This one is tagged to season five's "Haunted." We're jumping in with Hotch - looking at what transpired between him and Emily on the drive to the jet.
"...an obsession is a way for damaged people to damage themselves more." - Mark Barrowcliffe
"Thanks again for coming to pick me up," I say, holding open the door for her as we exit my building. "You didn't have to."
"I know," she says with a nod and a small smile, gesturing to the left side of the parking lot where her car is parked. "I wanted to."
I hadn't been the least bit surprised when Dave had called and told me Prentiss was on her way to pick me up. They were all well aware I'd been cleared to drive, but that didn't stop them from worrying, and I knew someone would be picking me up. Truthfully, I can't say I blame them for doing so. After all, it wasn't exactly a routine takedown of an unsub or an everyday bar fight I'd been through. The scars of that particular moment of my life will linger for a long time, I think. Whether I want them to or not.
I figured it would be Dave who would volunteer to pick me up though, since it would give him a chance to assess my mental and emotional state in his (not as not as subtle as he thinks) roundabout way. Being the senior profiler on the team means he's seen the effects of so-called traumatic instances and events on fellow agents, not to mention the impact of the violence of a war on fellow soldiers. In some ways, I think all that experience and knowledge unofficially qualifies Dave to take on that role of assessor, and it's one that he's fulfilled successfully for many years.
But I suppose it makes quite a bit of sense for Prentiss to be the one that volunteered. She had been the one to find my empty apartment in disarray, blood stain on the carpet, and bullet hole in the wall. And she had been the one to find me in the hospital, still unconscious and just out of surgery, probably looking just a little worse for wear.
Despite our rough start when I had accused her of having a political agenda, she had quickly grown to become a part of the unit and become a trusted colleague and friend. The years we've worked together have shown me that she is tough and doesn't blink in the face of danger, but also that she is compassionate by nature, and fiercely loyal. I don't doubt for a second that she has worried about my well-being over the course of the month that I've been off. But I'm also not surprised that I haven't been bombarded by calls or emails from her. She and I are alike in many ways, and I think she understands that I needed space to deal with this.
I hadn't missed her critical eye sweeping over the contents of the files strewn about my apartment, or the area where the blood had once stained my carpet. I know she's piecing together small bits of information to form an idea of how I'm really doing. We all agreed not to profile each other, but that rule was thrown out the window long ago. We all do it, and to be honest I'm not sure it's something we can just turn off, so I don't hold her actions against her. It's coming from a place of compassion, not judgment.
I know she won't ask me directly how I'm doing, but she'll find a way to do so indirectly. I know she's concerned - not that I can't do my job, but on how my focus on Foyet will impact how I do my job. If I'm honest with myself, if our roles were reversed, I'm sure I'd be concerned about the same.
"Glad to be going back to work?" she asks knowingly once we're situated in her car, breaking the silence that had taken hold.
I nod in agreement. "Yes. I needed the time to recover, but there's only so many reruns and daytime television soaps you can watch without driving yourself crazy," I reply, a small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
Her expression shifts to mirror mine, a small smile on her lips as she watches me carefully. I know she's not buying the humour. I know she's thinking that what I meant was that there's only so many times you can go over a case file without being able to physically do something about it.
"Now you know how we feel when you make us take time off," she replies, that small smile still there on her lips, but there is a gentleness in her tone, beneath the teasing - I get it.
"We're meeting them at the jet?" I ask, looking to shift the focus away from the past, and move it to the case at hand.
She nods, navigating her way through the traffic on the road. "You're lucky we are too."
My brow furrows and asks the silent question.
"Garcia baked," she explains. "It's what she does. I got more than a few containers of cookies and cake after my run in with Cyrus. Don't worry, I'm pretty sure she kept it small this time - just a container or two. I think she really tried to dial back her worrying since she knows you're a no frills, no nonsense kind of person."
It's not surprising that the kind-hearted blonde would try to cope with this by a significantly scaled-back smothering. For Garcia a tin of cookies or cake or whatever she's baked, is actually quite a tame response. The first time Morgan was injured in the field after the two of them became friends, she brought in enough food to feed a small army.
"I'll have to make sure to thank her," I say with a small smile that doesn't reach my eyes.
"So do we know anything else about this case?" I ask, trying once again to steer the conversation to the present, and not linger on the events of the past.
She looks almost apologetic. "We don't have much to go on yet, Garcia's still gathering information."
"We'll need to move quickly on this one," I say, my gaze looking straight out the windshield at the traffic we're sitting in. "There's a lot of unknowns that we need to account for before we'll be able to catch him."
My eyes are focused on the small hatchback in front of us as my mind jumps briefly to the piece of scum that's monopolized my attention this past month. The bastard played us all for fools and got away with it, and then came back to take an even more personal stab at me. The problem is, we've got nothing to go on if he stops killing. There's no way for us to track him - he's too smart. And no matter how many times I read over the files, nothing new jumps out at me. I'm stuck just rehashing what we already know.
"We'll catch him," she replies, her tone soft but firm. We both know her words have double meaning; it's not just Darrin Call she's talking about. She lets her words linger in the air for a moment before continuing. "Once we're on the jet we can take a better look at it and link some things together, hopefully get an idea of what's going on so we can hit the ground running."
"We'll have to," is all I say in reply, electing to turn my gaze out the passenger window and watch the passing scenery, not much caring to make any more small talk. I'm grateful that she takes the hint and doesn't reply. I'm aware of her intermittent glances, but for the most part she just leaves me alone with my thoughts. But unfortunately, letting my mind wander may not necessarily be the best course of action, considering I can't help but turn my thoughts to Foyet.
I stifle the heavy sigh I want to let out. This is going to be a long case.
So...how'd I do on Hotch? Believable?
As an aside - thank you all so much for nominating two (!) of my stories in the Profilers Choice Awards. It gives me the warm and fuzzies, it does. Make sure y'all give the nominated stories a read and submit votes for your favourites. Always some fantastic authors and amazing stories to be read.