Trans-Siberian Orchestra-an American progressive rock band known for their incorporation of classical, orchestral, symphonic, and progressive elements into rock and heavy metal music

"Rachel, do you have a moment?"

I looked up from the stack of books in my arm, waiting to be shelved. Colin Morris, owner of Monarch Books and my boss was waving me over to where he was sitting at the cash register.

"Thirty seconds," I promised.

It was closer to twenty seconds but then I was walking through the middle of the store and stopping at the front counter.

"What do you need?" I asked.

Colin was a short man on the rounder side with glasses that made him seem like a cross between a wizard and a dwarf. He dressed like a librarian or professor in khaki or corduroy pants with buttoned shirts and tweed jackets. He probably had more liking and respect for books than people, but it just made him well-suited for his shop. His right hand manager, a woman named Isabelle McMahon or Izzy for short, was the friendly people-person. But Colin was kind in his own way and he was a good boss.

"Be a dear, run next door and ask my mother for the usual afternoon order," Colin instructed me. "Plus whatever you like."

"All right."

"And don't let my mother fool you into thinking you need to pay for it," he added sternly with a hint of spark in his eyes. "We have a running tab."

I smiled in response.

The Crown Café was Monarch's neighbor, owned and run by Colin's mother Matilda Morris. I had been there once before last year, when Reid had taken me there to explain why my father had been acting out of sorts. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Despite the very different purposes of the stores, a similar feel emanated from both, being homey and casual and comfortable. The walls were an identical creamy white with bright mahogany wood work for the tables and bookshelves. Both made use of large, plush chairs in shades of dark brown, green, and navy for customers to sit and enjoy a drink and/or a book. But where the store smelled of paper and wood polish, the café smelled of coffee and baking bread. And where the store was full of bookshelves, the café had about two dozen tables with chairs and a long counter with bar stools and a pastry display.

I approached the counter and took a seat, waiting for the girl behind to take notice of me. There were about ten people inside, being only around two in the afternoon and therefore after the lunch rush but before schools got out.

"Hi, what can I get for you today?" a cheerful voice asked.

I looked up and saw the girl had made her way over to me. She looked to be a few years older than I was, certainly taller than I was, and sported blond hair with purple streaks. She wore heavy eye liner and mascara but not a lot of other make up and her clothing reminded me a little of Garcia's with a little more Gothic punk to the style.

"I work next door with Colin and he sent me for the usual order," I answered the girl.

Her eyes dawned in understanding. "So you're Dr. Reid's friend. My dad's told me about you."

Realization hit me as I guessed who she had to be. "Then you must be Natasha."

"Guilty," Natasha answered. "Let me get started on that order. Anything for you?"

"Um, just a green tea, please," I answered.

Natasha shook her head. "No can do. This is your first time with us getting the perks, you have to have something special."

I shrugged. "I have been here before, you know. I really liked the hot chocolate," I admitted.

"How do you feel about mochas?" Natasha asked.

"I typically only drink them in the morning."

"I insist you try my Tuxedo Mocha, you'll never be the same."

"I'm guessing I don't really get to refuse."

It was Natasha's turn to shrug and she smirked. "Not so much, no."

"Just this once, for the first time," I gave in.

Natasha smirked again and whirled away to get started. Watching her, I could tell she had been at this gig for awhile, since she was fifteen if I remembered Colin correctly. She had chosen to work in the café rather than the book store and was now studying at culinary school to take over for her grandmother when the time came.

"So my dad tells me that Dr. Reid worked with your father?" Natasha asked as she finished my mocha and set it before me.

"Yeah," I confirmed. I still didn't like talking about Dad, especially to strangers.

"That would make your dad an FBI agent then? Sounds interesting."

"It's complicated," I corrected.

Natasha's eyes lit up. "Complicated means interesting."

"That would depend on your definition of interesting," I replied a little sharply.

"Well, leaving it a mystery certainly makes it seem interesting," Natasha pointed out, casual in the face of my growing irritation.

"My dad was an FBI agent until he left six months ago and no one's heard from him since," I explained shortly.

Natasha's eyebrows jumped to her hairline, but her hands kept working steadily on the other drinks she was making.

"We all have our tragic little stories, don't we?" she asked. "Taste that, will you? I want to know what you think."

I looked in surprise at the mocha in my hands that I had forgotten. I obediently sipped and savored the mellow white chocolate with a bite of dark chocolate mixed in.

"You don't know the half of it," I told her. "And this is really good."

"If you feel like talking a little, just tell my dad I was slow with the drinks," Natasha offered. "He knows I like to interrogate the new employees any way."

I hadn't had to explain to many people about what had happened to my mom. Everyone I knew already knew about it and I hadn't really met anyone new since then. Gossip sometimes had its upsides.

"My mom was murdered last year," I said baldly, treating the admission like a band-aid. I ignored how Natasha's hands finally faltered as she fumbled with the whipped cream canister.

"Oh my God."

"Yeah," I agreed fervently. "It was a serial killer who was targeting my dad. Dad could never deal with it and just left one day. The anniversary for her death is in a few weeks."

I actually made it through without crying, a miracle in my mind. Granted, I still felt that dagger of grief stabbing me in the chest.

"I lost my mom, too," Natasha confided, bringing the remaining drinks over to me and fitting them onto a cardboard tray. "Cancer, about seven years ago."

I estimated her age again and realized she had been fourteen years old. We both waited in silence for a moment, each of us feeling the loss again. Natasha shook herself back to normal first and retrieved a bag, adding a blueberry muffin and shortbread cookie into it. When she raised her eyebrow at me, I pointed at the brownie I remembered so well from a year ago. Natasha nodded her approval at my choice.

"Well, I had better see you around here more often," she ordered, bringing the bag and placing it next to the drink tray. "You and me, we've got lots of talking and fun in our futures, got it?"

I smiled. Natasha was a bit of a bull dozer, but I could see she led with her heart. "Got it."

"Good."

I grabbed the tray and goodie bag and made my way to the door. I looked over my shoulder and saw that Natasha was already at work, putting out a tray of fresh baked croissants on display. I walked quickly back to the book store and set the drinks down on the counter. Colin looked at me shrewdly.

"Get lost?"

"Natasha was running a little behind," I answered.

Colin took his tea and muffin and called over his shoulder for Izzy to come get her caramel frappucino and cookie. My boss continued to stare at me as I struggled to hide the smile on my face.

"Well?" Colin finally asked. "Don't I pay you to do something productive here?"

"Yes, sir," I saluted. Colin grumbled under his breath, but I already knew that he didn't really mean it. He just liked to appear grouchy.

At four, I drove myself home and jumped right into homework. Colin actually didn't have a problem if I brought it with me, but I had been busy enough that I hadn't touched it all afternoon. Hotch was away on a case so I was on my own for dinner. I put together a Greek salad and a grilled cheese and vegged out in front of the TV with Hannah at my feet. At some point, it started to storm with rain, thunder and lightning, scaring my cat under the couch.

I was cleaning up my dishes and checking that all the windows were closed shut when I heard a knock on the door. I shouldn't have felt the immediate jolt of panic that I did, but I would never forget that Frank had knocked on the door and that I had answered it without thought. And I couldn't think of anyone that would come over without calling first.

I walked to the door and looked out through the peep hole, saw who was waiting and fumbled the lock open. Michael stood there waiting, hunched into himself and dripped wet.

"What happened? Are you okay?" I demanded as I brought him inside.

When he looked up to meet my eyes, I knew with certainty what had brought him. Even with his wet hair plastering his head and partially obstructing his face, I saw the red and purple bruise around his left eye and the way he held his arms tightly to his abdomen.

Michael didn't need to tell me that his father had been drunk already at eight in the evening or that Michael had somehow gotten in his way. What did worry me is that Pat Garrett had never hit Michael in such an obvious place or this violently.

There were so many things I could have said, and so many things that I wanted to, but I settled for, "Let's get you dry, okay?"

Michael simply nodded, clearly worn out and hurting. He was also shivering. I wondered how long he had stood outside in the rain before coming in. I changed my trajectory and led Michael to my bathroom, grabbing a spare towel from the cupboard and setting it on the toilet seat.

"You'll have to make do with my shampoo and soap," I explained. "Don't worry, they're not too girly. Get washed up and I'll find something for you to wear while your clothes go through the dryer."

Michael didn't say anything, just looked at me with such gratitude that I brought my hand up to the right side of his face and rested it there gently. Michael had always handled my emotional issues without flinching, I would do the same now.

I left him alone, waiting just outside the door for him to pass his clothing out to me. I didn't move until I heard the shower turn on. After I tossed his shirt, pants, boxers, socks, and hoodie into the dryer, I went to the kitchen and put water into the electric kettle. Then, I went to my closet and searched for something that would fit my much taller friend.

I settled on a pair of flannel pants that would only come down to his shins and one of my own sweatshirts that was stretched out from all the years I'd worn it and washed it. I made a mental note that Michael should start leaving outfits of his clothing in my closet.

I had two mugs of hot chocolate waiting when he came out of the bathroom, wearing his borrowed clothes. Michael joined me on the couch, slumping into the cushions and closing his eyes. I judged the rate of his breathing and then got up to retrieve pain killers and a glass of water from the kitchen as well as the ice pack I had forgotten in the fridge for his black eye.

Once Michael had swallowed, he collapsed back and gingerly applied the ice pack. I waited for him to speak, but he never did and I never pressed him. Michael had driven out in the middle of the night to pick me up once from Mark's house and had accepted when I didn't speak the whole ride home.

"Is there anything else you need or want?" I asked quietly. He hadn't let me see any other injuries, but I was betting that his ribcage was as colorful as his face.

Michael shook his head and closed his eyes. I waited a few breaths, then I reached out and pulled Michael into my arms. I worried if it was hurting him more, but he was holding on tightly enough that I didn't protest. I knew that feeling when you needed to hold onto something to remind yourself that you weren't alone. I rested my head on his shoulder and wrapped my arms around his body.

We ended up reclined on the sofa, still wrapped around each other. My last thought as we drifted off into sleep was that Michael couldn't survive two more months of this.

My next conscious thought was to wonder where the blanket had come from. I blinked and realized that there was sunlight streaming through the windows and the scent of coffee in the air. Wait, coffee….I bounced up off the couch, surprised that I didn't wake Michael, looking around for what I was dreading.

Hotch was indeed standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was dressed for the day in jeans and a polo shirt, his usual weekend attire. While I stared, he looked over at me and then gestured with his head for me to join him. I swallowed and obeyed. It wasn't that I felt I had done anything wrong, but I was worried about what Hotch would be thinking.

"I can explain," I offered quietly. If Michael was still sleeping, he must need the rest. And if he felt safe enough right now to do it, I didn't want to wake him up.

Hotch merely raised an eyebrow at me and leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Nothing happened," I explained. "Michael came over and we fell asleep. That's it. I promise. It was an accident."

"I know," Hotch told me.

I blinked a few times, trying to determine if I had heard him correctly or if I were dreaming.

"What?" I asked inelegantly.

"I know that's all that happened," Hotch repeated. "I came in last night and found you both. I decided to wait until the morning to talk about it."

That was certainly a degree of reasonableness I hadn't expected.

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

Hotch stood there, clearly waiting for me to say something else.

"Um, do we need to talk about something else, too?"

"You could start with the black eye," Hotch answered firmly.

I looked over my shoulder and could see the darkened bruise on Michael's face even with the ice from last night. I frowned and wondered how much I could tell Hotch without Michael getting upset.

"He didn't tell me," I said truthfully.

"But you know anyway," Hotch pointed out.

I had learned my poker face from Reid, but of course Hotch could see through it.

"He won't want you to know," I argued.

"What will help him more?" Hotch asked. "Keeping silent or telling me what's going on?"

I sighed. "I just don't know."

Hotch stared me down.

I brought my hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose. I had known the right answer all along, I was just scared to admit it.

"His father hits him," I said. "This is the worst I've seen."

I watched as Hotch's eyes flicked over to Michael and then back to me. He didn't seem surprised at all and that wasn't just his own poker face, I was pretty sure.

"You already knew, didn't you?" I accused.

My guardian nodded his confirmation. "I suspected."

"Then why didn't you do anything?" I demanded.

A shadow crossed over Hotch's face. "If I had asked Michael directly, your friend would have denied it and maybe cut off contact with you to avoid me. There was no way for me to interfere or investigate unless Michael trusted me. I was hoping that he would tell me himself one day."

I slumped against the counter and fought the urge to cry. "He always said it would be too hard to prove."

"That's very likely."

"What do we do now?"

Hotch sighed and I saw for an instant how much this was weighing down on him, just like me. "We'll wait for him to wake up and take it from there."

I nodded glumly and went to my bedroom to grab a change of clothes. I took a record-fast shower and put on jeans, a tank top, and a sweater. I walked out into the living room after combing out my wet hair and found Hotch sitting on the couch and Michael, awake and sitting next to him. They were talking in low voices but stopped and looked up when I entered the room.

"Hey," I said in greeting.

"Hey," Michael said back. He didn't seem to be upset or uncomfortable that Hotch was there, so I was guessing that he had woken up when I got in the shower and they had already covered the basics.

"Rachel, why don't you get some breakfast," Hotch suggested. "Michael and I have a few more things to discuss."

I didn't move until Michael nodded that he was okay. In the kitchen, I poured myself a cup of coffee—it was that kind of morning already—and retrieved the eggs and other ingredients from the fridge. Making a broccoli and cheddar frittata took up enough time and attention from me that I could more easily ignore the conversation happening in the next room. I even grabbed some brown and serve sausage links from the freezer for the meat eaters which were much easier for me to deal with without feeling sick about it.

Twenty minutes later, I took the frittata out of the oven and made some toast. I was pulling the last slice from the toaster when I noticed Hotch and Michael get up from the couch and come over to the kitchen counter.

"Wow," Hotch commented, looking at the spread of food I had prepared. I even grabbed the carafe of coffee and topped off his mug before I got plates and began slicing the frittata.

Michael only smiled and quietly accepted the plate I had put together for him. I scrutinized him carefully and saw that though he still seemed tired and drained, some of the tension from last night was gone.

"So, what's going on?" I asked.

Both of them exchanged glances and then looked back at me.

"I'm taking Leo up on his offer to sleep on his couch while I look for my own apartment," Michael answered. "He'll even co-sign for me. Since I'm eighteen in two months, that's all I need to do."

"I'll go and explain to Mr. Garrett why it's in his best interest to let this happen without a fight," Hotch added.

I nodded in relief. I had never met Michael's boss at the car shop personally, but I knew that he was a good mentor from the way Michael would talk about him. Learning that Leo had made such an offer was gratifying and that Michael was going to do it.

I never learned exactly what Hotch and Michael had talked about, but I knew it wasn't my business. Finally, finally, my friend was going to escape and be safe.

"At this rate, you might as well just call your apartment the sanctuary for troubled teens," I remarked to Hotch.

Michael and I laughed as Hotch sputtered and told us not to let the word spread.

Notes:

Home stretch here folks. I am pleased to announce that I am half a chapter away from finishing Mvt III! Therefore, I've decided to start posting this last set of chapters for your enjoyment. Thank you so much for your patience and your support, it's meant the world to me.

There's a lot that is going to go unspoken for this chapter. Part of that is the show's fault (like Hotch's childhood and family) and some of it is mine (there are some things I just don't want to get into). I will just tell you all that this is the last we ever hear from or about Michael's father. I'm playing fast and loose with some laws and statutes here, but I think you all will understand.

As far as the chapter title, I know, it's a bit of a stretch. I was going with the whole incorporating old and new together thing to symbolize Rachel's friendships with both Michael and Natasha. Also, both Michael and Natasha have that kind of vibe going on with their characters, or at least, that's what I'm hoping.

Thanks for coming back for more. Three more chapters after this and then I start work on Mvt IV. Hope you enjoyed and see you back here next week for the next chapter.

Cantoris