So, I'm now officially a Criminal Minds addict.
And I have written my first CM fic! *squee!*
I've been on hiatus from the world of fanfic for quite some time, but what can I say, this one all but wrote itself.
The sun is setting in a riot of red and gold and copper, and the shadows stretch their sinuous length along the rooftop. It’s darker there, and to a boy raised in the flashing spectacle that is Vegas, the city beyond is quiet enough to comfort. His eyes are narrowed still behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but the pain is ebbing to a more familiar level. It’s more of a placebo effect than anything; nicotine is a stimulant, after all, but the ritual is soothing, and he isn’t finished yet.
“. . . the woods are lovely, dark and deep,” he quotes softly.
“Frost.” Hotch’s voice comes from the stairwell, the light shining behind him for a moment that makes Reid fiercely grateful for the glasses. The door closes with a quiet click and not a slam, and he can breathe again.
“When you take up smoking?” Hotch asks, and Reid smiles a little.
“You’re a profiler. You probably know as well as I do.”
Hotch inclines his head in acknowledgment. “After the case in Miami. It helped, for a little while. It doesn’t anymore.”
Reid is silent for a moment. “Does it still count as a lie if I knew you understood it was one when I told it?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” It’s dark enough now that he pulls off the glasses and stubs out the cigarette on the scarred concrete. “The doctors said the migraines were psychosomatic. The operative part of that term is ‘psycho’”.
Hotch exhales harshly. “Migraines are-”
“Possibly a budding symptom of schizophrenia? I already have a genetic predisposition, so any additional signs, even if otherwise insignificant, are cause for concern.”
A moment passes. “I was going to say, painful.” Hotch fixes him with a long, steady stare. “Do you think you’re the only one whose mind and body rebells against what we ask of ourselves? You saw . . . Foyet, after. You’re not the only who’s afraid of what lives inside you.”
Reid looks up at him, posture defiant, but his eyes are pleading. “I would never endanger the team.”
“I know that, Spencer.”
The unexpected familiarity has the desired effect, and Reid reaches out for the hand Hotch extends to pull him to his feet. They stand together for a moment, silhouetted against the sky, and Hotch realizes abruptly that Reid may actually have surpassed his own height. It’s always tempting to forget the boy has grown into a man, but a glance into Reid’s brown eyes dispells the notion; and he remembers that journey to adulthood was spent wading through the nightmares of monsters. It’s a miracle Reid hasn’t broken before now. But he isn’t broken, not really, not when the eyes that meet Aaron’s are full of such . . . resolve.
“I won’t be what my mother is.”
Hotch doesn’t respond. It isn’t the first time he’s lost an agent to the shadows in their mind. It is the first time he’s heard one state their intentions so plainly. But it’s always been different with Reid, and with Haley gone and the guilt finally loosening its grip on his soul, he’s considered allowing himself to define just what that difference means.
“Reid.”
“I decided that when I was twelve years old, and I woke up with her hands around my throat.” His laugh is bitter, and the cigarette pack is crushed in his clenched fist. “She thought I was a spy, a replacement for her real son. And the next morning, she asked me how I’d gotten those horrible bruises on my neck.” He sighes, and it’s weary now. He’s accepted his mother for the person she is. He’ll never accept it in himself. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. But someone has to make the team understand. My symptoms may never progress past the migraines; and I’ll continue to deal with those as best I can. But if things continue at this pace . . . I may not have much time. I want to work, as long as I can. As long as it’s safe. And when it’s not anymore . . . I need you to make the team understand that this is the way it has to be.”
This isn’t the first time Hotch has been charged with a death bed confession, either; and he thinks back to Foyet, and the confession that began it all. This is the first one he’s taken so far in advance, however.
“I can do that, on the condition that you’ll tell me when you feel you’re approaching that point.”
Reid nods, and Hotch holds out his hand to shake on what is possibly the most bizarre pact he’s ever participated in. Then, before Reid can pull his hand away, Hotch pulls him in far enough to press his mouth once, firmly, over Reid’s. Before the younger agent can recover, the moment is over, and Hotch is standing in the open door again.
“ ‘But I have promises to keep,’ ” he quotes softly, as he lets the door swing shut behind him.
Alone again, Reid gives the cigarettes in his hand one last bemused look before pitching them over the edge and reaching for the door.
“And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.”
I've been on hiatus from the world of fanfic for quite some time, but what can I say, this one all but wrote itself.
The sun is setting in a riot of red and gold and copper, and the shadows stretch their sinuous length along the rooftop. It’s darker there, and to a boy raised in the flashing spectacle that is Vegas, the city beyond is quiet enough to comfort. His eyes are narrowed still behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, but the pain is ebbing to a more familiar level. It’s more of a placebo effect than anything; nicotine is a stimulant, after all, but the ritual is soothing, and he isn’t finished yet.
“. . . the woods are lovely, dark and deep,” he quotes softly.
“Frost.” Hotch’s voice comes from the stairwell, the light shining behind him for a moment that makes Reid fiercely grateful for the glasses. The door closes with a quiet click and not a slam, and he can breathe again.
“When you take up smoking?” Hotch asks, and Reid smiles a little.
“You’re a profiler. You probably know as well as I do.”
Hotch inclines his head in acknowledgment. “After the case in Miami. It helped, for a little while. It doesn’t anymore.”
Reid is silent for a moment. “Does it still count as a lie if I knew you understood it was one when I told it?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” It’s dark enough now that he pulls off the glasses and stubs out the cigarette on the scarred concrete. “The doctors said the migraines were psychosomatic. The operative part of that term is ‘psycho’”.
Hotch exhales harshly. “Migraines are-”
“Possibly a budding symptom of schizophrenia? I already have a genetic predisposition, so any additional signs, even if otherwise insignificant, are cause for concern.”
A moment passes. “I was going to say, painful.” Hotch fixes him with a long, steady stare. “Do you think you’re the only one whose mind and body rebells against what we ask of ourselves? You saw . . . Foyet, after. You’re not the only who’s afraid of what lives inside you.”
Reid looks up at him, posture defiant, but his eyes are pleading. “I would never endanger the team.”
“I know that, Spencer.”
The unexpected familiarity has the desired effect, and Reid reaches out for the hand Hotch extends to pull him to his feet. They stand together for a moment, silhouetted against the sky, and Hotch realizes abruptly that Reid may actually have surpassed his own height. It’s always tempting to forget the boy has grown into a man, but a glance into Reid’s brown eyes dispells the notion; and he remembers that journey to adulthood was spent wading through the nightmares of monsters. It’s a miracle Reid hasn’t broken before now. But he isn’t broken, not really, not when the eyes that meet Aaron’s are full of such . . . resolve.
“I won’t be what my mother is.”
Hotch doesn’t respond. It isn’t the first time he’s lost an agent to the shadows in their mind. It is the first time he’s heard one state their intentions so plainly. But it’s always been different with Reid, and with Haley gone and the guilt finally loosening its grip on his soul, he’s considered allowing himself to define just what that difference means.
“Reid.”
“I decided that when I was twelve years old, and I woke up with her hands around my throat.” His laugh is bitter, and the cigarette pack is crushed in his clenched fist. “She thought I was a spy, a replacement for her real son. And the next morning, she asked me how I’d gotten those horrible bruises on my neck.” He sighes, and it’s weary now. He’s accepted his mother for the person she is. He’ll never accept it in himself. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone. But someone has to make the team understand. My symptoms may never progress past the migraines; and I’ll continue to deal with those as best I can. But if things continue at this pace . . . I may not have much time. I want to work, as long as I can. As long as it’s safe. And when it’s not anymore . . . I need you to make the team understand that this is the way it has to be.”
This isn’t the first time Hotch has been charged with a death bed confession, either; and he thinks back to Foyet, and the confession that began it all. This is the first one he’s taken so far in advance, however.
“I can do that, on the condition that you’ll tell me when you feel you’re approaching that point.”
Reid nods, and Hotch holds out his hand to shake on what is possibly the most bizarre pact he’s ever participated in. Then, before Reid can pull his hand away, Hotch pulls him in far enough to press his mouth once, firmly, over Reid’s. Before the younger agent can recover, the moment is over, and Hotch is standing in the open door again.
“ ‘But I have promises to keep,’ ” he quotes softly, as he lets the door swing shut behind him.
Alone again, Reid gives the cigarettes in his hand one last bemused look before pitching them over the edge and reaching for the door.
“And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.”