In Whose Gentle Arms He Lay (Criminal Minds, Rossi/Prentiss)
For Shelly, who wanted "baby's first Christmas". Hope this is ok!
In Whose Gentle Arms He Lay
“You know,” he begins, “I never really lost my love for Christmas. It got… tainted… there for awhile. Wasn’t what it was supposed to be.”
He’s thinking of a specific case, the worst of his career up to that point; three children whose lives were irrevocably changed in the worst of ways. It had cast a pall over his life for years, thinking of these scarred children and their parents’ killer out there on the loose; the inescapable conclusion that he’d personally failed them. He couldn’t see a Christmas tree for years without thinking of the ax in the corner of that bedroom.
He breathes past the unnaccountable feeling of his heart in his throat and continues. “You know, your mom changed all that for me. She made it possible for me to go back to the memories I had from before all that. My Nona’s kitchen; the smell of homemade sweets and roasting peppers for her special sauce on Christmas Eve. If I think about it hard enough, I can still smell it.”
He’s pacing back and forth now, a slight up-and-down motion to his walk that’s going to be hell on his knees tomorrow. The twinkling lights from their tree flash white over them as he walks, the smell of pine taking him back - so many years that he could have had this, it’s hard not to feel rueful of the time wasted.
“ I remember midnight mass, the incense and communion, the nuns singing in the choir above us. Ave, ave, they’d sing, and you’d feel… God. You’d feel God there with you. I kinda feel that here with you, now.”
He leans in, smelling the heady aroma of new baby in the crown of his son’s head, when a cleared throat behind him startles a smile from him. The infant in his arms squirms as if he, too, is fighting the urge to go to the woman the sound came from.
“And what are my two boys doing up this late? Don’t you know Santa comes tonight, Dave?”
He turns to see Emily standing in the archway of the living room, robe hanging loosely; she has dark circles under her eyes and her exhaustion is clear in the way she leans one shoulder against the door jam. The tree lights flicker against her lashes and catch in her eyes and cast a light halo around the crown of her dark, rich hair.
She’s beautiful.
“Well, from what I understand, the big guy cuts babies and old farts a little slack,” he quips, and Emily’s snort of amusement is echoed by a half-cry from the baby in his arms. “Hey, hey, little guy,” Dave coos, bouncing his son a little as Emily comes forward to take him.
“Looks like none of us are sleeping again tonight, huh, guys?” Emily’s voice is tired, but amused. Dave loves that about her, that she can push past the inherent exhaustion of what they do, who they are, their current situation and still get to the heart of the matter: that they’re together.
“Well, Santa might have to make a return trip tomorrow, then.” Dave guides them to his old leather couch, one arm around Emily and one cradling their son. It’s soft and well-stuffed and just the right size for them to cuddle in front of their tree. He hands her their baby grudgingly, but understands that, if he’s hungry, it’s gotta be mommy he wants.
For the rest of his life, now, this memory is his. No amount of horror or time will take it from them, he’s making a promise in this moment to himself and his family; this is Christmas. This feeling of something huge and encompassing embodied by this tiny bundle in his wife’s arms and the blinking of the lights casting shadows behind them; this is Christmas. The three of them; family.
His next words are as much a promise as a wish:
“Merry Christmas, Michael James Rossi.”
http://www.box.com/s/g41e7g902nid19ntfdai
In Whose Gentle Arms He Lay
“You know,” he begins, “I never really lost my love for Christmas. It got… tainted… there for awhile. Wasn’t what it was supposed to be.”
He’s thinking of a specific case, the worst of his career up to that point; three children whose lives were irrevocably changed in the worst of ways. It had cast a pall over his life for years, thinking of these scarred children and their parents’ killer out there on the loose; the inescapable conclusion that he’d personally failed them. He couldn’t see a Christmas tree for years without thinking of the ax in the corner of that bedroom.
He breathes past the unnaccountable feeling of his heart in his throat and continues. “You know, your mom changed all that for me. She made it possible for me to go back to the memories I had from before all that. My Nona’s kitchen; the smell of homemade sweets and roasting peppers for her special sauce on Christmas Eve. If I think about it hard enough, I can still smell it.”
He’s pacing back and forth now, a slight up-and-down motion to his walk that’s going to be hell on his knees tomorrow. The twinkling lights from their tree flash white over them as he walks, the smell of pine taking him back - so many years that he could have had this, it’s hard not to feel rueful of the time wasted.
“ I remember midnight mass, the incense and communion, the nuns singing in the choir above us. Ave, ave, they’d sing, and you’d feel… God. You’d feel God there with you. I kinda feel that here with you, now.”
He leans in, smelling the heady aroma of new baby in the crown of his son’s head, when a cleared throat behind him startles a smile from him. The infant in his arms squirms as if he, too, is fighting the urge to go to the woman the sound came from.
“And what are my two boys doing up this late? Don’t you know Santa comes tonight, Dave?”
He turns to see Emily standing in the archway of the living room, robe hanging loosely; she has dark circles under her eyes and her exhaustion is clear in the way she leans one shoulder against the door jam. The tree lights flicker against her lashes and catch in her eyes and cast a light halo around the crown of her dark, rich hair.
She’s beautiful.
“Well, from what I understand, the big guy cuts babies and old farts a little slack,” he quips, and Emily’s snort of amusement is echoed by a half-cry from the baby in his arms. “Hey, hey, little guy,” Dave coos, bouncing his son a little as Emily comes forward to take him.
“Looks like none of us are sleeping again tonight, huh, guys?” Emily’s voice is tired, but amused. Dave loves that about her, that she can push past the inherent exhaustion of what they do, who they are, their current situation and still get to the heart of the matter: that they’re together.
“Well, Santa might have to make a return trip tomorrow, then.” Dave guides them to his old leather couch, one arm around Emily and one cradling their son. It’s soft and well-stuffed and just the right size for them to cuddle in front of their tree. He hands her their baby grudgingly, but understands that, if he’s hungry, it’s gotta be mommy he wants.
For the rest of his life, now, this memory is his. No amount of horror or time will take it from them, he’s making a promise in this moment to himself and his family; this is Christmas. This feeling of something huge and encompassing embodied by this tiny bundle in his wife’s arms and the blinking of the lights casting shadows behind them; this is Christmas. The three of them; family.
His next words are as much a promise as a wish:
“Merry Christmas, Michael James Rossi.”
http://www.box.com/s/g41e7g902nid19ntfdai