Chapter 6: Places Like That
Chapter 6: Places Like That
"But I did look for you. All over."
"Hmph. Where were you looking? Patagonia? Mars? The Emerald City?"
"Um. Places like that."
-Neil Gaiman, Sandman #69, "The Kindly Ones: 13"
Hotch was back on the sidewalk, but he wasn’t moving. He felt like a ship adrift at sea, buffeted by winds and waves until there was nothing left but kindling and a useless, flapping bit of sail. He pressed his back against a building and sank to the ground. Leaned his head against the bricks behind him and stared up at the gray sky above. He wasn’t a praying man by nature, and like he’d told Clarence, he didn’t believe in fate or destiny or Divine Providence.
He believed in the human mind. He believed in what he could observe and rationalize. He believed in thought and logic and evidence.
He did not believe in granted wishes. He certainly didn’t believe in the type of creatures who usually did the granting. He couldn’t get his head around any of this. Clarence’s string of evidence shaped up like, “a black cat crossed my path; later, I tripped; therefore black cats are bad luck.” Except…
He allowed the train of thought to trail away; emptied his mind. Fighting with any of this was pointless. He figured he was actually strapped to a hospital bed somewhere, ranting and raving, while kind, patient nurses dosed him with Haldol and the team looked on with worried frowns. Poor Jack: his mother killed and his father gone crazy; at least he had his aunt to look after him.
“Hey, sir? Excuse me, are you ok?” a familiar, slightly husky voice cut through his thoughts. His eyes widened and his head jerked up, and he found himself staring into a pair of warm ochre eyes.
“Emily,” he breathed.
She looked startled; took a step back. “I’m sorry; how do you know my name?”
He chuckled almost drunkenly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The tall brunette regarded him carefully. She took note of the shell-shocked look in his dark eyes; she’d observed similar looks in the eyes of soldiers recently returned from war. Those eyes had seen sights they’d never hoped to see. He seemed harmless enough, just lost and confused, so she lowered herself to the sidewalk next to him, pulling her knees up to mimic his pose. “Try me,” she challenged.
He cast her a wary look from the corner of his eye. “Promise you won’t mace me?” Clarence had proposed the idea, and it didn’t sound like a good time.
She laughed a little. “Promise.” She held up her hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never - never mind.” Maybe she had been in this life. “You don’t work for the FBI, do you?” he asked.
“I - no, not anymore.” In for a penny, in for a pound; he’d warned her, after all, so she might as well just ride this whole thing out. There was something about him…something…not exactly familiar, but comfortable. She felt like he was someone she could trust, entirely, despite his current appearance.
“I know you from…I don’t even know what words to use. The reality I remember is very different from this one. In my reality, you and I are colleagues. Friends. You’re a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. It’s called the Behavioral Science Unit here; another difference.”
“Ah. Hhm.” She swallowed. Watched the knees of people passing by. Wondered why the hell she was sitting on a dirty sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon listening to the ramblings of a crazy man. “I used to be with the Bureau; I applied to join the Behavioral Science Unit several times.”
“You’re an excellent profiler, but unfortunately your promotion to the BAU was because of me. You were sent to spy on me; to try to get me fired.”
Her face creased in a frown. “You said we were friends. And I don’t care how different the me you remember is from me me, but I would never-”
“You didn’t know,” he interrupted quietly. “When you were told, you resigned.”
A smile bloomed. She found herself strangely absorbed by his tale. “Now that sounds like me,” she admitted.
He met her smile with a hesitant one of his own. “You came back, of course, but only after I dragged you.”
She cleared her throat; looked away. “You said we were friends,” she repeated. “It sounds like…it sounds like we meant a lot to each other.”
He stared at her profile for a long time before dropping his gaze to his hands. “I…you…after I was attacked by a killer we’d been pursuing, you were the one who took care of me. Everyone did, but you…you took special care, I suppose. My first assignment in the FBI was to your mother’s security detail, but we barely knew each other back then.”
She turned to him, and her face wasn’t shocked or frightened. If anything, she looked curious. Typical Prentiss, he thought; some things simply don’t change. “So why is actual reality different from what you remember? Clearly you know things about me; how is that possible? You aren’t stalking me, are you?”
He frowned. “You approached me, Prentiss, remember? No, I’m not stalking you.” He ran hands over his face and up through his short hair, setting free cowlicks that she found boyishly endearing. “I don’t know why it’s all different, but everything is. Reid and Gideon are dead; Morgan’s in jail; Garcia is a ghost of herself; Elle’s a lawyer; J.J. does PR work that she hates…and you, Prentiss, what do you do?”
She raised a brow at him. “I work for the State Department as a translator.”
“Sounds…stimulating.”
She snorted. “Oh yeah. You said I was a good profiler in your reality.”
“One of the best,” he told her, not exaggerating. “I’m sorry you aren’t able to use your talents…here.”
“So do you think you’re delusional?” she asked after a moment’s consideration.
“Yes, probably. Except…I think what I remember must be real, and this must be my delusion. Otherwise, how do I know so much about the people I meet? Your name is Emily Prentiss; your mother is the ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss. You grew up all over the world; you went to Yale. Your favorite author is Kurt Vonnegut. You take your coffee light with two sugars. Your birthday is October 12; you graduated high school in 1989. Your favorite flowers are dahlias.”
She shifted a little. “You could’ve gotten all that information from stalking me.” At his look, she held up a hand. “I know, I know; I approached you.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This morning, back in the reality I know, I told a man I wish I’d never been born. Things went very strange after that.”
“You should be careful what you wish for; you might actually get it,” she told him matter of factly.
“You don’t think…” He trailed off and shook his head; he couldn’t even consider it.
“Why would you wish for something like that?” she asked quietly; watched him with intense dark eyes.
He made another long, careful study of his hands. “My ex-wife was murdered yesterday. My actions and my arrogance put her in danger; I couldn’t protect her. My son could have been killed, too; it was pure luck that I got there before the killer had a chance to find him.”
There was a quiet moment while she pondered, then, “You know what really pissed me off about the third Star Wars prequel?”
Hotch blinked at the sudden question, seemingly apropos of nothing. “Um. No…?”
“Anakin became Darth, and Padme was really upset; I get that. But why, with these two babies who needed her, would she just give up and die? It was pathetic and stupid. She had a reason to live, and it sounds like you do, too. Your son?”
Her words shook him. Pathetic and stupid? Maybe she was right, but… “I just thought…I thought he’d be better off without me. He has an aunt-”
“That’s bullshit. Take it from someone who grew up with a mostly absentee parent: nothing substitutes for your actual mother or father. Your son needs you now more than ever; you can’t just abandon him.”
“But-”
She held up a hand, cutting him off. “If this is a delusion, it’s time to wake up. If it’s a poorly thought-out wish granted, you should find your fairy godmother and ask for a do-over.” Her mouth quirked, briefly. “Besides, my life sounds way more exciting in your version; I think I miss it.”
Trust Prentiss to cut through the fog and put everything in sharp perspective. “Hellish hours, demented serial killers, and random concussions: it’s a life of constant glamour,” he told her with a quick flash of dimples.
“Sounds fantastic,” she agreed, grinning. Her face sobered; she looked away quickly. “Despite your apparent madness, I think I also regret not knowing you.”
He opened his mouth to speak; hesitated. How much to tell her? He’d said she’d taken care of him after Foyet; he’d said she was an amazing profiler. But should he tell her how he looked forward to seeing her every day, to working with her, to learning the wonderful workings of her mind even more intimately? Should he tell her how her smile brightened his day and her laugh was probably the most contagious sound he’d ever heard? And should he tell her how the thought of continuing in this reality where she was nothing more than a kind stranger who looked at him with pity in her eyes made his heart ache like it was being put through a paper shredder? He snapped his jaw shut again and managed a weak smile. “You caught me on a bad day; I’m not normally crazy.”
“No,” she agreed, “you have a very sane face.”
“Jack,” he announced.
“I’m sorry? Is that your name?”
“No. Jack is my son. He does need me, and this is all just a cop out. I need to find Clarence.” He rose quickly and held out a hand to help her up.
“Clarence,” she said as she accepted his offer and got to her feet, “is that your fairy godmother?”
He smiled grimly. “Something like that. Thank you, Prentiss; you’ve been invaluable as usual.” He paused a moment, wondering if he should say something more. Finally he just squeezed her fingers and turned away.
She watched him go, watched the crowd swallow him. She felt regret melting through her, like rain rolling down a window, and she decided to believe him. She wanted a life where that man, with his carefully tamed cowlicks and his hidden dimples, his broken heart and his piercing stare, was someone she could claim as a friend.
I wanted Hotch and Prentiss to have an actual conversation, something that would help bring him some clarity. She tends to be good at that.