sic vita fluit, dum stare videtur
(life flows away as it seems to stay the same)
The schoolbus spat him out at the end of his block and he stumbled down the steps, his backpack weighing him down. He'd checked out as many books as possible to get him through the weekend, and the anticipation was worth the effort.
His house stood out like an eyesore on the neat little cul-de-sac. Thank goodness they didn't have an HOA, or they might possibly be in trouble. The yard was unkempt, the stucco walls were stained, and the mailbox still stood cock-eyed after the last time his mother had backed into it with the station wagon.
He turned his key in the lock and opened the door. "Mom?" he called.
The house was silent, but that didn't worry him as much as the sudden wall of heat. He winced as he hung his key on the hook. Maybe the air conditioner had gone out again.
"Mom, the AC isn't working," he said, his voice bouncing off the walls. Maybe she wasn't home. It was one of her office hours days, after all. Maybe she felt well enough to go into work.
He set his backpack down in the hall, propping it up against the doorway, and stepped on it carefully to make himself tall enough to see the thermostat. The screen didn't display anything, and he stuck out his lower lip. There was definitely some kind of issue, and even in the early spring it was too hot to go without air conditioning.
He hopped down, almost tripping over his untied shoelaces, and wandered the house in search of his mother. Dirty dishes and takeout containers littered the kitchen counters; the massive crack in the dusty television screen in the living room distorted his reflection. But no sign of his mother still.
"Mom?" he called again. His voice seemed muffled in the thick hot air. He attempted to open one of the living room windows, just for some kind of safe air flow, but the latch was rusted shut and the sash was too heavy, so he gave up.
His mother's office seemed untouched- the keyboard still missing from the computer, papers stacked in piles on the desk and the floor, multiple cups of half-drunk coffee with mold beginning to gather on their surfaces. His last hope was her bedroom. Usually he found her there, lying in bed in the same clothes she put on three days ago, sleeping with books piled haphazardly around her, the curtains closed to keep out any vestiges of light. But she wasn't there either.
He wandered back into the hall, fingers tangling in the hem of his tee shirt. "Mommy?" he called.
It was dark in the hallway and he reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. He toggled it a couple of times. Absolutely nothing.
They'd shut off the power again.
He went back into his mother's room in search of her purse. There was no luck there, but he kept looking and eventually found her wallet squished between couch cushions.
The mail was harder to find. Letters and bills and catalogues piled up over weeks and months, covering the kitchen table and leeching onto the chairs, some of them unreadable after falling victim to spills and trash. But he dug out a bill from the electric company, and after checking for the correct account number he took his key and let himself out of the house.
It was still hot and bright outside, and his right sneaker rubbed a sore spot in his heel. His sneakers were getting a little too tight. He might need a new pair, but he wasn't sure how to bring that up to his mother. There was no telling how she might respond.
His walk took him several blocks out of his neighborhood and out onto the main road. The late afternoon sunshine baked deep into the asphalt of the road and concrete of the sidewalk, radiating into the worn-thin soles of his shoes. Here and there the sidewalk gave out, falling into patches of thin grass and gravel before picking up again. Cars shot past him, speeding on the quiet two lane road of the suburb, their heat catching at his skin.
There was a single working payphone at the gas station on the corner, the base overgrown with sparse crawling weeds and the receiver threatening to break off at the frayed cord. He opened up Diana's wallet and selected the correct number of coins, dropping them one by one with satisfying clinks, and dialed the number printed on the bottom of the bill.
At least the bill payment number was automated; there wasn't a chance of an adult picking up and asking him too many questions about why an eight-year-old was calling. He balanced the paper bill and the slippery credit card and stretched high enough to punch the right numbers in the correct orders. Once he had to add more coins into the slot; he had just enough to keep the call going.
He held his breath as he waited for the confirmation that the payment would process. The bill was higher than it was the last time he paid, and he wasn't sure how much was left on the credit card. But it went through, and he exhaled deeply in relief. The power probably wouldn't come back on until the next day, but at least it would be fixed.
He slid the credit card back into its slot in the wallet and hung up the receiver, wiping his small palms on his shorts. The air was cooler now that he was making his trek home, but it was darker and harder to see. At one point he tripped over a crack in the old sidewalk that he couldn't see properly, and he sat on the ground for a moment with the wind knocked out of his lungs, his palms and knees scraped hot and raw.
He half hoped to see his mother at the house by the time he got there, but he unlocked the door to unnerving silence. The light switch still didn't work, and neither did the air conditioning. If the power still didn't work by the next day, he'd have to make the hike and call again.
He put his mother's wallet back carefully where he found it. Most likely she would have no idea he'd even touched it.
He pried off his sneakers, careful around the sore bleeding spots on his heels, and dug out the flashlight he kept under his pillow for reading at midnight. It didn't do too much to light the small bathroom, but it was enough for him to take a shower, wincing under the spluttering cold spray and rinsing away the grunge from his school day and his long walk.
He dressed in his pajamas and tucked himself into bed with one of his library books and the flashlight. It was a book he'd already read half a dozen times, in this exact same edition- David Copperfield, a hardback with the spine threatening to crack, the typeface warm and homey and familiar.
My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins, in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at all excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was sitting by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden.
He paused. He thought he could hear Diana's key in the lock, and he sat up, listening closely. But it was nothing. She still wasn't home yet. He went back to reading.
'David,' he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them together, 'if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do you think I do?'
'I don't know.'
'I beat him.'
I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt, in my silence, that my breath was shorter now.
'I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, "I'll conquer that fellow"; and if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I should do it. What is that upon your face?'
'Dirt,' I said.
He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I would have told him so.
'You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow,' he said, with a grave smile that belonged to him, 'and you understood me very well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and come down with me.'
This time he was sure he heard his mother. He slipped out of bed and crept down the hall, clutching the flashlight, aiming its beam at the floor in an unconscious childish belief that perhaps there was something lurking in the doorways, waiting for him. He made it all the way down to the small foyer, the walls seeming higher and the ceiling seeming father away. Moonlight and streetlight blurred together, casting long squares of pale light through the windows onto the floor.
Diana wasn't home.
He went back to bed again, crawling under the blankets for safety even though it was too warm, tucking the flashlight between his chin and shoulder so he could see the pages.
I could hardly find the door, through the tears that stood in my eyes. I was so sorry for my mother's distress; but I groped my way out, and groped my way up to my room in the dark, without even having the heart to say good night to Peggotty, or to get a candle from her.
He struggled valiantly to keep his eyes open. Without the clock on his nightstand running, he wasn't entirely sure about what time it was, but he tried so hard to stay awake, time stretching between each sleepy blink.
The next time he opened his eyes, his book had slipped from his fingers and his sheets were tangled tight around his legs, as if he'd been thrashing around in his sleep. The air conditioning clunked and chugged in the vent above his head, and he could smell the sharp acrid scent of coffee (strong and burnt, the way his mother liked it) and he could hear the muffled mumble-and-pause Diana arguing on the phone. He sank back, staring at his ceiling in relief. Everything was fine now.
Alex stood by the elevator, shoulders squared, her bag held tight and calm in her hands. Her first day at the BAU would end as soon as she left the building, and then she could allow herself to exhale in relief.
Garcia rushed past her in a rush of a hot pink dress and coconut and sandalwood perfume, then halted abruptly, her heels skidding on the polished floor. "Agent Blake!" she said. "Dr. Blake. Professor Blake?"
"Alex is fine," she said, smiling.
"How was your first day?" Garcia asked. "Everything good? Everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah...everything's been great," Alex reassured her.
Garcia smiled at her, eyes bright behind her neon blue glasses. "Good!" she said. She tilted her head, questioning and sympathetic. "And I'll...I'll see you soon?"
Alex's mouth went dry. "I'll see you soon," she confirmed. Garcia beamed at her and skittered away.
The elevator doors pinged cheerfully and slid open, but before she could make a break for it, Rossi sidled up to her. "You on your way out too?" he asked. She nodded as she stepped inside; Rossi pressed the lobby button. "It's been a long time since you've been back in Quantico. How old were you the first time you came here? Twenty-five?"
She smiled. "Twenty-four," she said. "The ink had barely dried on my diplomas."
"You're still the youngest agent we've had here," Rossi said. "Nobody's broken your record yet."
"Oh, but I was probably too young to be here, looking back," she said. "I remember people staring at me on my first day. They kept asking where Dr. Miller was, and no one was expecting to see me."
Rossi laughed. "I still remember the first time Gideon called you in to consult for us," he said. "Didn't he ask you to get us coffee while we waited for Dr. Miller to arrive?"
"He most certainly did," Alex said, half smiling. "He...didn't seem particularly impressed by me in the beginning."
"But he changed his tune eventually," Rossi said. "You know he fought to get your demotion reversed after Strauss-"
His voice trailed off. She said nothing. They both knew what he wasn't going to mention- Strauss lying to protect herself and throwing Alex under the bus after the Amerithrax case went wrong, how she stepped back from field agent work in order to start her family. How her family ended.
"How's James doing?" Rossi asked instead.
"He's great, he's really great," Alex said. "He's doing really well with Doctors Without Borders. They're about to send him to Senegal, actually. I tried to help him with his French, but you know how he is with languages. He might be a lost cause."
"Oh, you might be right about that," Rossi said. "But you and Emily Prentiss should chat, she's got quite a few languages under her belt herself." He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "It's a good team. I think you'll be a good fit. We've been needing someone with your kind of brain power."
"Well, I'm glad to be here," she said.
The doors slid open and Rossi let her step out into the lobby first. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said.
She waved her goodbye and headed towards the doors. Early spring in Virginia was still a bit cold, the trees still barren and the grass still brittle. She pulled the collar of her coat tighter around her and exhaled slowly as she started down the steps.
"Agent Blake?"
She froze at the familiar voice, but she turned around with a tight smile. "Erin Strauss," she said, keeping her voice light.
Strauss stood at the top of the concrete steps. She hadn't changed much in the past ten years. Maybe a few more lines around the eyes, and her hair was cut differently, but her eyes were still a little too sharp. "I heard you were starting today," she said. "It's been a while."
"It has," Alex said stiffly. "It took a while to get back here. A lot of hard work."
She wanted to say after you derailed my career in the first place, but maybe that wasn't entirely appropriate at the moment.
"I'm sure you've earned it," Strauss said. She tilted her head, and Alex braced herself. "And I heard about what happened. I'm so sorry for your loss, Alex, I-"
"It's nice to see you again, Erin," Alex lied, the words sharp and clipped, and she turned and walked away, her shoes grinding into the asphalt, before the heaviness threatening in her chest had the chance to burst out.
She made it to her car, unlocking the door and calmly placing her bag on the passenger seat, but as soon as she sat down and closed the door, she sank down, her shoulders hunching, her hands covering her face. For a while she sat in the stifling stale air, the silence thick, her heartbeat skipping and jumping.
She let her mind quiet down, let the stress fall from her tight shoulders and the tension drain from her clenched jaw. Time passed, the late afternoon light shifting and dimming, and finally she turned her key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking lot.
She met James for dinner, and if he noticed that her eyes were a little red and her voice was a little quiet, he said nothing about it, but he held her hand a little tighter and kissed her a little more carefully. Their conversations stayed light, and neither of them ate much.
They drove separately, but she knew she couldn't keep sitting in her car, dreading to get out. If she didn't leave her car, James wouldn't either, and if he didn't leave, she wouldn't either, and so they parked next to each other and walked into the community center together, their hands clasped, his strong fingers laced through hers.
It had been a while since they'd been here, but it made her heart squeeze with anxiety every time they walked through the doors. James got them coffee while she wrote their names on sticky nametags in her clear handwriting. She didn't want coffee, but it gave her something to fixate on, and he knew that, and she appreciated it.
"So you're sure Alex is still okay?"
She turned around. Penelope smiled at her, her pink lipstick still perfect and her blue glasses making her eyes look more vivid. "Definitely still okay," she said. "But you can call me Blake in the office like everyone else does, if you'd like."
"Oh, we'll see, we'll see," Penelope said. She squeezed her arm lightly. "I'm glad you're here, Alex."
"Me too," she said softly, and she was surprised to find that she meant it. Penelope gave her another loving little squeeze before flitting away to the next person walking through the doors.
She and James ended up in their usual seats, coffee cups balanced in their hands, his arm around her shoulder and her free hand resting on his thigh. He was warm and sturdy and reassuring beside her, his thumb rubbing lightly against her shoulder. She allowed herself to breathe.
Penelope started the meeting, her usually perky voice a little softer in the hush of the room. She introduced herself first, sketching out the details of her story, and turned to the next person.
When it was their turn she looked up at James, and he understood. "I'm James, and this is my wife, Alex," he said, still keeping up the firm gentle touch of his hand curved around her shoulder. "About a year and a half ago, we lost our son, Ethan, to an undiagnosed neurological condition. He was nine years old, and he was our only child."
She leaned her cheek against his shoulder, looking down at the chips in the polished floor. It never got easier. And at this point, she didn't think it ever would.
Spencer's mouth dropped open. The front door hung wide open, dangling cock-eyed from a broken hinge. His mother's old station wagon blocked the driveway, the doors open and the back hatch lifted. Cardboard boxes and old luggage piled up on the ground, the car half-packed.
Diana stormed out of the house, her arms laden down. "Spencer, good, you're home from school," she said. "Help me get the rest of this into the car."
"What's going on?" he asked. "Are we going somewhere?"
She shoved a crumbled cardboard box into the trunk. "We're going to start over, baby," she said. "We're going to move."
"Move where?" he asked, gripping the straps of his backpack.
"I'm taking a sabbatical from the university," she said. "I'm tired of teaching. I want to write. I want to write another book. Won't that be nice, baby?" She pinched his chin in her hand and kissed him. "Mommy can be home with you more."
"But why aren't you going to write the book here?" he pressed. "Where are we going?"
"We're moving!" she said cheerfully. She picked up an old suitcase and heaved it into the backseat. "Come on, Spencer, let's go."
"Go where, Mom?" he burst out.
"Washington DC," she said. "A friend of mine at Howard University found us a place to stay, and I'll be able to do my research there. We'll come back here to Vegas eventually, but I think we could use a nice change of pace. We'll get there just before the cherry blossoms start blooming. Won't that be lovely?"
"I have school tomorrow," he said in a small voice. "I have a social studies test."
Diana kept packing the car. "You'll start a new school," she said. "Won't that be nice? It'll be a fresh start. A brand new school. New classmates. Now stop fussing and get in the car."
He didn't want a fresh start. He didn't want a new school. He didn't want new classmates. He didn't want any of this. It felt like the soles of his shoes had melted into the driveway.
"I don't want to go," Spencer objected.
Diana slammed the hatch of the station wagon and took him by the shoulder. "Spencer, I'm not asking you, I'm your mother and I'm telling you," she said. "Get in the car. I've already packed your stuff. We need to go, we have a long way to drive."
"But Mommy-"
She gave him a little shake, her fingernails digging into his shoulder. "Don't make me say it again!" she said. "Get in the car, now!"
He climbed slowly into the backseat, setting his backpack at his feet and pulling the seatbelt across his chest. It sat too high on his little body, cutting across his throat. The car was piled high with boxes and suitcases and books, threatening to topple over onto his side of the car. Diana threw her purse onto the stack of possessions in the front seat and put the car in reverse without bothering to fasten her seatbelt.
Spencer gazed up at the house where he had spent the first eight years of his life. It was shabby and unkempt, but it was home. He wanted to ask his mother when they might be back, but he wasn't sure if it was a safe time to ask questions.
Diana drove too fast like she always did, fiddling with the cracked radio knobs as they passed in and out of signal. Spencer dug around in his backpack for a book to read, trying to make himself comfortable.
But he ran out of books, and he was left staring blankly out the window. The vast desert stretched out on either side of the interstate, the horizon unbroken for miles. His vision faded in and out of focus, messing with his head.
For the first time in a long time, he wished he still had his blanket. It used to be the only way he could fall asleep when his parents kept him up late arguing, the only thing that kept him from getting too anxious when he was left alone at home. But after his fifth birthday his dad had lost his temper and told him he was too old for this nonsense, and he'd thrown it away. He was fine without it, of course, but right now the world seemed shaky around him, and he didn't know how to find solid ground again.
The station wagon bumped over a bad pothole and he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Staring out the window was a bad idea. A headache was beginning to pulse at his temples, and his stomach turned upside down. It was so hot in the backseat of the over-crammed car, without a clear vent close enough to cool him down.
"Mom?" he ventured. "Can we take a break?"
She ignored him. She drove with one hand on the wheel, her seat leaned back, her right hand dangling against the half crumpled pack of cigarettes in the cupholder as if she wasn't sure if she wanted one or not. Her sadness hung around her, sour and palpable, and Spencer let his head fall back against the seat, his eyes sliding shut.
The inside of the car smelled like gasoline and stale cigarette smoke and spoiled coffee and old french fries and it did nothing to help the nausea pulsing under his ribs. He fumbled to roll down the window, shivering at the sudden breeze.
"Close that up," Diana said sharply. "I don't want anything to get in here."
"But Mom-"
"Close it."
He obeyed. The car seemed hotter now, the smells stronger, the seatbelt pulling too tightly across his chest and his little shoulders. The worn-out shocks made the car shake as the wheels churned over the interstate, tossing him slightly, and the back of his throat burned.
"Mom?" he ventured. "I don't think I feel very good. I think I'm carsick."
She didn't answer.
Tears smarted behind his eyes. "Mommy, I'm going to be sick," he said. "Can you pull over, please?"
"Not now, Spencer," she said absently. She leaned her elbow on the door and rested her cheek on her hand. "We have a while to go yet."
"I'm going to throw up," he said, his chest heaving. "Mommy, I'm going to throw up."
"Stop whining!" she said. "Jesus, can you just stop?"
He lurched forward and vomited down his front. "Mommy!" he sobbed, pulling at his shirt. "I don't feel good! I want to stop!"
Diana smacked the steering wheel. "Will you please shut up?" she shouted. "I'm trying to drive, Spencer, stop trying to distract me!"
He curled into himself, sobbing into his hands, trying to swallow down the sound. Acid burned in the back of his throat and stung his mouth. Diana kept driving, her heel jammed into the gas pedal, and the radio crackled and popped, interrupting the calm conversations of NPR. He didn't dare speak.
The sun had long since set when the car finally stopped. Diana pulled the car into a space in a cheap motel, humming cheerfully under her breath. She went inside and left him alone. He kept his breathing shallow, his shirt dried stiff against his skin. It was still too warm and he felt sticky and wobbly.
He heard Diana's tuneless humming and her shoes crunching on the gravel before she reached the car and opened the passenger door. "Come on, baby, we're gonna get a little rest before we start driving again in the morning," she said. "Hurry up, out of the car, come on."
He raised his head, squinting in the brightness of the parking lot lights. Diana gasped. "Oh, sweetheart, did you get sick?" she asked. "My poor baby, I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say something?" She unbuckled his seatbelt and hoisted him out of the backseat. His knees buckled as she set him on his feet. "We'll get you cleaned up and you can go right to bed, okay?"
"Okay," he rasped. She took his hand and he leaned into her side as they walked to their motel room. Her thumb ran lightly over his small fingers, and he allowed himself to take a deep breath in the cool night air. She was herself again, and he was going to be fine now.
Author's Notes:
MY FUCKING HEART YOU GUYS
The beginning to this fic is a little slow. I have to lay a lot of groundwork for this one to make sense! Alex is still actively grieving for Ethan and she needs to be in a place where she's ready to think about having another child in her life, and Spencer is still blindly loyal to Diana even though she's not in a place where she can care for him. So there's a lot of angst in the beginning, but I swear it'll be SO worth it!
I got stuck writing Alex's section for a while, until I realized that it would make sense that she and James would go to some kind of grief support meeting, and of course- it needed to be the one that Penelope leads! So she and Penelope have been friends for quite a while, and Penelope knows a lot of the details of Alex's grief...but of course she'd never bring it up at work.
Also- we need to talk more about how, before Spencer, Alex was the youngest agent to join the BAU. (which means she still holds the record in this fic.) And let's be real, Gideon would not have been super welcoming to a little twenty-four-year-old girl walking into his office saying she was there to consult on a case.
And poor Spencer. Poor Diana too, really, but poor baby Spencer. He's so very small, and he needs somebody to take care of him.
I can't wait for Alex to adopt him. And James. James is such a good man. He's going to be SUCH a good dad.
Special thanks to Maddy (cowgiwowgi) and Brenna (thesassprincess) for being my test audience, and Bee (linguinereid) for the Latin! I'm themetaphorgirl on tumblr if you'd like to chat!