't restricted to short and scheduled visitation hours of the ICU.

"But hey," the doctor became serious again. "I mean what I said about overdoing it. Just pace yourself, 'kay?"

She nodded, settling back onto her pillow as she closed her eyes, easily slipping back into the haze of half-sleep. Before she fully drifted away, she silently assured herself: It's all OK. It's all going to be OK.

Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

It was way past Penelope's bedtime, but no way was she going to miss the sight of Emily Prentiss attempting to sneak back into her home like they didn't both know where she'd been or what she'd been doing (well, Penelope didn't know for sure, but she certainly hoped that she had the right idea).

She was installed on the couch, finishing a cup of tea and wearing a cheshire cat grin whenever Emily gently opened the front door, trying to be as quiet as possible.

"Oh, you're still awake," Emily's face was a classic study on surprise and just the right amount of oh-shit-she-caught-me.

"Oh, yes, I am." Not a single note missed the infusion of innuendo as the blonde coyly asked, "So, how was he?"

Emily didn't miss the fact that Penelope used an ambiguous pronoun, but she studiously ignored it. "Oh, ah, Declan was fine. He's grown, since I saw him last."

"He invited you in for a shower?"

"What?"

"Your hair's wet," Penelope motioned to her friend's appearance.

"Oh, no," Emily gave a sheepish smile. "I got out of the car—I wanted to walk by, get a closer look. The damn lawn sprinklers came on."

Her performance was remarkably believable, Penelope had to admit. The story was basic, something that was entirely possible and would totally happen to Emily Prentiss—all in all, an easy sell. However, despite her teasing remarks earlier in the evening, Penelope Garcia was fully aware that her friend was a damn good spy. She'd lived undercover for years and had even fooled her BAU teammates for almost as long, until Doyle had appeared. She would have had plenty of time to prepare and rehearse her lie before returning to Penelope's.

"What's with the crazy grin?" The brunette asked, slipping onto the couch beside her friend.

"Oh, I just imagine that you two had a lot of catching up to do."

"I didn't speak to him—I just do the whole creepy drive-by thing, remember?" Emily looked confused.

Her friend pointedly looked at the imaginary watch on her wrist. "Must've been a long walk through the sprinklers…or maybe you took a little detour?"

"And where would I go, exactly?" Emily was well aware of what her friend was hinting at, but she'd make Penelope say it outright.

"Oh, I don't know," Penelope was pulling herself up onto her crutches with an air of innocence. She moved into the kitchen, washing out her tea mug and setting by the sink.

"You're a strange kitten, you know that, Garcia?"

"That I am, my lover-love. But also a very perceptive one." She stopped for a moment to add, "By the way, nice cologne you've got on. Very…manly. Very…familiar."

The blood in Emily's face disappeared as quickly as a grand piano dropping from a second story window.

Penelope was laughing so hard that she nearly fell over.

"What—I don't—" Emily held up the collar of her shirt, giving it a sniff.

Penelope howled even louder, "You're checking because there's a distinct possibility that you do smell like someone's cologne and you know it!"

"No, I'm just trying to figure out what you smell," her friend countered, her brows furrowing downward in an expression of confusion.

"Nice try, Emmy-lou," Penelope kept her maddening grin. However, she decided to end her friend's torture, giving a slight wave of dismissal as she made her way to her bedroom. "Keep your secrets, for now. Just know that you can't keep 'em forever—and certainly not from your best friend. I have rights, you know—the right to know who's getting a piece of that Prent-ass."

Now Emily gave something between a howl of laugher and a groan. "Oh my god, did you really just go there?"

"I did. And at some point, you're gonna have to tell me who else is currently going there—"

Emily opened her mouth to object, but Penelope stopped her, "No, don't even try to deny it, sweetheart. Just enjoy your last few days of anonymity with your strapping young man and succumb to the inevitable truth that Penelope Garcia knows all and that you will very soon confess all your dirty deeds to me."

"Right. Sure thing." Emily gave it her classic Prentiss flat-voiced sarcasm, complete with eyeroll.

"Although, somehow, I think maybe you aren't the type to go for strapping young things." Penelope squinted slightly, as if trying to conjure up a mental image. Her voice was slow, as if she were finding the answers as she went along, as if she were a psychic looking into a crystal ball. "Someone…more mature. A tall, handsome, stranger with dark hair and dark, brooding eyes…Someone who isn't a stranger at all. Someone who happens to wear the exact same cologne that you're wearing right now."

"This conversation is so over," Emily decreed, turning back around as if shutting out her best friend's commentary. She was on her feet, grabbing her go-bag out of its hiding place in the corner of Penelope's living room. "I need a shower."

Penelope gave a grandiose gesture towards the bathroom with one arm, still grinning psychotically. "Attempt to wash away whatever evidence you can, Emily dearest. The truth will stay written upon your face, as plain as day."

"It's a good thing I love you," her friend groused, moving past her with an air of mainly-feigned irritation.

The blonde's face lit up with mischievous glee as she threw one final volley toward Emily's retreating form, "Yes, but who else have you been lovin', Emmy dearest?"

Once the shower was turned on and the sound of Penelope's laughter had died away, Emily lost her sense of amusement and lost herself back into the darker thoughts that had dominated her drive back to the apartment. She'd endured Garcia's teasing because it had kept the rest at bay—the surging panic over her mistake with Linnea, the residual unsettling emotions from her discussion with Aaron, the guilt and fear and everything-else still swirling in her stomach and her brain.

Aaron had told her that it wasn't her fault, and she'd wanted to believe it. She'd called Mason Charles and spent a few minutes talking to him—Aaron had stood by her side the whole time, hand on the small of her back (and she'd lightly loathed herself for how much she'd needed that tiny measure of support). Once the call had ended, Aaron had held her close again, not speaking, just gently rocking back and forth as she'd kept her head burrowed into his shoulder. Time had stood still and in the stillness, she'd heard nothing but the gusts of his lungs and the steady beat of his pulse, her face pressed against his bare chest as her arms had held on for dear life.

But Aaron and the moment had gone, and the feelings she'd fought to contain had returned. Mason Charles had been distraught, but he hadn't blamed her—however, she knew it was there, unspoken but still just below the surface. She understood his need to blame someone else, the need for some kind of coping mechanism during what was probably the scariest moment of his life—and of course, she also felt the was blame was justly applied.

Aaron had tried to convince her otherwise, from his words to the pressure of his hands as he pulled her closer, to the way he'd kissed her whenever they'd finally said goodbye. Heaven help her, it only made her love him more.

That was the scariest part of it all. Admitting that she loved him wasn't that hard—they'd known that, long before their lips had ever uttered the phrase that their actions had so meticulously proven for years. She'd also known that she loved him selflessly—she'd never wanted him to wait for her, or even to lose Beth, because she'd put his well-being and happiness over her own desires, and there was something noble in that, she'd told herself.

The scary part was realizing that she loved him selfishly, too. She'd told him earlier that she'd been terrified at how easily she'd let the world burn, just to be with him, but the part she hadn't said, the part that was even more terrifying, was the realization that she would set the world on fire for him all over again. She'd die for him, and kill for him, and it was the second part that brought the most fear.

Fear compounded by the certainty that she'd burn like this forever, without any hope of anything more than the few stolen moments they shared, fleeting flashes of respite instead of a steady-paced peace.

Emily, Emily. Nothing can ever be simple with you, can it? She turned her face to the ceiling, pressing her lips into a thin line as she contemplated the implications of her own realizations. True to her nature, she found herself wanting the one thing that she couldn't have.

But also true to her nature, she wasn't exactly planning to give up without a fight.

January 2005. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

"So you're just going to call it quits, just like that?"

Maura Morrow let the accusation hang in the air, unbrushed by gentleness, full of incredulous rage. She kept her hands open, fingers spread apart, as if waiting to physically catch Agent Dorset's reply.

But Kaleb Dorset had no reply to give. Instead, he merely gave a longsuffering sigh, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes at this woman's theatrics. He certainly wouldn't miss this job assignment, not in the least, not even for a single second. It had been over a year since he'd been added to Dr. Morrow's protective detail, after the doctor began receiving death threats from some nut-job who thought her botching of the Amerithrax case warranted her imminent and painful demise.

Per usual, Dr. Morrow would not be deterred. She pushed past him, quickly traveling the length of her pristine marble-and-stainless-steel kitchen, disappearing into her home office and just as quickly returning with a handful of papers. He already knew what they were (after all, he'd spent hours studying them), but that did not prevent her from holding them directly in front of his nose.

"These people are threatening to kill me, Agent Dorset. They know where I live, they know what I look like—"

"Dr. Morrow, please." He kept his arms folded over his chest, but his muscles ached for the chance to grab her scrawny little wrist and break it before fully shoving her hand out of his face.

She pulled back, but only because she wanted to look him in the eye as she continued, "You haven't caught them, so far you haven't even made so much as a single arrest—"

"And all those arrests you made in the Amerithrax case, that really helped things along, didn't it?" He couldn't stop himself from pointing out.

The doctor went deathly pale for a full beat, and glorious silence reigned. He used the chance to remind her, "No one has been arrested, but no one has even made an actual attempt to harm you, either. And it's been three months since you've received a threatening note. Whoever your angry little pen-pal was, he must've either died or found someone more current to direct his anger towards."

"And you're willing to stake my life on that assumption." It wasn't a question, merely a statement. She bit back the addition that he'd probably dance on her grave—there had been no love lost between them since day one. Agent Dorset had made it crystal clear that babysitting Maura and her family was beneath his austere skill set. He was a cowboy, not a shepherd, and everything about him, from his overly-developed muscles to his hyper-masculine attire, screamed to that effect.

"Buy a gun," was his only advice. And really, it was the only safety measure that she didn't already have in place. The house had been refitted with the newest and best in home security systems, and a huge German Shepherd was currently snoring away in the living room, completely oblivious to the ruckus in the kitchen (most likely because he'd become quite accustomed to hearing those two raising their voices at each other).

Maura Morrow made a noise of derision at the statement. Kaleb Dorset merely smirked.

The back door opened, and a tumble of commotion erupted as the doctor's husband and four-year-old son entered the house.

Maura didn't miss the chance to shoot one last burning glare at Dorset, silently reminding him, It's not just my life hanging in the balance here.

"Everything alright?" Sean Morrow wore a smile, but his eyes still tinged with concern as they darted from his wife to the FBI agent.

"Agent Dorset just informed me that they're ending our protective detail," Maura informed him, crossing her arms over her chest. Her husband noticed the letters in her hand, and he immediately understood that she obviously didn't approve of this move.

"Why?" Sean turned his attention to Dorset, who fought back his usual wave of disgust for the man standing before him. Sean Morrow was a passive milquetoast who had no control over his polar opposite wife. That woman probably kept his balls in a box over the mantle.

"It's a waste of Bureau time and expenses," Dorset said curtly. "It's been decided that the threat is neither imminent nor probable."

There, he'd use big words, to placate the doctor. He had a college degree, too, after all.

"So, we're free? This guy really isn't a threat to us?" Sean looked hopeful, and no one could blame him—for over a year now, his life had been filled with men in dark suits, his wife's growing paranoia, and the helpless feeling of being watched every second of every day.

Maura made a noise which implied her disbelief in such a statement. However, Dorset gave a curt nod. "There hasn't been a letter in months, and we've never had an incident where anyone actually tried to harm your wife—the Bureau has decided you're in the clear."

And so am I. Kaleb couldn't wait to leave this hellhole behind. He hadn't had any other assignments the entire thirteen months that he'd been on this case, and he was ready to get out into the field and do some real work. Maybe even transfer, go somewhere bigger like New York or Seattle or Quantico.

"Well, that's a relief," Sean was smiling now. His wife did not share his elation. Instead, she went back into her office with her letters.

Sean ignored her, turning back to call to their son, who'd gone into the living room to play with the dog. "Emmet! Come say goodbye to Agent Dorset."

The child came bounding back into the room, all smiles. He'd viewed all the FBI agents as superheroes during their time together, and given his charming personality, he'd quickly become the fan favorite among the agents. Though given his father's flatness and his mother's rough edges, being the best-liked family member wasn't exactly a herculean task.

Dorset gave a smile as he offered a high-five. He wasn't big on kids, but Emmet wasn't too bad. He felt sorry for the boy, growing up with such a bitch of a mother.

Speak of the devil herself—Maura was leaning against the doorframe of her office, watching them. She didn't offer any farewell. She merely plucked an invisible piece of lint from her pristine white blouse with such theatricality that Dorset got the message loud and clear.

Goodbye, and good riddance.

He returned a grim smile. Feeling's mutual, lady.

He left the house, thankfully for the last time. His shift-partner, Vin, was waiting for him in a standard black Bureau SUV.

"How'd it go?" Vin asked with a wry smile. Dorset and Morrow's mutual disdain wasn't exactly a secret.

"As expected," Dorset offered with a sigh, slamming the car door shut. "She thinks we're making a mistake. Shrieking, fist-waving, the works."

"Well, maybe she ain't wrong," Vin shrugged as he put the vehicle in reverse and slid back down the smoothly paved drive. The Morrows lived in a subdivision, but there were expansive lawns and thick rows of trees between each house, giving it an air of seclusion in the middle of the city.

"Jesus Christ, just drive," Dorset growled. He and Vin had already discussed this, the entire time they'd driven out for the morning. Dorset was the lead on this detail, and even though he'd received support from their SAC, ultimately, the decision had been his. Vin had voiced his concerns, wanting to wait a few more months, just to make sure no more letters arrived, but he'd been overruled by the rest of the team, which was mainly comprised of up-and-coming young agents like Dorset, with higher ambitions and better things to do than play nursery maid to a paranoid woman.

As they drove away, Dorset took one last look at the stone house with its navy roof.

Goodbye, and good riddance.

"Every ending is a beginning. We just don't know it at the time."
~Mitch Albom.