The Waste Land, 37/44
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 IN THIS CHAPTER
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 Eleven - This is the Way the World Ends (Hotch)
He wakes up with his hands bound behind his back.
It had been a trap - an ambush - and even though they had been aware of that eventuality, they’d lost. Thanks to the exhaustion, and the hunger, and the emotional baggage of the first unsub, they’d been unprepared for the real threat. Foyet had outsmarted them for the second time, and there isn’t a bit of that that Aaron Hotchner doesn’t find horrifying.
They aren’t supposed to lose. Not like this.
Hotch knows well the horrors of the job; knows that the good balanced out the evil. Theoretically, at least. Today, all he can see is the darkness that is George Foyet. It hadn’t been enough to slip away into the shadows. This man - not even a man, really. Hotch has a bit of trouble thinking of the Reaper as even human - this man wants to be feared.
And what better way to do that than to kidnap a federal agent.
Hotch blinks, and notices that he isn’t alone. The Reaper had gone beyond that - he hadn’t kidnapped one federal agent. He’d kidnapped three.
There is no way this is going to look good in paperwork, if they even survive to write up the paperwork, which Hotch is severely doubting right now. With Morgan and Prentiss beside him, still unconscious and Reid and JJ in the hospital recovering, the team isn’t exactly in a good position to pull him out of this. David Rossi is a fantastic agent - Hotch still values his judgment more than anyone else’s - but there’s a reason why the BAU works in teams.
They fit together, like some broken jigsaw puzzle, each showing a different part of the picture. There’s some overlap, and some gaps, but in the end, they work better as a unit than as each puzzle piece separately. Every time they lose someone, every time the boat tips over, they have to reorient, work out what they have between them, work out where the holes that need filling are.
Sometimes, though, there are holes that can’t be filled. Each case takes a little more away. There’s a reason why agents burn out so quickly. There’s a reason why they’re submitted to twice as many psych evaluations as members of other departments. It should be worth it in the end.
That’s what he keeps telling himself.
Only no matter how bad it gets, he can’t pull himself away.
That’s the BAU curse. Keep going until you crash and burn. Even when you can see it coming, you can’t let go, hands glued to the steering wheel.
‘Hotch?’ He hears Morgan’s voice, a little tired, a little confused. The younger man gets to his knees, unable to move much further without effort, thanks to the restraints on his wrists.
‘I’m here.’
‘Did Foyet…?’
‘Yeah,’ Hotch affirms. He doesn’t even need to hear the end of that sentence.
‘Shit,’ the other agent mutters, which is something of an understatement. In the hands of any other unsub, they might have had a fighting chance, but George Foyet doesn’t do anything by halves. ‘How’s Emily?’
‘She’s breathing,’ Hotch announces, unable to get his hands in the position to take a pulse. ‘But there’s some blood.’
‘I think hit my head again on my way down,’ Emily says, her eyes still closed. ‘It doesn’t count as a second concussion, so no, Morgan, you can’t collect on that bet I know you have with Rossi.’ Hotch breathes a sigh of relief. She’s been awake for a while, apparently, and the deadpan snark is a good sign. They’re all alive, and they’re all relatively unharmed. For now. He gets the feeling that it isn’t going to stay that way for long.
‘You shouldn’t have been in the field,’ Morgan says angrily, and Hotch knows that he’s feeling more than a little guilty. It had been his call that had drawn them into Foyet’s trap, but then, Hotch knows he would have done the exact same thing, everything considered.
Emily, however, finds a way to say it in much better terms; ‘Cut the crap, Morgan.’ Morgan’s eyes widen in what might be fear, but there’s definitely some anger there too. Fear and anger at the fact that there’s no immediate way out of this. There’s no convenient hairclip to pick the lock of their handcuffs, there’s no perfectly placed vent to crawl into, there’s no mysteriously unlocked door. There is only a dark, silent room, with no way out.
No way out but death.
It’s not the death that Aaron Hotchner is worried about. It’s the stuff that’s going to happen in between. The fact that he will give up almost anything for his team isn’t a secret. Foyet will manipulate that.
Whatever comes next isn’t going to be pretty.
The door swings open, as if Foyet had been watching them - something that’s probably true. He can’t see any cameras in the room, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
‘Good afternoon,’ Foyet says, with a smile that Hotch can best describe as lecherous. This is the last face that every single one of the Reaper’s victims had seen before death. If he were a different man, Aaron Hotchner might have been terrified.
As it stands, this situation is new to him; he’s been on the other side of this so, so many times. He’s seen and heard his team members kidnapped, held hostage, damn near beaten to death, but it’s never been him. Not like this. He has no bargaining chips, no aces up his sleeve.
All he has is the profile.
‘It’s so nice to see you, Agent Hotchner. Just think, if you’d taken that deal, we wouldn’t be here. Was it worth the trade-off?’
Hotch’s heart skips a beat.
‘We don’t make deals,’ he repeats, in that same controlled voice that he had used last time. In theory, at least. His voice is shaking. Hell, his whole body is shaking, and he wonders if even the handcuffs are enough to stop him from pounding the Reaper into a pulpy, bloody mess.
‘That’s right, Agent Hotchner. The Unit Chief must always be a source of moral guidance. He doesn’t make deals. He needs to be in control. He needs to protect his team. That kind of grandiosity is a little narcissistic, don’t you think?’ Foyet’s words take on a scheming tone, and Hotch is hyperaware of the revolver that is now pressed up against the back of his skull. Maybe he could flip around, and kick Foyet’s legs out from underneath him. Maybe Rossi will kick the door down, gun blazing. Maybe pigs will fly.
‘Your own behavior suggests a diagnosis of Narcissistic Personality Disorder,’ Hotch provides. ‘You believe yourself to be unique - special, in some way. Your sense of entitlement and lack of empathy lead to overtly arrogant behavior. But know this - you are nothing.’
The Reaper laughs, leaning down beside Hotch, breath hot against his ear. When Foyet speaks, his voice is a whisper, but it’s loud enough that he knows both Morgan and Prentiss can hear him.
‘You are going to die, knowing that you couldn’t save them.’
Aaron Hotchner’s eyes are open, and for one split second, he lets the fear show.
Foyet pulls the trigger.
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 IN THIS CHAPTER
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 Eleven - This is the Way the World Ends (Hotch)
He wakes up with his hands bound behind his back.
It had been a trap - an ambush - and even though they had been aware of that eventuality, they’d lost. Thanks to the exhaustion, and the hunger, and the emotional baggage of the first unsub, they’d been unprepared for the real threat. Foyet had outsmarted them for the second time, and there isn’t a bit of that that Aaron Hotchner doesn’t find horrifying.
They aren’t supposed to lose. Not like this.
Hotch knows well the horrors of the job; knows that the good balanced out the evil. Theoretically, at least. Today, all he can see is the darkness that is George Foyet. It hadn’t been enough to slip away into the shadows. This man - not even a man, really. Hotch has a bit of trouble thinking of the Reaper as even human - this man wants to be feared.
And what better way to do that than to kidnap a federal agent.
Hotch blinks, and notices that he isn’t alone. The Reaper had gone beyond that - he hadn’t kidnapped one federal agent. He’d kidnapped three.
There is no way this is going to look good in paperwork, if they even survive to write up the paperwork, which Hotch is severely doubting right now. With Morgan and Prentiss beside him, still unconscious and Reid and JJ in the hospital recovering, the team isn’t exactly in a good position to pull him out of this. David Rossi is a fantastic agent - Hotch still values his judgment more than anyone else’s - but there’s a reason why the BAU works in teams.
They fit together, like some broken jigsaw puzzle, each showing a different part of the picture. There’s some overlap, and some gaps, but in the end, they work better as a unit than as each puzzle piece separately. Every time they lose someone, every time the boat tips over, they have to reorient, work out what they have between them, work out where the holes that need filling are.
Sometimes, though, there are holes that can’t be filled. Each case takes a little more away. There’s a reason why agents burn out so quickly. There’s a reason why they’re submitted to twice as many psych evaluations as members of other departments. It should be worth it in the end.
That’s what he keeps telling himself.
Only no matter how bad it gets, he can’t pull himself away.
That’s the BAU curse. Keep going until you crash and burn. Even when you can see it coming, you can’t let go, hands glued to the steering wheel.
‘Hotch?’ He hears Morgan’s voice, a little tired, a little confused. The younger man gets to his knees, unable to move much further without effort, thanks to the restraints on his wrists.
‘I’m here.’
‘Did Foyet…?’
‘Yeah,’ Hotch affirms. He doesn’t even need to hear the end of that sentence.
‘Shit,’ the other agent mutters, which is something of an understatement. In the hands of any other unsub, they might have had a fighting chance, but George Foyet doesn’t do anything by halves. ‘How’s Emily?’
‘She’s breathing,’ Hotch announces, unable to get his hands in the position to take a pulse. ‘But there’s some blood.’
‘I think hit my head again on my way down,’ Emily says, her eyes still closed. ‘It doesn’t count as a second concussion, so no, Morgan, you can’t collect on that bet I know you have with Rossi.’ Hotch breathes a sigh of relief. She’s been awake for a while, apparently, and the deadpan snark is a good sign. They’re all alive, and they’re all relatively unharmed. For now. He gets the feeling that it isn’t going to stay that way for long.
‘You shouldn’t have been in the field,’ Morgan says angrily, and Hotch knows that he’s feeling more than a little guilty. It had been his call that had drawn them into Foyet’s trap, but then, Hotch knows he would have done the exact same thing, everything considered.
Emily, however, finds a way to say it in much better terms; ‘Cut the crap, Morgan.’ Morgan’s eyes widen in what might be fear, but there’s definitely some anger there too. Fear and anger at the fact that there’s no immediate way out of this. There’s no convenient hairclip to pick the lock of their handcuffs, there’s no perfectly placed vent to crawl into, there’s no mysteriously unlocked door. There is only a dark, silent room, with no way out.
No way out but death.
It’s not the death that Aaron Hotchner is worried about. It’s the stuff that’s going to happen in between. The fact that he will give up almost anything for his team isn’t a secret. Foyet will manipulate that.
Whatever comes next isn’t going to be pretty.
The door swings open, as if Foyet had been watching them - something that’s probably true. He can’t see any cameras in the room, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
‘Good afternoon,’ Foyet says, with a smile that Hotch can best describe as lecherous. This is the last face that every single one of the Reaper’s victims had seen before death. If he were a different man, Aaron Hotchner might have been terrified.
As it stands, this situation is new to him; he’s been on the other side of this so, so many times. He’s seen and heard his team members kidnapped, held hostage, damn near beaten to death, but it’s never been him. Not like this. He has no bargaining chips, no aces up his sleeve.
All he has is the profile.
‘It’s so nice to see you, Agent Hotchner. Just think, if you’d taken that deal, we wouldn’t be here. Was it worth the trade-off?’
Hotch’s heart skips a beat.
‘We don’t make deals,’ he repeats, in that same controlled voice that he had used last time. In theory, at least. His voice is shaking. Hell, his whole body is shaking, and he wonders if even the handcuffs are enough to stop him from pounding the Reaper into a pulpy, bloody mess.
‘That’s right, Agent Hotchner. The Unit Chief must always be a source of moral guidance. He doesn’t make deals. He needs to be in control. He needs to protect his team. That kind of grandiosity is a little narcissistic, don’t you think?’ Foyet’s words take on a scheming tone, and Hotch is hyperaware of the revolver that is now pressed up against the back of his skull. Maybe he could flip around, and kick Foyet’s legs out from underneath him. Maybe Rossi will kick the door down, gun blazing. Maybe pigs will fly.
‘Your own behavior suggests a diagnosis of Narcissistic Personality Disorder,’ Hotch provides. ‘You believe yourself to be unique - special, in some way. Your sense of entitlement and lack of empathy lead to overtly arrogant behavior. But know this - you are nothing.’
The Reaper laughs, leaning down beside Hotch, breath hot against his ear. When Foyet speaks, his voice is a whisper, but it’s loud enough that he knows both Morgan and Prentiss can hear him.
‘You are going to die, knowing that you couldn’t save them.’
Aaron Hotchner’s eyes are open, and for one split second, he lets the fear show.
Foyet pulls the trigger.