The Waste Land, 33/44
Title: The Waste Land
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairing: Team-centric - gen
Genre: Drama/Suspense
Summary: Part Three: George Foyet has returned. He isn’t going to let the BAU forget his legacy. Ever.
Warnings: Character Death
The Waste Land
Part Three: The Reaper’s Gambit
And then-the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little-less-nothing!-and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Robert Frost - Out, Out-
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
William Shakespeare
Chapter Seven - Strength (Morgan)
The SUV feels a little empty as they drive out to the address that Garcia had provided them. Normally, there would be three to a vehicle, but with both JJ and Reid in the hospital, it’s just Morgan and Prentiss, with Hotch and Rossi in the car in front. They have a SWAT team as well, because today, they’re pulling out all the stops.
This time, George Foyet will not fool them again.
If Morgan has to tackle the man off of a god damned cliff, George Foyet will not escape.
Already, they have lost too much.
‘This feels wrong,’ Emily says suddenly. She hasn’t said a word since they’d left the station, and really, it’s not the kind of thing that Morgan wants to hear. After all, he feels it too.
It seems like it should be harder.
Like maybe, the house is just another false lead, and they’ll be back to square one. Like maybe Peter Rhea is just an uncanny doppelganger. Like maybe they’re completely and utterly wrong about all of this, and everything is about to go to hell.
So yeah. He feels it.
He feels his heart thumping, and he feels the adrenaline pumping, and he feels the fear pushing at the edges of the barrier his mind had constructed to keep it trapped. Fear is something that he cannot let himself feel right now, no matter the circumstances.
‘Everything is going to be okay,’ Morgan says, and Emily gives him that incredulous look that she’s so damn good at, that might as well say, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
But she doesn’t say anything, because really, she’s probably thinking the exact same thing.
The house is a long way out of town, which is never a good sign. Apartments in inner-city buildings, there are always people watching, there are cameras in hallways, cameras on the streets. Out here, there are a lot of wide open spaces.
There are advantages and disadvantages to every single kind of terrain, when it comes to tactical operations. A place like this, there are fewer bystanders to get caught in the crossfire, but there are also a lot more opportunities for traps and the like. It’s harder to put landmines around an apartment building.
Once, a couple of years back now, they had come across an unsub’s property that had landmines in the surrounding acreage. It had very nearly ended bloodily, but it didn’t.
George Foyet might not be the kind of guy that would use landmines, but he has other quirks, other tricks up his sleeve. Really, they have to be prepared for anything.
The Behavioral Analysis Unit, better known as “Grown-up Boy Scouts,” only they don’t have any merit badges. Well. Maybe just one badge.
‘Nice place to live,’ Emily says noncommittally, in what sounds like an attempt at changing the subject.
‘You lived in Boston?’ he asks, curious.
‘For a little while,’ she shrugs, and it sounds like there is so much more to it, but he doesn’t ask.
She’s not wrong - Boston is a nice-looking city, with a lot of old buildings. He’d never come here on holiday, though. The streets are paved with stones of blood.
Every potential holiday destination is.
Boston, Florida, Chicago. Hell, even Jamaica had been interrupted by untimely serial killer activity.
When this is all over, he’s going to take a proper holiday. Maybe to some monk retreat at the top of a mountain, where they aren’t even allowed to speak. Knowing his luck, they’d probably be into human sacrifice anyway.
Maybe it’s time to move on.
It’s not a thought that he particularly likes, but it’s the conclusion that the world keeps bringing him to. They just keep moving deeper and deeper into the abyss. One day, they’ll be trapped for eternity.
Maybe they already are.
The SUV pulls to a stop half a mile down the road from Peter Rhea’s address. If he’s in there, they don’t want to tip him off. Unfortunately, that’s just another one of those disadvantages.
Morgan pulls on his Kevlar vest, and checks his weapon. He slips a hand into his pocket and feels the cold metal of Foyet’s bullet.
In a way, it comforts him. It strengthens him.
Because the one thing they all need right now is strength.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairing: Team-centric - gen
Genre: Drama/Suspense
Summary: Part Three: George Foyet has returned. He isn’t going to let the BAU forget his legacy. Ever.
Warnings: Character Death
The Waste Land
Part Three: The Reaper’s Gambit
And then-the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little-less-nothing!-and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Robert Frost - Out, Out-
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
William Shakespeare
Chapter Seven - Strength (Morgan)
The SUV feels a little empty as they drive out to the address that Garcia had provided them. Normally, there would be three to a vehicle, but with both JJ and Reid in the hospital, it’s just Morgan and Prentiss, with Hotch and Rossi in the car in front. They have a SWAT team as well, because today, they’re pulling out all the stops.
This time, George Foyet will not fool them again.
If Morgan has to tackle the man off of a god damned cliff, George Foyet will not escape.
Already, they have lost too much.
‘This feels wrong,’ Emily says suddenly. She hasn’t said a word since they’d left the station, and really, it’s not the kind of thing that Morgan wants to hear. After all, he feels it too.
It seems like it should be harder.
Like maybe, the house is just another false lead, and they’ll be back to square one. Like maybe Peter Rhea is just an uncanny doppelganger. Like maybe they’re completely and utterly wrong about all of this, and everything is about to go to hell.
So yeah. He feels it.
He feels his heart thumping, and he feels the adrenaline pumping, and he feels the fear pushing at the edges of the barrier his mind had constructed to keep it trapped. Fear is something that he cannot let himself feel right now, no matter the circumstances.
‘Everything is going to be okay,’ Morgan says, and Emily gives him that incredulous look that she’s so damn good at, that might as well say, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
But she doesn’t say anything, because really, she’s probably thinking the exact same thing.
The house is a long way out of town, which is never a good sign. Apartments in inner-city buildings, there are always people watching, there are cameras in hallways, cameras on the streets. Out here, there are a lot of wide open spaces.
There are advantages and disadvantages to every single kind of terrain, when it comes to tactical operations. A place like this, there are fewer bystanders to get caught in the crossfire, but there are also a lot more opportunities for traps and the like. It’s harder to put landmines around an apartment building.
Once, a couple of years back now, they had come across an unsub’s property that had landmines in the surrounding acreage. It had very nearly ended bloodily, but it didn’t.
George Foyet might not be the kind of guy that would use landmines, but he has other quirks, other tricks up his sleeve. Really, they have to be prepared for anything.
The Behavioral Analysis Unit, better known as “Grown-up Boy Scouts,” only they don’t have any merit badges. Well. Maybe just one badge.
‘Nice place to live,’ Emily says noncommittally, in what sounds like an attempt at changing the subject.
‘You lived in Boston?’ he asks, curious.
‘For a little while,’ she shrugs, and it sounds like there is so much more to it, but he doesn’t ask.
She’s not wrong - Boston is a nice-looking city, with a lot of old buildings. He’d never come here on holiday, though. The streets are paved with stones of blood.
Every potential holiday destination is.
Boston, Florida, Chicago. Hell, even Jamaica had been interrupted by untimely serial killer activity.
When this is all over, he’s going to take a proper holiday. Maybe to some monk retreat at the top of a mountain, where they aren’t even allowed to speak. Knowing his luck, they’d probably be into human sacrifice anyway.
Maybe it’s time to move on.
It’s not a thought that he particularly likes, but it’s the conclusion that the world keeps bringing him to. They just keep moving deeper and deeper into the abyss. One day, they’ll be trapped for eternity.
Maybe they already are.
The SUV pulls to a stop half a mile down the road from Peter Rhea’s address. If he’s in there, they don’t want to tip him off. Unfortunately, that’s just another one of those disadvantages.
Morgan pulls on his Kevlar vest, and checks his weapon. He slips a hand into his pocket and feels the cold metal of Foyet’s bullet.
In a way, it comforts him. It strengthens him.
Because the one thing they all need right now is strength.