Start to Finish: Chapter 2: Elle
Title: Start to Finish
Author: ficdirectory
Characters: Elle Greenaway
Word Count: 23,799
Warnings/Spoilers/Rating: Language, Violence, Hospitalization/Seasons 1-2/FRT.
Summary: Elle's beginnings, departure, and afterward…
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the CBS-owned characters mentioned. Not written for profit.
Notes: Over the last week, I have written a crazy amount of drabbles from every POV in the BAU, covering every season of Criminal Minds. Instead of posting them as random collections, I thought I'd arrange them in chapter formats, by character.
ELLE
Elle was never girly.
She ran hard. She beat up the boys who made fun of her. She refused to wear dresses to important events and would not be the daughter she knew her mother wanted her to be, especially after she lost her dad.
He was the only one for whom she would change herself. If he asked, she would agree to wear a pink bow in her hair on picture day, instead of a ponytail that kept her hair out of the way all together. If he asked, she would kiss both her parents good night. If he asked, she would wear a dress. She would be polite. She wouldn't hit back even if she knew another kid deserved it.
But that was so long ago.
Now, she was nobody's little girl.
--
It makes sense to Elle why Eve ate that apple. It's not that she's particularly religious. It's that she's a woman. And as a woman, she is an all or nothing creature. She doesn't half-ass things.
In the academy, she went head-down, full-out at the guys. Didn't matter that she was like, 25% their size. They beat her every time.
But that's not what matters.
What matters is she always, always goes for it.
--
Elle is grateful for her Latina background when the team goes to Mexico to work a case. Mainly because none of the rest of them could attempt it even if they tried, and it made getting facts a lot easier.
It doesn't hurt that it irritates Gideon and Hotch, either, when she and a local cop start carrying on conversations entirely in Spanish and they are unable to understand. It reminds Elle fondly of the days she spent as a child in gymnastics classes, when she taught the other little girls bad words and they said them behind the teacher's back.
She smiles to herself and switches to English.
--
Elle hates going through case files. Sometimes, she secretly slides some into Reid’s stack because she knows he won’t care. She knows it’s all the same to him. He can read faster than anyone she’s ever known.
She feels a little guilty though, when she sees him sit down and start flipping through them, his eyebrows furrowed, like he can’t believe this case looks completely unfamiliar to him. Like he can’t believe he missed something so obvious.
The guilt doesn’t stop her, though. She piles those files discreetly on his desk and leaves a couple for herself. And every once in a while she’ll sneak a soft drink out of the vending machines into his desk drawer as a thank you.
And always, like a miracle, the files are done when she needs them done.
Always, no one is the wiser.
--
Elle wants a tattoo so much she spends hours sketching out exactly what it will look like. Hours of downtime, of course, which she doesn't have often. She has already tried to ask Reid to draw the design she wants, because she knows he has some artistic talent.
Unfortunately, everything he draws comes back to her looking like an alien, or a dinosaur. Those won't do.
Elle needs something meaningful. Something small. Something private.
She knows Morgan will ask what the point is of getting a tattoo if she isn't going to show it off. He ought to know. He has several.
She bites the cap of her pen, thoughtful.
Maybe Derek has some ideas...
--
Elle is wishing right about now that Morgan would disappear. He seems to always find his way to her when she does not want to be found. When she is dancing with what’s-his-name and is well on her way to losing her mind.
Yeah, it’s fun to be vacationing with him, but it’s funner to be able to forget work and her coworkers all together. So, she does her best to shut it all out except for the music. Except for the feeling of these arms around her. These eyes, when they meet hers, and leave her scorching.
This is why she takes a vacation.
Because she needs one, more than anyone can imagine.
--
Elle comes up screaming. Fighting. But she is no match for the man who grabs her and pins her to the ground.
It doesn't matter that her head is throbbing and swimming with booze. It doesn't matter that it honest-to-God feels like she just went to bed and now, she's sitting in a freezing interrogation room in Jamaica. In not nearly enough clothing.
She is cuffed at the bicep and the wrist and yet Elle can't seem to help the biting remarks she makes to the questions. She has fire in her, too much probably, along with the drinks and the passion and everything that makes Elle unequivocally herself.
"I'm here on vacation, man!" she snaps. Anger gives her courage. It comforts her. It takes her mind off the fact that she is scared shitless.
Then, Hotch comes in and offers her his jacket, and Elle can relax.
Just a little.
--
Elle wishes, for the first time in her life, that she had a big fucking case of insomnia. That way she would be able to keep her eyes open when the team is trying to put these pieces together, instead of falling asleep on the damn couch.
She could blame it on her awful Jamaican trip, when she got hauled out of bed in nothing but her skivvies and dragged to an interrogation room for hours. She could blame it on this God-awful case. She could blame it on a lot of things, but the truth is, she cannot keep her eyes open one more minute.
So, Elle nods off, even while knowing she shouldn't. She's no good to her team asleep.
But later, as she prepares to crash and sees the gun leveled in her face, she knows something else.
She is no good to her team dead, either.
--
Elle feels like she's floating on cotton. Then the cotton invades her mouth. Then there's a tightness in her chest and a familiar hand in her own.
"I'm here."
Gideon.
She is so woozy that she appreciates his being there. She can't remember, for a few seconds, that it was Gideon who told JJ to hold the press conference. It was Gideon who broke the rules. Gideon's decision that ultimately got her shot.
There is a beeping that increases as she remembers reaching for her gun. She almost had it, when the shot cracked through the air. She remembers him reaching inside her wound. She remembers being terrified.
Somehow, she remembers finding her phone. Dialing 911. Telling them, she's been shot.
And then?
Then there was nothing.
And now there's all this damn cotton in her head. In her mouth. All around her.
But it is not soft.
And she does not trust the hand she holds.
--
Elle took a taxi into work. She doesn't want anyone knowing. Just like she doesn't want anyone knowing that she strong-armed Reid to get information out of him about what case they are working, so she can come in, too. She's supposed to be off, but she can't stand sitting on her ass for one more minute. Especially in the house where that son-of-a-bitch shot her.
Hotch relegates her to pansy-ass status and it pisses her off. So she makes a way to show up at an arrest. When he calls her out on it, she blames Reid.
Reid denies it.
Hotch believes him.
When will he believe her?
When will she believe herself?
--
Elle has tried all damn day to get the old feeling back when she thinks of her team. But so far, all she can access is betrayal, irritation and anger. It isn't the same. She wishes it was, but it just isn't.
So, she focuses on the case instead. She does her job.
She falls asleep on the jet. Dreams of pain as vivid as the color red. Of an intense aloneness that she is not used to.
It's not the same as it used to be. It's not even close. But it's all she's got at the moment.
--
By the time Elle pulls the gun, she is convinced there is no such thing as innocence.
How can some asshole shoot her in her own home and then be a coward and blow himself up, otherwise? He ruined her life and got off with nothing. And now she has been left destroyed. She knows she looks like a bitch. And she feels like a non-member of her own team.
So, like she was saying, by the time she pulls the gun, it doesn't matter. She doesn't give a shit, and she is convinced she won't be able to let this go otherwise.
Anybody can do anything they want anyway, right?
No consequences.
--
There is no way in hell Elle is going to a damn psych eval so that some shrink can tell her how crazy getting shot has made her. She has become surly at work and doesn't really give a rat's ass.
Her team doesn't have her back. Hotch proved that. She knows this is it. She knows and it sort of makes her sad. Because she loved these people once. Trusted them once. And now, all that registers about them is how they weren't there when she needed them.
Somewhere, in the completely irrational part of Elle's brain, she secretly feels like they knew. How could they not have known?
She feels set up. Betrayed. Hurt beyond what time or an evaluation can fix.
--
Elle somehow feels like less of a woman without her badge and gun, but she convinces herself she is fine with that. She can't trust her team. That much is clear. What else did they expect her to do when they used her as bait for another creep? She wasn't about to just stand there and take it.
She stops by the cemetery but does not speak to her father. She just lies down on the ground and wills herself to feel a connection.
The truth, of course, is that there is nothing.
She has no one.
--
Elle never shows anyone her scars. They are private. Personal. Roadmaps tracing her own private hell of home invasion, victimization and recovery.
But what is recovery when you can't meet your own reflection in the mirror in the morning? When you lose your job? When you have no one? And when you personally sabotage any potential relationships that come your way, because you don't want them getting too close...seeing all the ways you're flawed.
She buttons today's blouse, barely noting its color - only registering the vivid red line that creeps up her chest. She hates that she now buttons up higher than usual. That she can't wear anything that shows off what she's got to show off.
This has ruined her.
She does not see herself.
Only her scars.
Author: ficdirectory
Characters: Elle Greenaway
Word Count: 23,799
Warnings/Spoilers/Rating: Language, Violence, Hospitalization/Seasons 1-2/FRT.
Summary: Elle's beginnings, departure, and afterward…
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the CBS-owned characters mentioned. Not written for profit.
Notes: Over the last week, I have written a crazy amount of drabbles from every POV in the BAU, covering every season of Criminal Minds. Instead of posting them as random collections, I thought I'd arrange them in chapter formats, by character.
ELLE
Elle was never girly.
She ran hard. She beat up the boys who made fun of her. She refused to wear dresses to important events and would not be the daughter she knew her mother wanted her to be, especially after she lost her dad.
He was the only one for whom she would change herself. If he asked, she would agree to wear a pink bow in her hair on picture day, instead of a ponytail that kept her hair out of the way all together. If he asked, she would kiss both her parents good night. If he asked, she would wear a dress. She would be polite. She wouldn't hit back even if she knew another kid deserved it.
But that was so long ago.
Now, she was nobody's little girl.
--
It makes sense to Elle why Eve ate that apple. It's not that she's particularly religious. It's that she's a woman. And as a woman, she is an all or nothing creature. She doesn't half-ass things.
In the academy, she went head-down, full-out at the guys. Didn't matter that she was like, 25% their size. They beat her every time.
But that's not what matters.
What matters is she always, always goes for it.
--
Elle is grateful for her Latina background when the team goes to Mexico to work a case. Mainly because none of the rest of them could attempt it even if they tried, and it made getting facts a lot easier.
It doesn't hurt that it irritates Gideon and Hotch, either, when she and a local cop start carrying on conversations entirely in Spanish and they are unable to understand. It reminds Elle fondly of the days she spent as a child in gymnastics classes, when she taught the other little girls bad words and they said them behind the teacher's back.
She smiles to herself and switches to English.
--
Elle hates going through case files. Sometimes, she secretly slides some into Reid’s stack because she knows he won’t care. She knows it’s all the same to him. He can read faster than anyone she’s ever known.
She feels a little guilty though, when she sees him sit down and start flipping through them, his eyebrows furrowed, like he can’t believe this case looks completely unfamiliar to him. Like he can’t believe he missed something so obvious.
The guilt doesn’t stop her, though. She piles those files discreetly on his desk and leaves a couple for herself. And every once in a while she’ll sneak a soft drink out of the vending machines into his desk drawer as a thank you.
And always, like a miracle, the files are done when she needs them done.
Always, no one is the wiser.
--
Elle wants a tattoo so much she spends hours sketching out exactly what it will look like. Hours of downtime, of course, which she doesn't have often. She has already tried to ask Reid to draw the design she wants, because she knows he has some artistic talent.
Unfortunately, everything he draws comes back to her looking like an alien, or a dinosaur. Those won't do.
Elle needs something meaningful. Something small. Something private.
She knows Morgan will ask what the point is of getting a tattoo if she isn't going to show it off. He ought to know. He has several.
She bites the cap of her pen, thoughtful.
Maybe Derek has some ideas...
--
Elle is wishing right about now that Morgan would disappear. He seems to always find his way to her when she does not want to be found. When she is dancing with what’s-his-name and is well on her way to losing her mind.
Yeah, it’s fun to be vacationing with him, but it’s funner to be able to forget work and her coworkers all together. So, she does her best to shut it all out except for the music. Except for the feeling of these arms around her. These eyes, when they meet hers, and leave her scorching.
This is why she takes a vacation.
Because she needs one, more than anyone can imagine.
--
Elle comes up screaming. Fighting. But she is no match for the man who grabs her and pins her to the ground.
It doesn't matter that her head is throbbing and swimming with booze. It doesn't matter that it honest-to-God feels like she just went to bed and now, she's sitting in a freezing interrogation room in Jamaica. In not nearly enough clothing.
She is cuffed at the bicep and the wrist and yet Elle can't seem to help the biting remarks she makes to the questions. She has fire in her, too much probably, along with the drinks and the passion and everything that makes Elle unequivocally herself.
"I'm here on vacation, man!" she snaps. Anger gives her courage. It comforts her. It takes her mind off the fact that she is scared shitless.
Then, Hotch comes in and offers her his jacket, and Elle can relax.
Just a little.
--
Elle wishes, for the first time in her life, that she had a big fucking case of insomnia. That way she would be able to keep her eyes open when the team is trying to put these pieces together, instead of falling asleep on the damn couch.
She could blame it on her awful Jamaican trip, when she got hauled out of bed in nothing but her skivvies and dragged to an interrogation room for hours. She could blame it on this God-awful case. She could blame it on a lot of things, but the truth is, she cannot keep her eyes open one more minute.
So, Elle nods off, even while knowing she shouldn't. She's no good to her team asleep.
But later, as she prepares to crash and sees the gun leveled in her face, she knows something else.
She is no good to her team dead, either.
--
Elle feels like she's floating on cotton. Then the cotton invades her mouth. Then there's a tightness in her chest and a familiar hand in her own.
"I'm here."
Gideon.
She is so woozy that she appreciates his being there. She can't remember, for a few seconds, that it was Gideon who told JJ to hold the press conference. It was Gideon who broke the rules. Gideon's decision that ultimately got her shot.
There is a beeping that increases as she remembers reaching for her gun. She almost had it, when the shot cracked through the air. She remembers him reaching inside her wound. She remembers being terrified.
Somehow, she remembers finding her phone. Dialing 911. Telling them, she's been shot.
And then?
Then there was nothing.
And now there's all this damn cotton in her head. In her mouth. All around her.
But it is not soft.
And she does not trust the hand she holds.
--
Elle took a taxi into work. She doesn't want anyone knowing. Just like she doesn't want anyone knowing that she strong-armed Reid to get information out of him about what case they are working, so she can come in, too. She's supposed to be off, but she can't stand sitting on her ass for one more minute. Especially in the house where that son-of-a-bitch shot her.
Hotch relegates her to pansy-ass status and it pisses her off. So she makes a way to show up at an arrest. When he calls her out on it, she blames Reid.
Reid denies it.
Hotch believes him.
When will he believe her?
When will she believe herself?
--
Elle has tried all damn day to get the old feeling back when she thinks of her team. But so far, all she can access is betrayal, irritation and anger. It isn't the same. She wishes it was, but it just isn't.
So, she focuses on the case instead. She does her job.
She falls asleep on the jet. Dreams of pain as vivid as the color red. Of an intense aloneness that she is not used to.
It's not the same as it used to be. It's not even close. But it's all she's got at the moment.
--
By the time Elle pulls the gun, she is convinced there is no such thing as innocence.
How can some asshole shoot her in her own home and then be a coward and blow himself up, otherwise? He ruined her life and got off with nothing. And now she has been left destroyed. She knows she looks like a bitch. And she feels like a non-member of her own team.
So, like she was saying, by the time she pulls the gun, it doesn't matter. She doesn't give a shit, and she is convinced she won't be able to let this go otherwise.
Anybody can do anything they want anyway, right?
No consequences.
--
There is no way in hell Elle is going to a damn psych eval so that some shrink can tell her how crazy getting shot has made her. She has become surly at work and doesn't really give a rat's ass.
Her team doesn't have her back. Hotch proved that. She knows this is it. She knows and it sort of makes her sad. Because she loved these people once. Trusted them once. And now, all that registers about them is how they weren't there when she needed them.
Somewhere, in the completely irrational part of Elle's brain, she secretly feels like they knew. How could they not have known?
She feels set up. Betrayed. Hurt beyond what time or an evaluation can fix.
--
Elle somehow feels like less of a woman without her badge and gun, but she convinces herself she is fine with that. She can't trust her team. That much is clear. What else did they expect her to do when they used her as bait for another creep? She wasn't about to just stand there and take it.
She stops by the cemetery but does not speak to her father. She just lies down on the ground and wills herself to feel a connection.
The truth, of course, is that there is nothing.
She has no one.
--
Elle never shows anyone her scars. They are private. Personal. Roadmaps tracing her own private hell of home invasion, victimization and recovery.
But what is recovery when you can't meet your own reflection in the mirror in the morning? When you lose your job? When you have no one? And when you personally sabotage any potential relationships that come your way, because you don't want them getting too close...seeing all the ways you're flawed.
She buttons today's blouse, barely noting its color - only registering the vivid red line that creeps up her chest. She hates that she now buttons up higher than usual. That she can't wear anything that shows off what she's got to show off.
This has ruined her.
She does not see herself.
Only her scars.