CM Fic: "The Chaperone"
Disclaimer: None of the characters used herein belong to me, nor do I make any money of them. Death belongs to Sir Terry Pratchett; Hotch, Foyet, Haley, Jack and the rest belong to Bernero, Gordon et al.
Rating: FRT. Hotch-whump, psychic and physical.
Genre: Gen; Pre-Ep/Missing Scene/Post-Ep; Angst.
Spoilers: Takes place during 5x01, "Nameless, Faceless", and 5x09, "100", so BIG NASTY ones for them, and basically everything up to the first half of Season 5.
Pairings: Hotch/Haley.
Notes: a) Written as what was supposed to be comment-fic for katewallace who wanted "The further adventures of Hotch and Death" from (my unfinished fic) Vita. As you can see, it kind of got away from me a little. Or a lot. Because I am congenitally incapable of writing something short.
b) So, this is the same Death (the Death of Earth, if you like) from that fic, but Vita hasn't happened yet. Or maybe Vita is an AU, or something. But this sticks to canon. Except, obviously, for the big guy with the robe and the scythe.
Summary: Most men, he meets only once. But Hotch and the BAU tend to cross his path rather a lot. Death's POV on the battle with George Foyet.
********
Death knew that, as an anthropomorphic personification, he had it pretty easy. For all that Earth's humans could spin magnificent fiction on the subject, magic, and the reality warping effects that ensued, were in pretty short supply.
And for all that men had come up with soul-rattling tales about *him* in particular (that Mr. Poe, of Baltimore, had written some of Death's favorites) most deaths these days fell into several small and restrictive categories. Nothing "grand" or "glorious", or even bloody, most of the time.
However, there was still that small segment of the population who reveled in pain, in the injury they could inflict on their fellow men. Or mostly, women. He didn't know why it was, but Death seemed to be at more of those. Rather then, say, multi-car accidents on the freeway. Or deaths of grandmothers with several generations gathered around their bedside. (He liked the grandmothers. They often attempted to give him sweets. There were usually cats there, too.)
But the forces of narrative seemed to require that he be there. Standing in the corner of squalid basements, or cold warehouses, or wooded glades silenced of chirping birds or animal noises.
And they were there too. Often too late. Sometimes just in time.
Ryan would never have admitted to it. Rossi was a lost cause. Jason Gideon...well, maybe. Near the end, before he ran.
But Death had often sensed that perhaps Aaron Hotchner could. That he was one of the very few (on this world at least), who could almost see him.
****
After the night in the apartment, he was sure of it.
Do you know how hard it is, to stab yourself repeatedly and not die? I don't want to brag, but I'm kind of an expert.
Death remembered George Foyet. All of him. Even the tiny child, the little boy with the bright large smile. That smile which had never reached his eyes. Because there was nothing there to reach.
The life-timers had been....uncertain. The life-timers were never uncertain, but they had been that night. Death had sat for hours at that kitchen table, waiting.
Once near the end, Aaron's eyes had opened briefly. They focused for several seconds, on a spot by that far wall. They closed again just as quickly, but there had been a spark of awareness there.
And then Foyet had stopped. Stopped, and carried Aaron's unconscious body out the door, only stopping to rip a page from the address book.
Death knew, then.
****
It was a pleasant house. Or rather, it would have had the capacity to be pleasant, had he been there at any other time.
Haley had been terrified at first. But not for herself.
"You're...you're who I think you are."
YES.
"No no no no. Please, please tell me you're not here for him too."
HIM?
"For Jack, for my son."
She had turned angry then.
"I won't let him do it, I won't let you do it. I won't let you take him."
I STAY, BUT NOT FOR JACK.
This seemed to give her instant peace.
"Aaron's coming?"
HE IS OUTSIDE THE HOUSE.
As if to punctuate Death's sentence, a door slammed.
Haley looked over, looked him straight in the eye. Death found it slightly unnerving.
"You promise? You're not lying to me?"
I HAVE NO REASON TO.
Haley had started to fade by then. She looked upwards.
"Jack...Jack, baby, I love you." She paused. "I love you, Aaron."
As Haley faded completely, the silence was broken by the sound of gunshots from the second floor.
IT HAS STARTED, THEN.
He waited in the dining room. The feeling was becoming depressingly familiar.
And he watched. After the apartment, he had known. He had known, in the way that came with the job, that this could only have two possible outcomes. This is what the life-timers had meant.
The young man...Morgan...arrived. And Death mused that if Aaron had truly been able to see him, that night, he was blind to his presence now.
Aaron was not who he had come for.
"Oh, a scythe and a cape. Nice. Cliche, but nice."
Death turned to the other occupant of the room. Whose appearance seemed not too much the worse for wear. The healthy ego of the sociopath tended to enable that.
MR. FOYET.
"You know me."
I KNOW EVERYBODY.
"But you're familiar with my work."
UNFORTUNATELY, YES.
George looked towards the body on the floor.
"Wow. Didn't think old Hotch had it in him. Guess we're really more alike than I thought, huh?"
He smirked.
THAT DOES NOT SEEM TO BE THE CASE, NO. FOR YOU SEE, GEORGE, I *KNOW* HIM ABOUT AS WELL AS I *KNOW* YOU.
Foyet seemed unperturbed by this revelation.
"But the world has both of us...or at least it did. And it still goes round and round."
YOU ARE CORRECT IN THAT.
"So, what, you send me off to the fiery pit now?"
WHERE YOU GO DEPENDS ENTIRELY ON YOU. I AM ONLY...A CHAPERONE, OF SORTS.
Foyet's smile broadened. "Well, then send me on my merry way."
Death did not take pride in his work, as such. But he might have been said to take some extra relish in wielding the scythe at this particular moment.
As the "whoosh" was silenced, and the blue light faded, Death looked towards the front door.
Hotch had Jack in his arms, walking out surrounded by his team members.
He paused at the threshhold, looking towards the patch of carpet where Death stood. And then he moved on.
MAY IT BE A LONG TIME UNTIL I SEE YOU AGAIN, MY FRIEND.
*fin*
Rating: FRT. Hotch-whump, psychic and physical.
Genre: Gen; Pre-Ep/Missing Scene/Post-Ep; Angst.
Spoilers: Takes place during 5x01, "Nameless, Faceless", and 5x09, "100", so BIG NASTY ones for them, and basically everything up to the first half of Season 5.
Pairings: Hotch/Haley.
Notes: a) Written as what was supposed to be comment-fic for katewallace who wanted "The further adventures of Hotch and Death" from (my unfinished fic) Vita. As you can see, it kind of got away from me a little. Or a lot. Because I am congenitally incapable of writing something short.
b) So, this is the same Death (the Death of Earth, if you like) from that fic, but Vita hasn't happened yet. Or maybe Vita is an AU, or something. But this sticks to canon. Except, obviously, for the big guy with the robe and the scythe.
Summary: Most men, he meets only once. But Hotch and the BAU tend to cross his path rather a lot. Death's POV on the battle with George Foyet.
********
Death knew that, as an anthropomorphic personification, he had it pretty easy. For all that Earth's humans could spin magnificent fiction on the subject, magic, and the reality warping effects that ensued, were in pretty short supply.
And for all that men had come up with soul-rattling tales about *him* in particular (that Mr. Poe, of Baltimore, had written some of Death's favorites) most deaths these days fell into several small and restrictive categories. Nothing "grand" or "glorious", or even bloody, most of the time.
However, there was still that small segment of the population who reveled in pain, in the injury they could inflict on their fellow men. Or mostly, women. He didn't know why it was, but Death seemed to be at more of those. Rather then, say, multi-car accidents on the freeway. Or deaths of grandmothers with several generations gathered around their bedside. (He liked the grandmothers. They often attempted to give him sweets. There were usually cats there, too.)
But the forces of narrative seemed to require that he be there. Standing in the corner of squalid basements, or cold warehouses, or wooded glades silenced of chirping birds or animal noises.
And they were there too. Often too late. Sometimes just in time.
Ryan would never have admitted to it. Rossi was a lost cause. Jason Gideon...well, maybe. Near the end, before he ran.
But Death had often sensed that perhaps Aaron Hotchner could. That he was one of the very few (on this world at least), who could almost see him.
****
After the night in the apartment, he was sure of it.
Do you know how hard it is, to stab yourself repeatedly and not die? I don't want to brag, but I'm kind of an expert.
Death remembered George Foyet. All of him. Even the tiny child, the little boy with the bright large smile. That smile which had never reached his eyes. Because there was nothing there to reach.
The life-timers had been....uncertain. The life-timers were never uncertain, but they had been that night. Death had sat for hours at that kitchen table, waiting.
Once near the end, Aaron's eyes had opened briefly. They focused for several seconds, on a spot by that far wall. They closed again just as quickly, but there had been a spark of awareness there.
And then Foyet had stopped. Stopped, and carried Aaron's unconscious body out the door, only stopping to rip a page from the address book.
Death knew, then.
****
It was a pleasant house. Or rather, it would have had the capacity to be pleasant, had he been there at any other time.
Haley had been terrified at first. But not for herself.
"You're...you're who I think you are."
YES.
"No no no no. Please, please tell me you're not here for him too."
HIM?
"For Jack, for my son."
She had turned angry then.
"I won't let him do it, I won't let you do it. I won't let you take him."
I STAY, BUT NOT FOR JACK.
This seemed to give her instant peace.
"Aaron's coming?"
HE IS OUTSIDE THE HOUSE.
As if to punctuate Death's sentence, a door slammed.
Haley looked over, looked him straight in the eye. Death found it slightly unnerving.
"You promise? You're not lying to me?"
I HAVE NO REASON TO.
Haley had started to fade by then. She looked upwards.
"Jack...Jack, baby, I love you." She paused. "I love you, Aaron."
As Haley faded completely, the silence was broken by the sound of gunshots from the second floor.
IT HAS STARTED, THEN.
He waited in the dining room. The feeling was becoming depressingly familiar.
And he watched. After the apartment, he had known. He had known, in the way that came with the job, that this could only have two possible outcomes. This is what the life-timers had meant.
The young man...Morgan...arrived. And Death mused that if Aaron had truly been able to see him, that night, he was blind to his presence now.
Aaron was not who he had come for.
"Oh, a scythe and a cape. Nice. Cliche, but nice."
Death turned to the other occupant of the room. Whose appearance seemed not too much the worse for wear. The healthy ego of the sociopath tended to enable that.
MR. FOYET.
"You know me."
I KNOW EVERYBODY.
"But you're familiar with my work."
UNFORTUNATELY, YES.
George looked towards the body on the floor.
"Wow. Didn't think old Hotch had it in him. Guess we're really more alike than I thought, huh?"
He smirked.
THAT DOES NOT SEEM TO BE THE CASE, NO. FOR YOU SEE, GEORGE, I *KNOW* HIM ABOUT AS WELL AS I *KNOW* YOU.
Foyet seemed unperturbed by this revelation.
"But the world has both of us...or at least it did. And it still goes round and round."
YOU ARE CORRECT IN THAT.
"So, what, you send me off to the fiery pit now?"
WHERE YOU GO DEPENDS ENTIRELY ON YOU. I AM ONLY...A CHAPERONE, OF SORTS.
Foyet's smile broadened. "Well, then send me on my merry way."
Death did not take pride in his work, as such. But he might have been said to take some extra relish in wielding the scythe at this particular moment.
As the "whoosh" was silenced, and the blue light faded, Death looked towards the front door.
Hotch had Jack in his arms, walking out surrounded by his team members.
He paused at the threshhold, looking towards the patch of carpet where Death stood. And then he moved on.
MAY IT BE A LONG TIME UNTIL I SEE YOU AGAIN, MY FRIEND.
*fin*