Wilhelmina Maddox

"Mark, I'm coming home."

"That's great," there was joy underneath his steady words. Relief, even. "It's all over the news. So you finally caught the bastard, huh?"

"Yeah."

"There were reports of some injuries. You all right?"

"Peachy." She forced a smile on the phone as she sat in the hospital waiting room. In front of her, Lindsay had a shallow cut on her neck and was scheduled for a long itinerary of psychological evaluations but was not the one that needed ten stitches and a blood transfusion. Despite the doctor's advice, she had insisted on walking out as soon as they looked her over. As a compromise, she had to sit there for another fifteen minutes, for observation. Around her, the coughing of waiting patients and a voice over the intercom, paging a doctor, filled the air. "I… now I'm fine, so don't worry but-,"

"That's not a good start. What happened?"

"I was shot."

A long pause, followed by, "I'm on my way to the airport."

She sat up straight. "What? No! I'll be flying out in two days tops. I just need to finish filing the case files. Closing it for good. Give a debrief. The usual." She felt a flutter in her chest, hearing Mark so worried. But she didn't need him to drop everything when she was perfectly capable of coming home by herself.

"Where were you shot?"

"The shoulder. Grazed, really. It was only a .22. But I did lose a decent amount of blood."

"That's not making this sound any better." He sounded half-frustrated, half-afraid. "You could have died." There was a low whine, thickening his voice.

Will knew, after Knox, that Mark would be more sensitive to death. It was why she wanted to hold as much of the brutal truth back as possible. She swallowed back a smart comeback, and instead, softened her voice. "Mark, I'm okay. I didn't die. It's all over now. And from now on, I won't be getting into any shenanigans for a while. Just finishing up here. And when I get back, maybe you can kiss my wound and make it better?" She tried to sound teasing.

She nervously waited for him to respond. "Maybe we can compare scars." There was a sudden heat in his voice. All seemed forgiven.

Will couldn't help but laugh. "Do gunshot wounds turn you on, Mark?"

"You turn me on. When you get home, I'll be spoiling you rotten, Wilhelmina."

She groaned. He had begun using her full name when he wanted to be affectionate. She wasn't a fan. "Anything going on back home? What've I missed?"

There was a long pause that set her on high alert. "Mark?"

"Peter Acomb was killed in action. We got the news yesterday."

"Oh my God," she sat up straight. Lindsay and Allison both shot her surprised glances. She covered the mouthpiece of her flip phone to mouth, "Peter Acomb was killed." She returned to Mark. "But - oh, no. How is Angelina?"

Allison jumped up and sat in the seat over with Will, pressing her ear against the other side of the phone.

"Not good. She's not eating. She can't get out of bed. I've been checking in on her. Trying to get her to get up every few hours." Hoffman paused again. "It'll be good, having you and Kerry back here. I think Ange needs her friends here. Something to distract her."

"Yeah, of course," Will felt her eyes sting. She hadn't known Peter Acomb well but he was - had been - a kind man. "I'll fly up as soon as I can."

"I know you will. Pass the message to Kerry."

"Already have," Allison spoke up.

Hoffman was silent. Then, "Good to know. Call me before you're flying out."

"Okay. Take care, Mark. I love you."

"Love you, too." He hung up first.

Will let out a deep breath. Her head was spinning all over again. Mark and Angelina both experienced grave losses so suddenly. She rubbed her temple. She tried not to feel pity for them. But she wanted to do something, to help. She wasn't sure what she could do, though. Loss never came easy.

Angelina, from what Mark had told her of how she handled the death of their parents, would take much more time to get back to normal. Mark had bounced back in less than a week, albeit she wasn't sure if he wasn't just forcing himself to go through the motions. But for Angelina… Will knew she would need extra care and attention.

"We'll look after her," Ally quipped. "Take her out to brunch. We'll make sure she gets plenty of distractions. Get her out of her apartment. I've done my fair share of grieving." Ally tucked strands behind her ear. "And I know how it usually goes down. At some point, she'll need to start purging her possessions, to wash her hands of it. That's the hardest part. We'll need to be there for her when she does that."

Will nodded. She knew Ally was someone who thought five steps ahead in times of crisis. "Yeah. We'll be there for her, when she needs us."

For the rest of the night, they sat in silence, thinking of Angelina and Peter Acomb.

(POW)

"It was a pleasure," Strahm, freshly shaven and with a full night's sleep, looked reborn and downright charming as he smiled down at Will. "Have a safe flight."

"Thanks," Will slung her purse over her shoulder, pulling her carryon closer to the gate. "Appreciate you walking me to the gate."

"Let's make a habit out of it," he smirked. "You did good work. You and Allison, both."

"Well, you were certainly the teacher. I've learned a lot from you. I wouldn't turn down another opportunity in the future. But I've neglected the MPD long enough. It's time to get back to my roots."

Strahm smiled, lashes framing his blue eyes in a way that made Will appreciate the ruggedness of his face. She felt guilty admiring his features, so she looked away. She blamed the attraction on her being separated from Mark for too long.

"Good luck, Will," Strahm held his hand out. She took it, feeling the warmth of his shake.

"Same for you - ack," she felt herself being pulled into a tight hug, smelling his aftershave, the sandalwood tickling her nose. She stiffened briefly before returning the hug.

"You're a good friend. An excellent detective. I'm sure whatever is in store for the future, you'll be charging in head first. Stay safe. Don't be a stranger," Strahm pulled from the hug. "Hope that was appropriate."

"It - was." Will refused to read more into the hug. "We're friends, after all." She emphasized this, wanting it to be clear. "Like you and Lindsay."

"Of course. Give my warmest regards to Hoffman. And my condolences. To both him and his sister for their losses."

Will nodded. "I will. She said her goodbye to Special Agent Peter Strahm, wondering if they would ever cross paths again. A part of her hoped so but another part could detect the ulterior motives from him. She shook her head.

Man, I can be so full of myself. She was probably reading too much into it. I've been trying to read men so much, I'm seeing things that aren't there. She stepped down the gate, looking forward to taking a nap on the flight home.

Peter Strahm

He knew he had crossed the line, sneaking in that hug with Will. But a part of him knew he would have regretted it if he had let her go without doing so. The case had taught him one thing: he needed to be more assertive. He had been too passive with his methods. When he had hunches, he held himself back, not wanting to go down the wrong direction. He reviewed every memory he had of the Heart Stealer case, wondering if he had done things with more courage and daring, would more lives have been saved? If he had agreed to the first gut feeling he had, that his team would be targeted, would Lindsay not have been kidnapped?

He believed so.

So he would make decisions that pushed him to be more aggressive with his impulses. And the first action was giving Will Maddox a hug goodbye. He rationalized, it was fine. They were friends. But he felt a twist in his stomach, that familiar pang of guilt he used to get whenever his mother would catch him stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

Will was in a long term, committed relationship. He should have respected that.

Yet, no matter how he forced himself to express no animosity towards Mark Hoffman, it was there. A strong distrust. He didn't believe the man was a good match for Will.

Embedded in his ego, was the conviction that Will would be happier with someone less corrupt. Like you? He questioned himself. Yes. Me.

He did not enjoy dealing with his inner self, the self-serving id component of his personality. But he humored it this one time.

And, in honest discourse with himself, concluded that he did not regret the affection he gave Will. A part of him felt empty as he watched her plane pull from the gate and head towards the runway. He waited until the plane took off, disappearing up into the sky, before he turned to walk back to the parking lot.

The closing of this case was bittersweet. The killer was locked away. His job was done. But that meant Will would be back in the city. And he, in Quantico.

His phone rang. He recognized Lindsay's number. "What's up, Linds?"

"I'm hungry. Could go for some pancakes. What do you say?"

He smiled. "I can eat."

He walked off. He wouldn't dwell too long. Life went on. In the end, Lindsay was safe. Together, they would live to fight another vicious serial killer. And he was confident that the next would not be anywhere near the headache as the Heart Stealer.

Mark Hoffman

"Angie," Mark had the takeout boxes unpacked, one of every item on the Chinese takeout menu spread around her kitchen island counter. "Please. Just one bite."

She stood, in the same shirt she had worn since five days ago, looking glumly at the fried rice. "Okay," she whispered, taking a plate and dispassionately dropping a spoonful of rice onto it. She sat at the bar stool, glumly forcing the spoonful in her mouth, chewing with no enthusiasm. She swallowed and tears began to fall. "It's just - it feels wrong to eat. When Peter's-," she was beginning to weep again, her pretty face all ugly from her crying..

Mark turned and grabbed paper towels, holding them out to her. "Ange, Peter wouldn't want you to be like this."

This only made her wails worse. He quickly backpedaled. "Angie - at least - Peter, he died a war hero. He's dead, but he died a good death."

Angelina stopped crying, and for a moment, Mark believed he had said the right thing.

Until he saw the rage in her face. He then realized he had royally and unequivocally fucked up.

"You think," she hiccuped, "that Peter died a good death? What the fuck does that mean? That it's okay he's dead, because he died in a war? How can you fucking say that?!" She screamed, throwing her plate to the ground. The porcelain shattered and Angelina began sobbing violently, clinging to the counter.

Mark kept his mouth shut and went to grab the dustpan. Angelina rarely got so worked up. But he forgave her. He understood this wasn't really who she was. She was just going through something he couldn't imagine.

He tried to imagine a world where Will had died. And he couldn't stomach imagining it for long. He wished he could go back in time and shove a sock down his gullet. How could he say something like that to Angie?

His thoughts went to Knox and he then understood why.

Of all the ways to go, rotting in a trash filled apartment with your brains spattering the wall, it was one of the worst ways imaginable to go. Hoffman swept up the shards of plate and threw them away.

"Angie," Hoffman offered the other plate. "You still need to eat."

She sniffed and snapped, "Just get out, Mark. I don't want to talk to you. Get out!"

His chest tightened. Angie never spoke to him like this before. He wanted to hold his arms out and hug his sister. "I'm sorry, Angie."

"Just - please," she was blinking rapidly, eyes flowing with water. "I need air. You're smothering me. I just want to be alone. Okay? I'll be alright. I just - want to be alone. And take this out. I won't eat it, I'll just throw it all away."

Hoffman stood there, waiting for her to continue. She instead began to sob into her paper towel. "All right, Ange," he softly spoke. "I'll head home. I'll give you a few days."

"Thank you," she choked in between violent shaking. Her face was splotched. Her cheekbones were poking out of her gaunt face. Hoffman needed her to eat. But he couldn't push her.

He gathered most of the takeout, putting them in the brown paper sack. He left at least one container of fried rice, hoping she would at least take a few more bites before she threw it away. He left her apartment, making sure the deadbolt was engaged before he walked away. He walked to his car, dialing for Will. She had returned the day before, but had been busy with unpacking and getting caught up at the office. Her cell kept ringing until it went to voicemail.

He sighed. It was a Friday night. She was likely still at the precinct. He wondered if he could go to her office. Just to not be alone.

But he knew he didn't need to bother her. He decided to head to Larry's. Have a few drinks. Try to not think about all the shit that was going wrong.

He paused. No. There was something else he could do. He started the car and headed westside, towards the abandoned steelworks factory. He had some old business he needed to attend to.

The place was secluded. Nothing out of the ordinary. He forgot the last time he had been there, which wasn't good.

It meant that he may have a mess he'd have to clean up.

He grabbed the giant paper bag, getting out of his Crown Vic. He marched over towards the big rusted yellow door.

TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED was faintly read on the old sign. Hoffman took out the key, an old remnant from Rosello. This property, though abandoned now, had belonged to the mob boss. The city still hadn't realized the property was effectively up for grabs. Perks of the bastard's many aliases.

He entered, taking a right and entering an adjacent room. He walked past the various tools and dust covered saws, walking down a narrow corridor. He stopped at the end of the hall, where a heavy steel door remained. He knocked.

"You alive?" He waited a long pause.

A low moan made him smile cruelly. The bastard was resilient, he gave him that.

Eric Matthews

"I'm sorry, Eric. But I think it's best if we end it. For good, this time."

He leaned back, looking at Allison, at a loss of words. "What happened down there?"

Allison looked away, eyes tight with distress. She was clenching her jaw. "It's just - I don't think we're good for each other. We haven't been, for a long time." She looked at him with pity. He hated that.

He lit a cigarette and blew it towards her. "Yeah, well best of fucking luck then," he grumbled to himself. He wouldn't say his heart was breaking. It was already ripped to pieces, eaten, and shit out a long time ago.

"Think about our careers. It's not good for us, being together, still."

"That's horse shit." He pulled the cigarette from his lip and let in a sharp breath. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. But he was so fucking tired of the women in his life bending him over and screwing him. He pointed his cigarette, between his main and middle finger, toward her. "Yeah, your career. Cause that's all that matters to you, huh?" He shook his head, sneering. "No wonder you're such a good cop. You can just do whatever you want, cause you got nothing to lose. It's not like you've been married. Or have a family to go home to. So this is all you've got. I gave up everything for you." He took a puff and angrily jabbed the cigarette into the ash tray. "Get the fuck out of here."

She didn't linger. She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

He fiddled with the folder on his desk, pretending he was reviewing the documents. He didn't even register the words he was reading. He was just pissed.

He jumped to his feet, needing to stretch his legs.

He stormed out and went for a walk. A long walk.

It was beginning to snow. Even though he hadn't worn a heavier jacket, he was burning up. His fingers itched.

He heard a car slow down beside him. He turned to glare at the asshole that was bothering him. He recognized Daniel Rigg in the driver's seat of the patrol car.

"Matthews, what're you doing out here, man? It's below freezing."

"I'm fine," he clipped, continuing his walk.

"Come on, man, get in. You'll die out here. I'm on homeless duty. Rather be sparing you of hypothermia, though."

Matthews stopped, rubbing his nose. "Yeah, that sucks." Rounding up the bums to keep them from turning to popsicles was a pretty awful gig. Daniel Rigg, looking like he was getting off duty, looked up at him with friendliness. His toes were getting numb.

He decided he'd take the guy up on his offer.

"Got anywhere to be?" Rigg asked when he slid into the passenger side. The car pulled away from the curb.

"Whatever bar's got the cheapest booze."

"Sure. My treat. One of those days, huh?"

"You can say that. More like one of those fucking years."

Rigg made a noise in agreement. "Sounds like you've been getting shit from all fronts."

"Yeah." Matthews hardly worked with Rigg. But he knew Jane and Tracy went way back. At first, he felt distrust tighten his neck. Whatever I say, he'll tell his wife. And Jane will just hear it through the grapevine. But he always thought the guy was all right. Hell, he was about to buy him some drinks. "Just hard. The divorce. Everything."

"I hear you."

"And after losing it all," his thoughts went to Kerry. When did it all get so fucked up? "You find out that everything you gave up for was never yours to begin with."

He felt Rigg cast a glance in his direction. He could practically hear the man's curiosity. Thankfully, he didn't say anything after that.

It was one of the few things he was grateful for.

Rigg took them far from the central part of the city. The urban sprawl of gas stations, strip bars, and liquor stores were a relief with their neon lights. When Rigg parked the squad car by the nearest bar, the two men got out and entered the dive.

Matthews basked in the stale smoke and musky smell of old booze. They took a spot far from the pool tables and people, in the corner part of a bar where the bartender approached them for their order.

Matthews drank and drank a lot. Back to back he pounded back tequila, wanting that agave nectar to soothe his bitter pride. "So what's new with you, Rigg?" Matthews was warm and feeling friendlier now that the alcohol was doing its job. He almost felt happy.

"Just got promoted to SWAT Commander."

"And you're rounding up bums?"

"Grissom's call. Anyone who was free. I got the short end of the stick, but it happens. Still, I'm not complaining. I got what I wanted." Rigg's smile was small but genuine.

Matthews nodded, forcing a grin through a pang of envy. He punched Rigg in the shoulder playfully. "Atta boy."

"Tracy's pissed, though." Rigg took a deep drink. "She wants me to get desked. Says it's too dangerous to play 'hero' all the time."

"What does she know?" Matthews griped, reaching for the bottle to wet his glass but finding his hands slippery. He dropped the tequila bottle, slow to pick it up.

When did things get so hard to pick up?

"All right," the bartender growled, "he's had enough. Best take him home, Officer."

Matthews got to his feet, realizing the world was spinning. Shit. He had a bit too much.

He lurched and stumbled out of the bar, hearing Rigg call out to him. He needed fresh air.

The winter wind stung his face but felt real nice when he vomited by the front door, nearby walkers gagging and scurrying away from him. He didn't think about where he was or what he was doing.

He just wanted to get to the car and go home.

"Eric!" He heard Rigg's voice again and he turned, seeing multiple Riggs jogging towards him. "Slow down, man."

"J-just get me home," he pulled out his pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth.

"Sure thing," Rigg looked fine. Maybe he hadn't drank as much.

He hadn't been paying much attention earlier.

"Excuse me?" A man's voice made him turn. He saw what looked like a camera. He could see the black foam of a microphone being pushed into his face. "Officer Matthews."

"Not now," he barked, hating reporters.

"Is it true that you broke a suspect's jaw with a flashlight last week?"

"No fucking comment," his head suddenly hurt.

"There's rumors you are using brutality against your suspects."

Something in him snapped. He looked up and glared into the many eyes of the perp. He felt hatred, like hot fire, rising up his chest and through his throat. "What brutality?" He felt his cigarette fall from his mouth. He took a step forward, quick and furious. "Let me tell you something." He unclipped his holster fastener and took his gun out. He pointed it at the reporter. He would blast this fucker's brains off. He didn't give a fuck. "What brutality? What brutality?" He stepped closer, pressing the pistol inches from the bastard's cheek. "Huh? WHAT BRUTALITY? WHAT?!"

Time had slowed, the reporter's mouth agape in terror as Matthews waited for the piece of shit to give him a reason to pull the trigger.

He felt himself being jerked back all of a sudden, knowing it was Rigg but not caring. Despite how fucked up he was, he knew he had just made things a whole lot worse. "Eric!" Rigg's voice broke through and had him backpedaling. But it was too late.

He knew it but he still turned away, suddenly ashamed. What have I done?

He put his gun away and went to the cop car. "Where's my cigarette?" He wouldn't look back up, at the camera or the man that he had just pointed his gun at.

He hoped it wouldn't be that bad. A part of him was hopeful that it wasn't going to blow up in his face.

But he knew it was.