#shamelessly self indulgent

[zizzlekwum]

Stranger In A Not-So-Strange Land

Masterlist

CHAPTER TEN

The BAU investigates a series of murders in Texas. Follows the events of Criminal Minds Season 2 Episode 17 "Distress."

Trigger Warnings: descriptions of a prior toxic relationship

Word Count: 6,304

Tag List: @leftoverenvy @itsmeanobody @ctrljuls @theclassicgaycousin @fatherfigured [if you want to be added to the tag list, please comment or send me an ask]

You’re late to work on your first day back at the BAU due to red tape, so you get there just as JJ is beginning to present the next case.

“Welcome back,” Hotch says quietly as you take a seat at the table between him and Prentiss. You give him a nod before focusing your attention on JJ.

“This is Houston’s Fifth Ward,” she explains, pointing the remote at the TV. “It accounts for a large percent of the city’s growing homicide rate due to gang violence and a bustling narcotics trade. Although in the last forty-eight hours, there have been three distinctive murders in the ward.” She clicks a button on her remote, bringing up pictures of the crime scenes.

“Distinctive?” Morgan asks.

“Three men, three different socioeconomic groups, all killed on the street with their necks snapped,” JJ continues. “There appears to be no other injury, and there’s no apparent connections between the victim, or motive.” She shrugs.

You open your mouth to say something but stop as Reid enters the room, taking a sip of his coffee. He nods at JJ to continue while he sits down to your left.

“The ward’s detectives are inundated with homicides,” JJ explains. “Gang violence is a big problem. Shootings, armed robberies, it’s an everyday occurrence, but this type of street attack is new to them.”

“Could it be gang related,” Prentiss posits. “Maybe some type of new initiation rite?”

JJ shakes her head. “The gangs in the ward use guns. In fact, no known gangs exhibit this type of MO.”

“What about dope?” Morgan asks. “These guys come up with pretty freaky ways of killing the competition to get their message out.”

“But wouldn’t they want to leave a sign to tell others it was them?” you point out. “Kinda defeats the purpose if people don’t realize the killings are a targeted threat.”

“Yeah, and there just doesn’t seem to be any connection between the victims and the drug world,” JJ adds.

“Homeless man, a construction worker, security guard.” Gideon lists the victims.

JJ nods. “Just three dead men and no witnesses.”

“We’re looking for a homicidal serial criminal in a neighborhood populated by criminals,” Hotch notes. “The challenge will be separating him from the rest.”

“We have no evidence, no apparent interaction between the unsub and the victims pre- or postmortem, and an indistinguishable MO,” Reid says. “Should be simple.”

“Like finding a needle in a stack of needles,” you say. “Wonderful.”

*   *   *   *   *

On the plane, the team continues to try to make sense of the victims. “We got a construction worker, outsider in the community,” Morgan starts. “We got a security guard— that’s an authority figure. And then we got a homeless man. That’s a powerless victim that no one would notice missing.”

“They’re all over the place,” you note, jiggling your leg up and down, not looking up from where your hands are folded in your lap.

“So who’s he targeting?” Morgan asks.

“Let’s see if any of the victims frequented the same stores or sites,” Hotch says.

“He used blitz attacks,” Reid adds. “He most likely lacks the interpersonal skills he needed to coerce his victims into coming close, and he also used the element of surprise, which means he may have stalked his victims prior to killing them.” You swallow hard. Prentiss glances over at you, frowning.

“Well, if that’s the case, I wanna go to the last crime scene to see where he may have been hiding,” Morgan says.

“I want to see the neighborhood for myself,” Gideon says. “I’ll go with you.”

“Good,” Hotch says. “The rest of us can go to the precinct and set up shop.”

“I’ll map out the area and see if I can find any places the victims would have visited in the neighborhood,” Reid offers.

“Good, maybe we can find a connection between them,” Emily says, still watching you. “I’ll help you with that.”

Reid frowns. “I can handle it.”

Prentiss turns her attention from you to Reid, frowning. “I… wasn’t suggesting that you couldn’t.”

“Isn’t that what ‘I’ll help you with it’ means?” Reid snaps.

“Reid,” Hotch interrupts before he has a chance to continue. “Prentiss will help you with the geographical profiling and victimology.”

“Fine,” Reid says sharply, looking down at the papers in his hands.

Hotch sighs. “Remember, this is a high crime area. Be vigilant. Nobody goes anywhere alone. Y/L/N?”

You glance over at Hotch. You notice him watching your bouncing leg so you make an effort to stop. “Hmm?”

“I want you to stick with Prentiss and Reid for now,” he says with a frown.

You nod. “Gotcha, boss-man.”

He glances between you and Reid again before turning his attention away, and you let out a sigh. You really don’t want to go to Texas.

*   *   *   *   *

After you, Prentiss, and Reid get situated in the conference room, you begin to get to work, using a map of the neighborhood to get started. JJ walks in after a few minutes.

“What’s that?” Hotch asks. You turn to face them.

“One of the detective’s wives made us cookies,” JJ tells him.

“Wow, homemade cookies?” Prentiss says with a smile.

JJ sets the plate on the table and you go over to grab a cookie. “Yeah, I guess that’s what they mean by southern hospitality.”

Reid walks over to the window and fumbles with the blinds. “I need to concentrate— how can anybody hear anything with all this work going on?” He slams the window shut.

“Well, you’re gonna have to get used to it,” JJ tells him. “Construction crews are working around the clock.”

“Saw it on the way in,” Prentiss adds.

“City’s trying to return to its splendor, and that means that Houston’s poorest are being kicked out of their homes,” JJ explains as you nibble on a cookie.

Reid opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by Morgan and Gideon entering the room, followed by a detective.

“Unsub might be homeless,” Gideon reports. “Appears to have been living in a building next to where the security guard was attacked.”

Reid gestures to the map. “These are the locations of the last three murders, all near abandoned buildings.”

“To be fair, there are a lot of abandoned buildings nearby,” you point out.

Hotch nods. “She’s right. I noticed the neighborhood, maybe he was recently displaced.”

“Could be a motive,” Emily adds. “Construction worker, security guard at a construction site. Payback?”

“What about the homeless man?” Morgan asks.

“We get a lot of beefs down there among the homeless. That one could have just been a fight about space or food,” Detective Fuller says.

“Let’s get a list of residents who’ve been kicked out of their homes by the gentrification.” He turns toward you and Prentiss. “You, Y/L/N, and Reid check the shelters?”

“Yeah, we’re on it,” Prentiss says, standing. You nod. Then she pauses. “Unless… you okay with that, Reid?”

Reid furrows his brow in confusion. “I’m fine with that.”

You and Emily share a concerned look as you follow him out of the room.

*   *   *   *   *

At one of the shelters, the three of you are looking for someone in charge when Prentiss’ phone rings. It’s Hotch, alerting you of another murder.

A woman walks up to the three of you just as Emily is hanging up her cell phone. “Heard y’all are looking for someone in charge? I’m Angie, one of the administrators.”

Emily holds out her hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Agent Prentiss, these are Agents Reid and Y/L/N. We’re with the FBI.”

“Really?” Angie says, surprised.

“Really,” Reid snarks as Emily shows her badge.

“It looks like you have your hands full,” Emily says.

Angie nods. “With the demolitions in the projects and the abandoned buildings, there’s no place else for people to sleep.”

Prentiss smiled. “Well, thank God there are people like you who take the ti—“

“Do you have a list of everyone who comes through here?” Reid interrupts.

“Uh, we have a sign-in sheet,” Angie tells him, frowning. “But we don’t force anyone to sign if they don’t want to. Some who do don’t even use their real names.” She smiles. “Elvis eats here a lot.”

“Do you think we could get a copy of any lists you might have?” you ask.

“Why?” Angie asks, frowning.

“Have you noticed anyone who acts unusually aggressive towards the other residents?” Reid asks.

Angie crossed her arms. “What’s this about?”

“A series of murders in the area. The perpetrator may be a homeless man. Maybe someone who stays here.” Reid looks around. “He may even be in this room as we speak.”

“Reid!” Prentiss says sharply as Angie looks around, nervous.

“Have you noticed anyone who acts paranoid or displays explosive, unprovoked bursts of violence, more than just pushing and shoving?” Reid continues, ignoring Emily. “I mean, someone who really tried to harm others.”

“There are territorial fights over food and places to sleep,” Angie says. “The nurse treats people for minor injuries all the time, but no one seriously hurt.”

“If anyone does come to mind, give us a call,” Reid tells her, giving her his card. “Thank you.” He turns and walks away as you and Prentiss share a concerned look.

Angie looks at Prentiss. “A murderer?”

Prentiss holds up here hands. “I-I’m sorry. This investigation is still—“ She pauses, flustered.

You glance over your shoulder at Reid’s retreating form. “No one’s actually been hurt in a shelter,” you reassure Angie.

Prentiss nods. “We’re just— we’re acting in an abundance of caution. So please, let the police know if anything unusual occurs. Thanks.”

Angie nods, and you and Prentiss head outside to find Reid, who is observing the people outside.

“There’s a high presence of mental disorders with the homeless,” he says.

“Yeah,” Prentiss says, not really paying attention to what he said. “What the hell was that in there?”

“What?” Reid asks.

“‘He may even be in this room as we speak?’ We have nothing to support that.”

“We’re investigating a serial homicide,” Reid argues. “Should I have pretended there’s no danger?”

“You just scared the shit out of that woman,” you say. “She’s probably afraid of every dude who walks in, now!”

Reid shrugs. “Again, until we find this unsub, how is that a bad thing?”

Prentiss frowns. “What is the matter with you?” she asks, not unkindly.

Reid raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, what’s the matter with me?”

“I’ve never seen you act like this,” she explains.

Reid frowns, upset. “Oh really? In the months that you know me, you’ve never seen me act this way? Hey, no offense, Emily, but… you don’t really know what you’re talking about, do you?” He turns and storms off, leaving you and Emily standing there, shocked.

“What the fuck?” Emily mutters.

“He… he’s not okay,” you tell her, frowning. “It’s not you.”

She nods. “I know, but….”

You put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m worried about him, too,” you admit. “But I’m not sure there’s anything we can do.”

Emily looks over where Reid is walking away. “Let’s just get back to the station,” she says quietly. “There’s nothing left for us to do here.”

*   *   *   *   *

When the three of you walk into the station, Reid begins filling in Hotch. “We just got back from the local homeless shelter,” he says. “The administration hasn’t noticed anyone new displaying aggressive behavior.”

“He’s not in a homeless shelter,” Hotch says. “I just talked to Gideon and Morgan. They think that he’s killing to protect some makeshift shelter of his own.”

“Are we ready for a profile yet?” Reid asks.

“We’re missing something.” Hotch frowns. “How did this homeless man learn to kill so efficiently?”

“You know what we need?” Prentiss says.

“We need to get lucky,” Hotch tells her. “We need him to make a mistake.”

Everyone goes back to what they were doing while Emily pulls you aside. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

“Huh?” you ask, feigning ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve been off ever since we were assigned this case.” She frowns, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

You sigh. “You’re not gonna drop this, are you?”

She shakes her head. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I….” You’re not sure how to word it, so you decide to just plow right ahead. “I was nineteen when I met my first boyfriend. We met online, which may seem crazy now, but where I’m from— or should I say when I’m from— that isn’t uncommon.” Prentiss nods, listening intently. You stare down at your hands, wringing them together and bouncing your leg. “Honestly, I try not to think about how many red flags I refused to see. It embarrasses me.”

Emily nods. “We’ve all been there,” she reassures you.

You laugh humorlessly. “Anyway, he was thirty. I mentioned I was nineteen at the time, right? Now, had I not still been a literal teenager, the age gap would’ve been less creepy, but I was just a kid. And he was the first person to have ever shown interest in me. We started off as fast friends, while I overlooked all the red flags, like I said, but then we started becoming something… more.”

You cringe before continuing. “You know how I said the first red flag should’ve been his age? Well, second red flag should’ve been that he was a convicted felon.”

“Oooh, yeah, that’s… not great,” Emily says sympathetically.

“To be fair— and this is the only concession I’ll give him— he was like twenty when his only friend, who also happened to be his fiancée, was killed in a car accident. He kinda went crazy and tried to rob a bank like, literally three days later.” You shake your head. “Dumbass got caught at a hot dog stand. And I’m not condoning it, but, I mean, temporary insanity exists as a legal defense for a reason.”

Prentiss nods. “No, I get it.”

“So yeah, red flags abound,” you continue. “And like I said, it was the first time anyone had ever been interested in me like that, so I was naive. I quickly became obsessed, but I didn’t recognize it as obsession and thought it was love. Stupid fucker ate that shit up. He eventually flew up to Mass to visit me for Halloween. I thought things were fine— other than the fact that I hated kissing him, but I chalked that up to sensory issues. He went back home, and that’s when shit started to hit the fan.

“Really soon after he went home, a celebrity followed me on Instagram— that’s a photo sharing website. Turns out that celebrity was the son of Lou Ferrigno, who was the Incredible Hulk. As I’m sure you know, I’m a huge Marvel fan.”

“Oh, I know,” Emily says with a chuckle.

“Anyway, I thought it was cool that the son of the Incredible Hulk followed me. I told the guy I was dating, and he got wicked jealous and spent the entire night at the 24-hour gym by his house.”

Emily blinks. “That’s fucking insane.”

“Yep,” you agree. “That’s when I started to lose interest, and got my first urge to break up with him. However, I was too nice, and knew that his family sucked— long story short, his step-dad was abusive and his mom allowed it— so I wanted him to spend Christmas with me and my family in Massachusetts, to have a good holiday.

“So I put up with his clinginess, along with other insane shit, until he flies up for Christmas. Christmas Eve night, while my extended family was over, he cornered me and tried to be clingy and I just shut down. He literally chased me to my room, and when I closed and locked the door, he stood and talked at me through the door. I had a meltdown and ended up cursing him out, after which my mom came up and convinced him to go downstairs, then reprimanded me about yelling and swearing while family was over. I spent hours in my room that night instead of enjoying Christmas Eve, and only came out after I called my aunt, who was in, like, Mexico or something for a holiday vacation, and she talked me down. I eventually went out and luckily, Fuckface was in the basement for the rest of the night. I decided to be nice and not break up with him on Christmas, and faked my way through the day.

“A couple weeks later, while I had been pretty much faking any interest in him to give him a couple nice weeks, I was invited to my friend’s baby shower. It was Patriots themed and everyone was expected to wear a Pats jersey. Since Fuckface hated the Patriots, I told him I wouldn’t make him go. He fucking thanked me, then had the gall to cry to my dad after I left that I didn’t take him with me. I came back home, missed the shower, and immediately broke up with him, but told him I wouldn’t insist upon him going home since, again, his family sucked and I wanted to be nice. Which, by the way, if you ever see me trying to be nice to someone to my own detriment ever again, please smack some sense into me.”

“Will do,” she tells you solemnly. “I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks.” You take a deep breath. “It all came to a head a few weeks later, when he found out that I had a date. He stormed upstairs and complained to my mom, right in front of me, that he just assumed we would, and I quote, ‘find our way back to each other,’ and what was he supposed to do? He then wondered aloud, in front of AJ, my nine-year-old little brother who had his own severe mental health issues, if he should hunt down my date and blow his brains out, and— again, I quote��� ‘see that pink mist.’”

Prentiss takes a deep breath. “Fucking unhinged.”

You nod. “Seeing AJ becoming distressed, I yelled at Fuckface to shut up. He proceeded to storm over to me. I ducked, and he smacked my hat off of my head. Now, I’m convinced he tried to hit me, but my mom always insisted he was just trying to hit my hat off of my head. Not okay either way, of course, but one is worse than the other. I ran upstairs, afraid, and locked myself in my room and armed myself with the switchblade I got from camping that year that I kept next to my bed. I didn’t sleep at all that night, and he flew back home the next morning. That was the last I physically saw of him, but he proceeded to cyberstalk me for the following two years.” You take a shaky breath. “Anyway, to sum it all up, my crazy ex was from Texas, and even though I’m literally in a different universe, and Texas is so fucking huge that even if I weren’t in a different universe, the chances of running into him would be slim to none, I’m still anxious about being here.”

Emily puts a hand on your shoulder. “It’s a trauma response,” she tells you.

You nod. “I know. That doesn’t make me feel any less stupid for stressing over a nonissue.”

“It’s not a nonissue,” she insists. “It’s trauma. And even though you may be safe, your mind doesn’t fully recognize that.”

Sighing, you shake your head. “Maybe. I don’t know, I just—”

“Please help my daddy!” You’re interrupted by a young girl running into the police station, followed by a man with blood dripping from his nose.

“I-I need help, I was attacked!” the man shouts.

JJ hurries over to him. “Can I get some help here, please?”

You head over to the man’s daughter as he turns to JJ. “Please call my house to come get my daughter, please!”

You bend down to speak with the little girl. “Hi, I’m Y/N. We’re gonna take good care of your dad, okay?”

She nods as Emily comes over to you two and says something in Spanish to the girl. “Maria,” the girl says.

Emily glances at you. “Her name is Maria.”

You hold out a hand. “Maria, do you wanna come with me and Emily while my friends help your dad?” She nods, taking your hand, and you lead her to the unused conference room.

“Is my papa gonna be okay?” Maria asks as you direct her to a chair. Hotch sits down to her right as Emily takes the chair to her left, you staying crouched in front of Maria.

Hotch nods. “Yes.”

You glance at Hotch, who gives you a small nod. “Maria, do you think we could ask you a few questions?”

“It would really help us find the bad guy,” Emily adds. She waits for Maria to nod before continuing. “Did he say anything to your papa?”

Maria shakes her head. “No.”

“What were you and your papa doing before the bad guy came?” Hotch asks.

Maria takes a deep breath, squeezing your hand. “Papa took out the garbage. And then he jumped out and he hit my papa. I was screaming at him. I thought he was gonna hit me, too. But then he stopped… and he looked at me funny.”

You squeeze her hand. “What do you mean by ‘funny?’”

Maria looks at you. “He looked sad. He did say something. Not to my papa. To me.”

“What was it?” Emily asks.

“He said ‘are you okay? Why are you crying?’” Maria says. “And then we ran.”

“Maria,” Hotch says, giving her a small smile. “What you did was very brave. Can you help us with one more thing? Can you tell us what the man looked like?”

Maria nods. “He was white. And tall. And dirty.” She looks down at Hotch’s hand. “And he had a ring like yours.”

Hotch points to his wedding ring. “Like that?”

Maria nods again. “I remember his ring.”

You squeeze her hand. “Thanks. You did a good job.”

She opens her mouth to respond before focusing on something behind you. “Abuela!” She jumps out of her chair and runs toward a woman who just walked through the doors. Emily goes over to greet her while you and Hotch walk back to the conference room to update the team.

*   *   *   *   *

“He asked if she was okay and why was she crying,” Hotch says once he joins you, Emily, and Reid in the conference room. “He wasn’t aware of what he was doing to them.”

“Garcia’s on line one,” JJ says, pressing a couple buttons on the phone, next to an open laptop.

“Go ahead, Penelope,” Prentiss says.

“All right, cowgirls and boys,” Garcia says. “I’ve got the comparison satellite images of the before and after pictures, and I found something. Check it.” An image of the top of a building appears on the laptop screen. “See it yet?”

“Yeah,” Hotch says.

“Is that an SOS?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Garcia says. “It’s made of debris and other rocky bits of gobbledygook. This is the building where the security guard got killed.”

“He’s asking for help,” Hotch says.

“Wait, guys, listen outside,” Reid says.

“Chaos,” Hotch says. “The SOS.”

“He’s a war veteran,” Emily realizes.

“PTSD episode?” you ask.

Hotch nods. “He thinks he’s in a war zone.” He dials Morgan and Gideon, who are with the detective. “He left a distress signal on the roof of one of the buildings,” he tells them once Morgan picks up.

“The quick strikes are consistent with trained military tactics,” Morgan says.

“He must’ve served in a place that looked or sounded like this ward,” Emily suggests.

“Well, we were right about him being homeless, in a sense,” Gideon says. “Wherever he is, in his mental state, he’s certainly not at home.”

“He may not even be aware he’s killing,” Hotch says.

“Now how’s that?” the detective asks.

“When soldiers suffered from anxiety, depression, and flashbacks in World War One, it was called shell shock,” Reid says.

“Battle fatigue in World War Two,” you chime in. He nods.

“Now we refer to it as PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, war related, a side effect of which is slipping into dissociative states,” Reid finishes.

Prentiss nods. “The mind divorces itself from reality so it can cope with the trauma.”

“He’s reliving a memory,” Gideon says. “He’s trapped in his head in some war zone.”

“Hiding and defending himself from the enemy,” Morgan adds.

“Okay, but how do we find a man who’s trapped inside his head?” JJ asks, frowning.

“He’s got a wedding ring,” Prentiss points out.

“Someone’s probably missing him,” you add.

“Good,” Gideon says. “I’m on the way in with Detective Fuller. Morgan has one last crime scene to check.” He hangs up.

“JJ,” Hotch starts, “check missing persons reports, see if anyone matches the description. It would’ve been filed recently, the last two or three days.”

She nods. “Okay.”

*   *   *   *   *

JJ almost immediately finds a promising lead, inviting the wife of a missing man into the precinct. She and Detective Fuller lead the wife and another man into the unused conference room.

JJ turns to Hotch, just outside of the room. “Dana Woodridge and Max Weston. Her husband and his best friend, Roy Woodridge, has been missing since Tuesday.” Hotch nods and you follow him into the room.

“He was on his way home from work,” Dana starts. “He called before he left the office and said we needed to talk when he got home. He sounded upset.” She swallows hard. “That was the last I heard from him.”

“What was he upset about?” Prentiss asks.

Dana shakes her head. “He didn’t say.”

“Dana called me that night when Roy didn’t show up,” Max continues. “So the next morning we filed a missing persons report.”

“Mrs. Woodridge, where does your husband work?” Hotch asks.

“He’s a consultant at a security firm downtown,” she answers.

“Did your husband ever serve in combat?” Gideon asks tentatively.

“Excuse me?” Max says, frowning.

“Is he a war veteran?” Hotch asks again.

Max nods. “Y-yeah, we both are. We were in special ops. 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company, Third Battalion. But Roy, he retired shortly after things went bad in Mogadishu.”

“That was back in 1993,” Reid says. “Let me ask you this— does he display any, uh, behavioral tics? Certain everyday things that make him jumpy or startled?”

“Why?” Dana asks.

“Does he?” Reid ignores her.

“Is this going to help find him?” Dana frowns, glancing at Max.

“Mrs. Woodridge, please,” Prentiss implores. “We need to know everything we can about your husband.”

Max sighs. “We all had a… hard time over there. You bring some things home with you.”

“Like what?” you ask.

“He has a hard time with loud noises,” Dana explains. “He can’t be in crowds. He has nightmares and wakes up in cold sweats.” She pauses. “The smells are the worst. He… if he smells something burning, like a barbecue, or gas, or fire… he gets sick.” Max rubs his face as Dana continues. “It really only got bad about a year ago.”

Gideon looks at Max. “What happened to him in Somalia?”

Max laughs uncomfortably. “Nothing. Combat happened.”

“What does that mean?” Gideon asks.

Max stands. “I’m gonna… get a drink of water.” Gideon follows him.

Hotch pours Dana a cup of coffee. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “Could somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

You and JJ look to Hotch. “There have been some people hurt, recently, and we think that there may be someone lost on the streets,” he explains. “Someone who thinks that he’s still at war.”

Dana shakes her head. “Well, Roy would never hurt innocent people. Why would he even be in this neighborhood?”

Prentiss goes to respond but the phone rings. JJ presses the speaker button. “Hey, Garcia. We have Mrs. Woodridge here with us.”

You can hear Garcia hesitate. “Oh, uh, well. I found an ‘02 white Ford F150 pickup truck.”

“Oh God,” Dana says. “That’s his truck.”

“It was impounded,” Garcia continues. “It had a flat tire and was picked up on Lyon Street about a quarter mile from Highway 59.”

“He takes the freeway to work every day,” Dana says.

You and Prentiss share a look. “Mrs. Woodridge, I’m very sorry,” Emily starts, “but this is definitely your husband.”

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the conference room, you’re updating the map when Gideon comes back in. “We need to put a SWAT team together. Plan a grid search, go building to building.”

“He’s reliving the war, isn’t he?” Hotch asks.

Gideon nods. “A specific incident in which he killed a child.”

“Guys, the SWAT team’s gonna have guns, right?” Reid points out. “What happens if he tries to fight them?”

You sigh. “You know what happens, Reid.” You and JJ leave the room and go look for Dana, who is grabbing another cup of coffee. She notices the cops suiting up in the room next door.

“Can I get you something, Mrs. Woodridge?” JJ asks.

“Those men are going after Roy?” Dana says. Her voice breaks. “Do they need so many guns? I mean, he’s just one man.”

JJ pulls her away from the doorway. “It-it’s protocol, ma’am.”

Dana looks at you. “How badly were they hurt? Y’all said that people were hurt.”

“Some people were murdered,” you tell her gently.

“Murdered?” she repeats quietly. She sighs. “He never really came home. I lost him fourteen years ago. It’s been like living with a ghost.” She grabs JJ’s arm. “Help him,” Dana pleads. “Please, help him.”

JJ swallows. “We’ll do everything we can.”

You go back to the conference room where Reid is messing with the map. “Reid, what are you working on?” Hotch asks, following you into the room.

“Three days ago, police shut down the freeway at 5PM for ten minutes. Cars were stalled and Roy must’ve tried to exit onto a surface street. Sadly, he ended up in an unfamiliar area with a flat tire.” Reid pauses. “He was changing that tire when an eight-story building on Market imploded five blocks away. He heard the explosion and the ground rattled like a mortar bomb had landed nearby.”

“You think that explosion is what triggered the dissociation,” you say.

“Exactly,” Reid tells you. “Since then, he’s been stuck in that state. Running when he needed to, sleeping when he could, camouflaging himself into his surroundings, and hiding from his perceived enemies.”

“He’s reliving the worst moment of his life,” Hotch says. “He’s gotta be terrified.”

Reid nods. “Yeah.” Hotch exits the room as Reid’s phone rings. “Yeah, Garcia, what do you have?”

“Why isn’t Derek answering his phone?” Garcia asks.

“He’s probably stuck underground somewhere,” Reid explains.

“Underground?”

“I’ll explain later,” Reid says.

“Oh, okay,” Garcia says. “Anyway, I finally got through all those recent police reports he asked me to check, which, by the way, was no hopscotch through the park because that precinct you’re at is kinda tragically behind on their paperwork.”

“They’re very undermanned,” you tell her.

“Oh, jeez, really? I can’t imagine what that feels like,” Garcia quips. You chuckle. “Oh no wait, yes I can, cuz—“

“Garcia, do you have anything for us?” Reid asks.

“Well, he told me to look for anything unusual, and it’s all… usual. Minor break-ins, apartment burglaries, televisions, stereos, car thefts, and smash and grabs. Common stuff in the world of burgling.”

“Nothing someone lost on the streets might use for survival?” you ask.

“No, nothing reported,” she says. “Like I said, it’s all petty. There’s a… some vandalism at construction sites. Communications radio missing from one.”

“Wait, stop,” you say.

“Did you say a radio?” Reid asks.

“Yeah, construction foreman reported that one of their trucks had been broken—“ Garcia’s voice cuts off as Reid hangs up, hurrying out of the room.

“Guys,” Reid interrupts Gideon, who is briefing the SWAT team. “He may have stolen a radio, a walkie-talkie.”

Hotch waves him over to the room Max is in.

Morgan walks into the room. “We were right. He had a nest of sorts right near every murder scene.”

“There was a burglary of a two-way radio from a construction site recently,” Reid reiterates.

Max nods. “That could be Roy. We only used UHF back then.”

“He’s looking for help,” Gideon says.

“And he’ll keep trying to contact operations command,” Max adds.

Hotch turns to the detective. “Detective, can we get a dozen UHF radios set up in this room, each of them tuned to each of the preset channel frequencies?”

“Right away,” Detective Fuller says.

“Wait a minute,” Max says. “When he calls, we need to be very careful with the communication, because we set up specific responses to contact op com so we could avoid hostile interception and to establish no danger signals. And we had specific names to identify our squad to the operator.”

“Do you remember the language you set up?” Gideon asks.

“I couldn’t forget it,” Max tells him. “Roy and I wrote it. The callout was ‘this is John Doe looking for Mark Rippen.’ Rippen was our hero at the time, number eleven, the quarterback for the Redskins in 1993.”

Gideon nods. “Now we know where he is in his head. If he calls in, we’ll be on the other end when he does.”

“What if he doesn’t call?” Detective Fuller asks. “What if he just kills someone else?”

“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” Gideon tells him.

Detective Fuller frowns. “Kinda easy for you to say. Now, this guy may be messed up, but that doesn’t change the fact that he has killed four innocent people. Now, why don’t we just do the grid search?”

“If you set up a grid search and he confronts one of your men, you’ll be planning a funeral,” Max tells him.

“I can guarantee you we’re right about his profile,” Gideon says confidently.

“He wants to get rescued,” you add.

Gideon nods. “All we’re asking is that you just give us a chance to bring him in.”

*   *   *   *   *

Once all the radios are set up, you all gather in the conference room.

“It’s channel eleven,” Detective Fuller says.

“You ready, Garcia?” JJ asks.

“I’ve got nat recon satellites all over the ward,” Garcia says over the phone.

“Stand by,” JJ says.

One of the radios makes a static noise. “This is John Doe looking for Mark Rippen.”

Gideon looks at Max. “Can you help us?” He hands him the radio. “You know how to do this better than we do.”

Max nods, taking the radio. “Roger that. This is number eleven, all clear.”

“Maxey,” Roy says over the radio. “Boy, am I happy to hear from you. I’m taking heavy fire. Request immediate extraction.”

Max takes a breath. “What are your coordinates?”

“Unknown,” Roy says. “I lost my land navigational aids. I went high but I don’t recognize anything. I don’t have a fix on my grid coordinates.”

You look at Max. “Is there any other way for him to signal his location?”

Max nods. “Did you put up any flags?”

Roy laughs. “Yeah, you bet your ass I did. I’m holding cover here!”

“Roger that,” Max says. “Hold your position.” He turns to Gideon. “He triangulated. We need to look for three large, colored flags. Maybe on rooftops. They’ll be identical in size and shape.”

“Did you get that, Garcia?” you ask.

“I got it,” she says. You can hear her keyboard clicking as she types.

“Number eleven,” Roy says over the radio. “Do you still read me?”

“Garcia!” Gideon says.

“I’m working as fast as I can,” she tells him.

“I can still read you, loud and clear,” Max says. “Stay put.”

“I found one!” Garcia exclaims. “I found one! I got them! I see… housing projects and a courtyard.”

“We need street names, Garcia,” Hotch says.

“Farmer and Capron! Farmer and Capron!” she says.

“I know where that is,” Detective Fuller says. “There’s some abandoned buildings right there. I’ll have construction sites to halt work and secure the streets.”

“He’s gonna expect men in fatigues,” Max says. “And a chopper as cover.”

“I can take care of the chopper,” Detective Fuller says.

“We’re in black SUVs,” Hotch says. “Tell him we’re security executives. You’re coming with us, we need to do this fast.”

“Tell him to stay there,” Gideon tells Max. “We’re coming to him.”

“Roy, we’re coming to you, buddy,” Max says over the radio.

*   *   *   *   *

You stay behind with JJ, Emily, and Reid as everyone else rushes out to meet Roy. Reid gets the call from Hotch and shakes his head at you and Prentiss. JJ is in the room with Mrs. Woodridge, who breaks down.

Later, once Mrs. Woodridge has left and everyone is packing up, Detective Fuller comes in. “Folks. Ah, look. Thank you so much for coming here,” he says. “No one ever makes this place a priority. We’re grateful to you.”

“I wish it had ended differently,” Emily says.

“Yeah,” the detective says. “Me too.”

You look around, frowning. “Has anyone seen Gideon?”

“Agent Gideon left some time ago,” Detective Fuller tells you. “Said he’d meet you all at the airport.”

JJ frowns. “Did he says where he went to?”

Hotch stands. “I think I know where he is.”

The rest of you pack up quietly and head to the airport.

NOTE: Fuckface, if you're reading this, fuck off and leave me alone and stop cyberstalking me.

[togament]

Thinking about Ume and him fucking your insecurities away.

He gets it. You’re only human, after all. We all got our demons and some days they scream a little louder than they usually do—so you come to your boyfriend for some advice and much needed comfort.

Both of which he is very much willing to provide.

But what was once an innocent cuddle on your sofa with him pressing gentle kisses and assurances into your skin has evolved into him fucking himself into you slowly, heavily breathing into the space between your neck, both bodies tangled in a lotus position. He’s taking his time exploring every inch of your body with his hands with so much adoration and care with each caress.

Intimate.

“Fgh—I-I’m so lucky t’have you, beautiful,” he grunts with his forehead pressed against yours, staring into your eyes with such reverence you feel yourself melting a little. His strong hands gripping your hips securely, bouncing you onto his thick, throbbing length. Unhurried. Reassuring, even. “Breathtaking. Absolutely-haah! Fuckin’ perfect—“, he breathes, pulling back to look at you properly. God he’s falling for you all over again. “Can’t believe I-I get t’worship ya. What a goddess.”

But before you retort, before you tell him he isn’t right, before you argue with his cock buried deep inside you, he presses his lips onto yours with his tongue dancing against yours, thrusting up into you harder, faster. His hold on your hips ever steady.

Ume has occupied all of your senses. So much so that you’ve forgotten what you were about to say.

He’s gonna make it his life’s mission to make love to you until you forget your insecurities.

Until you finally see what he sees in you.

To make you feel beautiful in your own skin again.

ᯓᡣ𐭩

[bunnelbaby]

Be the one who makes the self indulgent age regression content you wish to see in the world!

[phoenixcatch7]

In love with the idea of captain marvel being Billy's imaginary friend. Like, it'd be so easy. Early depictions had them as almost fully separate people sometimes, like one soul with two minds, rather than just two filters like we mostly see now.

But imagine a Billy down on his luck, hurt and hiding from police and criminals alike, daydreaming the hours away as children do, taking inspiration from all the superheroes rising to fame, making little stories to play out his dreams of saving the world with a generic action doll he found while dumpster diving once. Most of the paint's rubbed off.

Red's his favourite colour, his comfiest jumper is a bright ruby even after all the grime and washes. Gold, too, it's shiny and warmer than silver! A hero cape is a must, big and eye catching! And he can fly, of course, like superman, and in his daydreams, when he's sore and frustrated after a long day's grind, his superhero is smart enough and knows all the right words to get the bullies to stop without resorting to fighting.

His superhero fantasy is one he spends a lot of time on, the first one he goes for when struggling to sleep at night, and he can picture it so clearly. Captain marvel is big and bright and kind, strong enough to lift the boxes for the old lady up the road who's moving all by himself, fast enough to catch Jamie who fell out of the tree on Saturday and broke his leg and couldn't come to class for weeks. He appears at the entrance to alleys when Billy is cornered, he steps up behind to cover for him when he gets caught shoplifting, he sits at the bus stop with him when it's pouring rain and the right bus doesn't seem to be coming.

And then the wizard comes, or rather whisks him away, and like a magician from a fairytale breathes life into his imaginary friend until Billy feels thrice his size and a million times more invincible.

From then on, captain marvel is a real hero, just like Billy is a real boy, and as one they save the whole city, and then the whole world, and get cats down from trees and help Mrs Victoria move the last of her boxes and she gives them a pinch in the cheek and cookies for the road and sometimes it hurts but it's so much better than he imagined.

[meet-you-at-the-north-star]

Before Sunrise

Dick Winters x night owl! reader

Summary: morning cuddles. that’s it that’s the plot

Notes: the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed

Word count: 1018

I felt a sense of dizziness and then the unmistakable unpleasant sensation that comes with an abrupt awakening. Despite how dark the room was, I could barely keep my eyes open for a more than a second.

“I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean to wake you” a sweet whisper came from the darkness.

“Dick?” I held out my hand towards his side of the mattress and he immediately took it. “Is the sun even out yet…?”

He quietly chuckled. “Not yet, actually. A bit early even for me.”

I groaned and weakly attempted to pull him close to me by his arm. “Can you stay until I fall back asleep?”

“Of course” He shuffled closer, the chaotic sound of sheets shifting about heaven to my ears at that moment.

I somehow managed to meet him in the middle of the bed, snuggling up against him, my head coming to rest on his chest.

His left arm wrapped gently around my waist, his right coming to stroke my hair. He planted a slow kiss on my forehead and I hugged him tighter, enjoying his warm presence surrounding me again.

“Do you want to watch the sunrise?” He was still whispering, but an hint of excitement now colored his voice.

I looked at him. My eyes felt a little less heavy and had finally begun to get accustomed to the dark. He was smiling and looking fondly at me.

“Sure, alright” I nodded, pulling myself up on my elbows and turning onto my back so I could look towards the window. “It’s not like I get many chances to”

“Wait, I have a better idea” He smirked.

I shot him a questioning look. In response, he just stood up and scooped me into his arms. After a few steps, he quickly set the curtains aside and with an effortless kick moved the armchair from the foot of the bed directly under the window.

Only then he sat down, allowing me to fully lean on him but holding me close in the way that always made me feel so safe, to prevent me from falling.

I put my arms around his neck, legs lazily falling over his own and the chair’s armrest. Outside the window, the sky was colored with soft shades of pink and orange that were growing more and more intense.

I laid my head in the crane of his neck, feeling his ever steady heartbeat vibrate on my skin.

“I promise it won’t take long” He said gently stroking my shoulder with the outside of his fingers. His tone turned worried: “Are you cold? Do you need me to get you a blanket?”

“Not at all darling, this is fine” I smiled against his collarbone, knowing that he could feel that too. “Actually, I’m more than happy with my current situation”

“Mmm is that so?” He teased.

“Oh yeah” I Insisted. “You make a very comfy chair”

His laugh reverberated all through his chest and he gave me a little squeeze to show his appreciation.

“I could think of worse ways to start my day too” He suddenly raised up my chin and leaned down to capture my lips with his. The kiss was soft and sweet like the rest of our morning.

“I love you” He said when it was over, an inch from my lips, noses almost touching. His eyes were open and limpid.

As much as I was used to hear him say that from time to time now, my heart still dropped. It was always an event.

“I love you too” I cupped his cheek with my right hand, losing myself in the moment and into the water-green eyes of the man that I loved.

At this point, I had almost forgotten that I’d ever been accidentally woken up way too early for my tastes. I laid my head back on my favorite neck spot with a happy sigh, hand grabbing his shirt to nuzzle even closer to him.

“Keep your eyes open, I wouldn’t want you to miss it”

“Yessir” I said, jokingly bringing my right hand to my temple in a salute.

“Is that mockery I hear in your voice, private? You know I won’t stand for that” He feigned outrage, sounding entirely amused.

“Oh yeah?” I grinned. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Mmm I’ll have to think of an appropriate punishment” He snuck his hand under my pajama shirt and slowly moved it up and down my side, his touch on my naked skin making me shiver for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold.

“Not that I mind your idea of punishment, major, but if you keep this up I might be too distracted to notice the sunrise” I chuckled and he laughed with me.

“That’s right, I’m sorry” He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it.

We stayed quiet and focused our attention on what was happening outside the window. The sky was now brimming with beautiful shades of color and it didn’t take long for the sun to finally appear over the horizon, and I sat up straight so I could properly admire it.

I was left speechless. Being a certified night owl I hadn't seen many sunrises in my life, but I felt that this one was quite extraordinary. Or maybe it was being in his arms that made it feel so.

“It’s so beautiful” I breathed.

When I finally glanced back at him, I found his gaze already on me, admiring my every reaction instead of the natural spectacle in front of us. “Almost as beautiful as you”

I felt myself blushing red like it was our first date. “You’re lucky I already married you or I would have needed to propose to you after that”

He laughed. “Well, for what it’s worth, I would have said yes”

“Good for you” I joked, finishing the sentence with a yawn I couldn’t hide.

He took notice: “Don’t tell me you still want to go back to sleep after that”

“Oh yes, I do” I smirked. “And you’re coming with me”

[clouvu]

No thoughts head empty just Them

[blackjackkent]

Narrator: Tonight's troubled rest is, as ever, overwhelmed by your killing fate. You dangle above a dark precipice, one move away from falling.

Narrator: Another watches your body while it is possessed by the night. You do not dream alone.

The blinding pain and fear of the dream fades, and as Rakha slowly comes to consciousness, trembling with the revelation of who and what she is, she finds that she is not alone. This is not precisely a surprise; Wyll sometimes sits up with her as she sits tied up in her bedroll, shivering with restless nightmares. Lae'zel, too, often prowls at her bedside, watchful for any loss of control.

Tonight, though, it is Jaheira. The older woman sits calmly nearby. Both of her scimitars are out in her hands, rested across her lap, and she watches Rakha stir with calm attentiveness. Her pose is relaxed, but there is a tension in it like the coiled spring of the panther she can become, in the moment before it pounces.

"Dark dreams?" she asks neutrally as Rakha lifts her head.

(A/N: I'm so goddamn proud that I called out in this post that Jaheira had absolutely clocked Rakha's whole situation, because it set this up perfectly entirely by accident. XD )

Slowly and awkwardly, Rakha wrestles herself into a sitting position, watching the Harper guardedly. But Jaheira makes no move to attack, just continues to watch her intently.

"I think I can guess," she goes on, one eyebrow quirking up. "Visions of blood on your hands. The blood in your veins, perhaps."

Rakha goes utterly still. Her eyes widen, and for a moment, utter surprise replaces all the fear and agitation. You know what I am?

Jaheira's lips twitch in a slight, rueful smile. "For all the gifts Bhaal's children inherit," she murmurs, "a peaceful night's sleep is not among them."

(She remembers so many nights on the road. She remembers Caden's torment as he learned who he was, as it threatened to overwhelm him. She remembers many things Caden does not even know she saw.

The last days before their battle against Sarevok; Khalid's low murmur to her as they heard Caden weeping in his bunk. "S-s-should we go to him?" And her slight shake of the head, because what comfort could she possibly offer to that good, kind boy who had just learned there was murder in his soul?

The nights on the road to Dragonspear after Boarskyr Bridge, nights when Caden would wake with a low cry in fear of some monster that had found him in his dreams. She could sense shame in him in those moments, and never spoke to him of them until it was far too late to matter - but she and Khalid watched over him in the night, a comforting presence just out of view.

And the nights in Amn after Spellhold... the worst nights of all. Nights when her bed was cold with Khalid's absence and her thoughts in turmoil, and Caden's soul had been ripped out of him, leaving an empty shell behind in the form of her friend. Nights when he became a monster and had to be beaten into submission. Nights when her deep-set reserve at last failed her, overwhelmed by grief and exhaustion, and she would have welcomed her friend's comfort and to offer it in turn. But there was little left of him to hear her, almost swallowed up by the beast that haunted his mind, and Aerie haunted the bedside of his empty not-quite-corpse like a ghost.

She watches Rakha and sees traces of that same haunted darkness in her new companion's eyes. Caden eventually managed to slip the noose of his heritage and find peace in the forests of Faenya-Dail. She does not know if Rakha will have the strength to do the same - but she is older now, and she will not make the mistake this time of being silent.)

Rakha swallows. Her throat still feels dry and tight and resists speech, but she manages to croak out the question anyway. "How... could you possibly know?"

Her emotions are so tangled it is hard to put names to them. Relief, perhaps - for Jaheira is one of those she trusts most in the camp, and if Jaheira knows, perhaps she will know what to do. But there is also shame, guilt, terror; she feels exposed and frightened and lost. And angry, too.

How long have you known? Why didn't you tell me?

But Jaheira just shrugs. "I don't. Not yet."(*) She climbs slowly to her feet, her eyes never leaving Rakha's. The scimitars hang loosely in both her hands, their blades just skimming the hay-strewn ground. "The dreams alone do not concern me," she goes on after a slight pause. "It is what waking deeds they might inspire."

She peers at Rakha searchingly, her lips drawn into a tight line. "Are you truly your own master?" she asks - and her tone is a strange melding of gentle warmth and cold steel. "What is it you feel, when Father's dreams come calling?"

Rakha flinches. Father. She has never before had that word to put to the urges that drive her. She has not yet accustomed herself to it.

She wondered once - after learning of Shadowheart's past - if she herself had a father that she would drop everything to save. Now she knows the answer, and it makes her skin crawl. Her father is the source of everything that is wrong and broken about her. His influence sits in her head and drives her to kill.

"Helpless..." she mutters. The sense of shame deepens. Her head ducks, but she can feel Jaheira's eyes on her. "Like I can deny him nothing."

She can see the flicker out of the corner of her eye as Jaheira's blades twitch - but do not lift. "Then would you call it mercy," Jaheira says softly, "if the next night I never let you wake?"

Rakha says nothing - but they both know the answer. Yes.

Jaheira sighs, studying her for a long time - and then the blades move again. With a sharp movement, she steps to Rakha's side, flicks out one wrist... and severs the bindings on Rakha's hands.(**) "This is your father's true legacy," she says bitterly. "Not his children, but the fear they plant in us. The savagery it blossoms into."

Rakha draws her hands in front of her, rubs at the sore place on her wrists where the ropes chafed. Then she stands slowly and looks down at Jaheira; for a moment the two of them stare at each other, a long moment of unspoken understanding.

The half-elf is so much smaller than she is, but in this moment Rakha feels much the smaller, for she is acutely aware of the trust Jaheira is giving her... and the fact that Jaheira would end her in an instant if that trust proved misplaced.

"In another time," Jaheira says slowly, "with another of your kind, we found a better way. I would dearly like to find it again."

(Rakha is not Caden, no. She never will be. She did not have the benefit of Gorion's training; there is more of the animal darkness in her than Caden ever had, even in his worst moments. But Jaheira has seen her fight it, has seen the moments of softness in her with Wyll, has seen the strange sincerity with which she asks questions and searches for the right path. In spite of all her caution, Jaheira likes her. If there is a way that does not lead to her death, Jaheira will find it.)

"Tell me what I must do," Rakha whispers. Her voice sounds small in her own ears.

Perhaps Jaheira can hear how lost Rakha feels, because her expression softens a little with a slight, reassuring smile. "You would not be the first to turn the taint in your blood to your advantage," she says quietly. "But there are barriers a Bhaalspawn must overcome, first."

She hisses out a heavy breath between her teeth, her gaze going distant, looking past Rakha and through the wall behind her. "Those of your kind. Orin... I am sure you already know that so long as she lives, she will never stop hunting you."

(She remembers the Five. The Bhaalspawn under Amelyssan's direction who sought to obliterate all those who shared their tainted blood. They nearly succeeded; indeed, she thought they had. How do any remain? How does Rakha live, and Orin? How did Bhaal, dead god that he is, create yet more spawn to do his bloody work?)

She shakes her head sharply with a tight frown. "It might be that you have to turn and face her. You cannot change that. All you can choose is how you meet her - as another bloodied child of Bhaal, or as yourself."

She lifts her head and again meets Rakha's eyes, and the steady certainty in her expression meets Rakha's agitation and calms it like water over fire. "All *I* can offer is the promise that, should you choose to do so, you will not meet her alone."

She waits until Rakha nods. Then, in a single smooth motion, she sheathes both scimitars and sits down on a nearby haybale. "For now, take what rest you can," she says - and now there's an unmistakable gentleness in her tone that Rakha has never heard before. "I will watch over you this night."

Rakha tilts her head to one side, and something like black humor flickers through her eyes for a moment. "To watch over me?" she asks. "Or to protect against me?"

Jaheira's lips twitch with muted amusement. "I suppose you'll have your answer when you wake in the morning."

It's not much reassurance. But it's something. The dreams of blood still wait for her... but it's a comfort different even from Wyll's support to know that Jaheira's eyes are on her, that the Harper knows what she is and hasn't turned away.

She curls back into her bedroll, her hands free, her eyes twitching restlessly under their lids. And Jaheira, true to her word, waits and watches in the darkness, like a wolf on guard before its den.

----

(*) I looked at the dialogue files for this scene. This line appears to be bugged, bc in-game it got skipped, but I like it so I'm including it. XD

(**) Artistic license, obviously. All the references to Rakha being bound up at night are my particular headcanon.

[peculiardollart]

This is just a theory so I can't confirm it but I suspect if I spent more time working on my webcomic and less time going "teehee what if I drew some OP characters as if they were in my webcomic" I'd probably get more work done on my webcomic

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

(Personal fun hc, not meant for anything other than enjoyment)

Legolas: *sees a group of elves do something less than steller*

Legolas: you know, sometimes i wonder why my grandfather felt the need to try and destroy the world. Or at least all the elves-

Legolas: and then i see things like this and i get it.

Elrond, on the way to break it up: *splutters* i’m sorry, Oropher tried to do what?!? When!? I don’t remember this!

Legolas: *blinks* well yeah, it was way back in the beginning, before Orome. Don’t worry he’s better now. Grandma punched some sense into him AND it had the benefit of solidifying them 1. as elves not to be messed with and 2. Capable leaders that could get shit done.

[the-red-thread-that-strangles]

Akai is going to be the death of him.

This has been a long-time conviction of Rei's, and yet of all the ways that could go, this really is not how he pictured it.

Leading contender for cause of death: irregular blood flow, leaving him without the oxygen necessary for higher brain functions.

Where has it gone? Mostly to his cheeks. And the tips of his ears. They're burning.

(And some of it may have gone further south, pooling warmly in his stomach).

Akai's wearing the sweater Rei made and it's so oversized he's got cute little sweater paws covering his hands. Rei would like to faint now, please. Please. Please?

He closes his eyes in hopes this is all just a hallucination caused by lack of sleep (ignoring the fact Akai just woke him up, actually feeling well-rested for once). But when he opens them again, Akai's still there, eyebrow raised. Lit in the warm colours of a new dawn, and covered in a sweater Rei knows is incredibly soft, because he picked the wool himself. Holding a steaming cup of something.

Hm. It smells like sencha.

Temptation itself, in the morning cool.

Rei curses, resigns himself to the new reality he gets to enjoy now. Okiya Subaru is one thing, the identity deliberately crafted to be harmless and cozy, but Akai Shuichi should not be looking this adorable. Maybe Rei did suffer that concussion, after all.

.

There's some overlap in their watch cycle, so Rei busies himself trying to get the excess energy out and make breakfast. He's definitely not ignoring Akai. Which would be difficult anyways in the one room apartment they're using to lay low.

It's going to be bland, even with his best efforts. There's barely any spices in stock, just lots and lots of dried and pickled foods, stuff that keeps. Not that Rei's expected anything more from Akai - okay, maybe a little, considering he's trying (and failing) to learn how to cook. Then again, he probably didn't figure he'd actually have to use the safehouse, and they've had worse. That weekend in Rikubetsu comes to mind. It still sends shivers down his spine.

Besides, the food isn't actually the problem - though they'll need to be conservative with it. No, the real issue is the shitty insulation. And terrible heating. Rei shivers in his sweater and huddles closer to the stove. It's not like they can call a HVAC repairman without drawing attention to themselves. Who thought it was a good idea to do this sting in the winter?

Whatever. They'll only need to stay here for a couple of days, until their allies have finished the witch-hunt, and then they can leave this safehouse behind them.

.

An uneventful breakfast and several hours later it's Akai's turn to sleep. He's mostly been sitting quiet and unobtrusive in the corner chair, keeping an eye on the street below. Rei knows the look, has seen it many times. Mostly on Rye, back in Osaka. Perching on the place with the best view, making as little noise and movement as possible. Coiled up and ready to bolt. The apartment isn't safe, and the mission isn't over. Akai won't rest, not really, until the all-clear. Idiot. As if he's not injured, doesn't need to recover.

"Akai. Your turn." He tries, and is roundly ignored. Akai must've heard him - there's nothing to listen to, in here. If he's somewhere else, mentally, well. Rei's never been good at quitting. Or alright with being denied attention.

"Akai." When the sniper still doesn't react, Rei walks up to him. Grabs a hold of his chin, tipping it up, forcing the other to look up at him. There's no resistance; either Akai is too tired to object, or he actively allows the touch. Rei's not sure which is worse. He feels Akai flinch as he straightens - must be the strain on his injured ribs. The sniper stares up at him, jade eyes dull and lifeless. The shadows under his eyes are deep enough to blot out the sun. Where's his stupid mirth, the barely concealed amusement? This won't do.

"Go lie down. Even if you can't sleep, your body still needs the rest. You're useless like this." How long has it been since he last slept?

"I can still-" Akai starts to object, eyes flicking to the window, to the street below.

"No. I've got this." Akai's so close, and so painfully tense, and Rei really doesn't know how to get his message through Akai's thick skull. So he tries for the closest approximation. He leans down that last little bit, until their noses touch, their foreheads rest together. Akai's skin burns against his own. "Rest." A single word, too gentle to be a command, but Akai still obeys. Long, soft lashes flutter against Rei's cheek, feather-light, as green eyes slip shut. The ghost of a sigh brushes against his lips. The pressure against him increases as Shuichi loosens into his touch.

Rei allows himself to indulge in the warmth of their shared space for a few shared breaths. It shouldn't be this hard to pull away. "Not here, idiot. The bed."

It's unclear whether Akai actually needs the help, or if he just likes to force Rei to do extra work, but he finds himself supporting the sniper to the bed. Helps lower Akai to the mattress as he settles in, careful not to aggravate his wounds. Cocoons him in the blanket. And if he's being a little too considerate, well, Akai looks about ready to pass out, so it's likely he won't notice or remember.

.

Rei finds himself checking in every once in a while, making sure Akai's still breathing. The man can be eerily quiet when he wants, and in slumber he almost seems dead. The first couple of times Rei saw him asleep, he found it disconcerting. By now, he knows how to spot Akai's signs of life, the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Of all the things that happened in the last 48 hours, Rei's mind returns to the most harmless offense - Akai in a too-large sweater.

How could that happen? He knows Akai's features by heart, by touch and measurement, and he's pretty sure he's counted out the rows and numbers correctly. Okay, fine, he might have picked out the design and worked on it in a hazy fugue state, but that is only slightly worse than his usual operating conditions. The result shouldn't be such a disaster. Maybe elder Tsuruyama will know where he went wrong.

(Because he did go wrong. No amount of stupid, heady pride at seeing Akai wear what Rei made for him with his own two hands can dissuade him from that. Rei tries to shove down the satisfaction spreading warmth throughout his body, right down to his toes. But the feeling has been building for weeks now, and is getting harder to ignore each day. Rei pretends he doesn't see the signs, doesn't know what they mean. They can't afford the distraction.)

Thankfully, his musings are interrupted by a sharp intake of breath, followed by a series of shallow gasps. He scans the room, wondering if Akai's noticed something he missed, when, with a quiet thud, the thick blanket slides to the floor. Akai's twisting and turning on the bed. Oh, great, the genius wants to agitate his wounds and freeze in one go.

Rei abandons his watch uneasily. But it's the middle of the day, and anyone coming after them right now would have to be stupidly brazen. Besides, he'd probably not notice attackers anyways. Akai's panting and thrashing is way too distracting.

Night (well, day in this case) terrors are not unusual for people in their profession, and if they are a regular issue for Akai, that might explain his general reluctance to get to bed, as well as the permanent bags under his eyes. But at this rate, Rei will need to intervene, or Akai will further injure himself.

"Don't go inside-" Akai's words, low and sharp, stop Rei dead in his tracks. Oh. They should've done a debrief before heading to bed. He's willing to bet he can guess pretty accurately what holds Akai in its grasp. It takes him a deep breath and a conscious effort of will to shake off the image of the abandoned factory, the smell of dust and mildew. The echo of a gunshot.

"Akai?" Rei continues his slow approach, gentle, non-threatening. Though Akai's eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling, Rei doubts he can see him.

"At least wait for backup-", Akai pleads, unsteady. He's reaching out, grabbing at empty air. Grinding his teeth in agitation.

Alright. What did Hiro say? Considering Akai's taller, and loathe as Rei is to admit it, a better fighter, trying to wake him is most certainly a bad idea. Even if he weren't stronger, there's a gun on the bedside table, and Rei's not keen to learn what Akai's instincts look like if he wakes up disoriented and with too much adrenaline in his system.

So. Soothing might or might not be possible, but he has to try. "Akai. Shhh, it's all right. You got to me in time. We made it out. I'm here. I'm safe."

'Because you took a bullet for me', he doesn't say. Bulletproof vest or not, Akai's carrying the reminder of his actions on his chest, in cracked ribs, tender skin, and colourful bruises. It's grating to be in his debt, yet again. The first time might have been accidental, more about Scotch than Bourbon, but there's no doubt that this time, it was all about Rei. Who has the sickening suspicion Akai would've acted no differently, had he not been wearing body armour.

It makes no sense why he would go this far. There's people waiting for him - his siblings, his coworkers, the Kudos. Besides, he's the Silver Bullet, meant to take down the organisation. And here he is, throwing it all away for nothing. Who really cares whether Rei survives? He's long resigned himself to the fact he might not.

Hiro comes to mind, and Rei immediately rejects the notion. Maybe it's uncharitable. Things surely were difficult for Hiro, but the longer Rei has to think about it, the less he can forgive him. If he truly had cared about Rei, he would've found a way to let him know he made it. It's been three years, after all, easily enough time to settle into his cover. It shouldn't have fallen to Akai, perceived threat and even enemy at the time, to bring this revelation.

Rei's glad Hiro is safe, make no mistake. But there's years of grief and guilt between them, the loneliness growing roots so deep it's isolated him from the one person that mattered the most. The betrayal of the trust he thought they shared stings every time he thinks about his best friend. If he can even be called that, these days.

Akai thrashes, and Rei barely manages to grab a hold of his arm before he's decked in the face. Stupid. Here he is, getting lost in his own issues, while the other agent needs his support. He owes him that much, if not more.

Making sure he keeps Akai's arms in view, Rei puts the gun into the bedside table's drawer to avoid any accidents. He sits himself down at the corner of the bed, next to the agent's head. The stupid knit cap has slid off, revealing sweat-slick curls of dark hair. Rye's hair used to be so fine, smoothed out by its length, obviously well taken care of. The texture now, as Rei cards his fingers through steadily, is wet and oily - Akai should wash it tomorrow. With all that sweat, he'll need to shower anyways, though the motion might be straining his injuries. It might be good to offer to help - with the hair, that is.

"Not you too, not so soon-" Akai still seems agitated, but the repetitive stroking of his hair grounds them both, little by little. At least he's not kicking out anymore. "Akai, listen. You're not getting rid of me that easily, all right? And they're not getting you, either. You're here, with me, safe and sound. We're both here." And freezing, he notices. Akai's shivering beneath him, seeking his touch, his warmth. Rei feels like an idiot. He really should've grabbed the blanket first. Then again, Akai probably would've just shaken it off again. He'll fetch it when Akai's calmed down a bit more.

He scooches closer. Rubs circles into Akai's shoulder and upper arm, trying to create warmth through friction. Running his hand along, he's glad to feel the mohair he picked is as soft as he had hoped.

"No, please, Rei-" A stupid slip-up, inappropriate not just because it happened in front of the enemy. And yet the PSB agent can't bring himself to be too mad about it. It's not like Aperol lived to tell the tale. Rei had taken the shot in the window of opportunity Akai had bought him, and, well. He might have cared more about dispatching Aperol quickly so he could focus on a downed Akai. He's already mourned Akai once before; he'd rather not do so again, in the foreseeable future.

"Shhh. I'm with you." He squeezes Akai's shoulders, trying to make sure the other knows. He shouldn't indulge like this. Can't encourage Akai's behaviour. But duty demanded he go into that warehouse, and he's really not sure he would've walked back out without Akai.

Either Bourbon's cover is blown, or Rum has decided it's time to clean house and deal with loose ends. Whatever the case may be, killing Aperol will have burnt any goodwill he might have had, if it existed at all. He can't go back.

Except, it hits him: it doesn't matter. If the Kudos' plan worked, there's no place to go back to. He's survived Gin's distrust and Vermouth's games. Rum's relentless chase. He's still standing. Because of skill and luck and the allies Edogawa Conan has collected. Five long years undercover. They're finally over. He doesn't believe in miracles, but this comes pretty damn close.

Of course the job is not over, not by a long shot. There's stragglers to round up, witnesses to interrogate, statements to give. Evidence to submit and analyse. Going up against the Karasuma corporation means their case needs to be airtight, or they'll wiggle out of it with good attorneys. In all likelihood, everyone involved in this operation will need to sleep with one eye open for the rest of their lives.

But the fact remains that it looks like there will be a future, after all.

And it doesn't look terribly bleak.

Three years ago, he'd thought his world had ended. But he'd kept going, hanging on for duty - and the need to corner Akai for answers.

It just might have been worth it.

For late-night talks, shared cigarettes and stolen sweaters. For this beautiful, brave, reckless idiot, lost in fitful sleep beside him. For the hope of a better future, forgotten and rekindled.

He can't bring himself to say it, not even when Akai's asleep in his arms, unpleasant memories barely kept. But he knows it all the same.

'Thank you for keeping me alive to see this day.'

.

Sweater weather AU masterpost

[zizzlekwum]

Stranger In A Not-So-Strange Land

Masterlist

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The BAU goes to New Orleans to solve a series of murders. Follows the events of Criminal Minds Season 2 Episode 18 "Jones."

Trigger Warnings: mentions of and mild descriptions of sexual assault

Word Count: 6,396

Tag List: @leftoverenvy @itsmeanobody @ctrljuls @theclassicgaycousin @fatherfigured [if you want to be added to the tag list, please comment or send me an ask]

NOTE: Sorry it took so long. I was sick for a week, and then I was almost finished last night (I had one more scene to write) and then my bunny, Pippa, unexpectedly died, so that ruined the rest of the night and I basically stayed in bed crying.

You arrive at work early, yawning as you sit down at your desk. You’re not surprised to see Hotch already at work. He gives you a nod as you sit down at your desk and start researching crime statistics.

“Morning, Y/L/N.”

You look up to see Prentiss sitting down at her desk across from you, giving you a small smile. “Hey, Emily,” you greet before yawning again.

“Rough night?” she asks.

You shrug. “I’m bipolar,” you explain. “I’m medicated, but about once a month, like clockwork, I go three days without sleeping.”

She frowns, eyebrows furrowing in sympathy. “That sucks. What do you do all night?”

“I lay in bed and pretend I’m sleeping,” you tell her. “I read a study once that found that pretending to sleep is actually more beneficial than just saying ‘fuck it’ and not trying. Basically, laying down and trying to sleep will help you feel more rested, even if you don’t actually sleep.”

“That’s really interesting,” Emily says.

“I thought so, too,” you say. “I would try to find the study for you, but it was back in my own universe, so I’m not sure it exists yet.”

“You should tell Reid about it,” she says. “I’m sure he would be interested.”

“What would I be interested in?” Reid asks from behind her, walking through the doorway.

“Just a study I read years ago,” you tell him. You’re filling him in when Hotch comes out of his office.

“We have a case,” he says. “Conference room, please.” You all nod and follow him into the room, where JJ is standing in front of the TV.

“We’ve got a serial killer in New Orleans who killed at least three men pre-Katrina,” JJ informs you. “Until now, the New Orleans police department believed that the serial killer died in the storm.”

“What’s happened to tell them otherwise?” Morgan asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“A fourth body was found in the French Quarter last night.” JJ pulls up an image of the victim. “Same MO. Another male. Throat slashed, eviscerated.”

Prentiss frowns. “A year and a half? That’s a long cooling-off period. Are we sure this is the same unsub?”

“Well, he was probably displaced by the storm,” you point out. “Maybe he kept committing murders in another jurisdiction?”

“Possible,” JJ says, nodding at you. “He send a letter to William LaMontagne, the head detective on the case, claiming to be the same unsub.”

Gideon crossed his arms in front of him. “LaMontagne have any leads?”

“He died in Katrina,” JJ says. “His son is actually heading the case now.” You fight back a smile at her unknowingly mentioning her future husband.

“That can’t be easy,” Morgan says, frowning.

“Well, we need to pour over the evidence from the first three murders and determine the pattern,” Hotch says.

JJ shakes her head. “Katrina washed everything away. The three victims we know of, their autopsy reports, witness statements, DNA test results.”

“So basically, all we have to go on is the latest victim?” Reid says.

“Until he kills again,” Hotch adds.

“Fun,” you say, sarcasm dripping from your voice.

*   *   *   *   *

On the jet, you’re playing Pokemon Diamond on your DS, since there aren’t any files to go over.

“Hey Reid,” Morgan says. “What’s going on up there?”

Reid shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I was just thinking of this old friend of mine from Las Vegas— Ethan. I’m pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now.”

“Really? Gonna give him a call?” Morgan asks.

Reid shrugs. “We grew up competing against each other in absolutely everything. Spelling bees, science fairs. We also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau, but… first day at Quantico, he backed out.”

“He probably just couldn’t take the heat,” Prentiss jokes with a smile.

“It’s not really for us to judge, is it?” Reid frowns.

Prentiss’ smile fades. “Right. My bad.”

JJ clears her throat. “These are copies of the newspaper articles on the murders, dating back to early August, 2005.” She hands you a stack of papers as you close your DS and put it back in your bag. “It’s all we have to go on.”

“He killed three times, he stopped for eighteen months, then he started killing again,” Hotch says.

“We should have Garcia run a list of any offenders in the area,” Gideon says. “Anyone who spent the last year and a half doing time, and like Y/L/N suggested, anyone who was forced to relocate after the storm and recently moved back.” He nods at you.

“What is the victimology in killing a mechanic, a real estate broker, and a cook, with ages ranging from twenty-two to forty-five?” Prentiss asks.

JJ nods. “And this latest is a thirty-three year old taxi driver. They just don’t seem to have very much in common.”

“Apart from being men,” you say.

“And walking the French Quarter at night,” Morgan adds.

“Which is notorious for muggings off the main drag,” JJ says.

Prentiss frowns. “Yeah, but this guy isn’t in a rush to flee the scene. A slaughter like this takes time.”

“Andrei Chikatilo fantasized that the men he killed were his captives,” Reid chimes in, “and that torturing and mutilating them somehow made him a hero.”

“The city’s barely back to life,” Gideon says. “Something like this could cripple its psyche.”

“So where do we start?” JJ asks.

“We don’t have any case files or anything,” you remind her. “We really only have one place to start.”

Hotch nods. “Square one.”

*   *   *   *   *

When the plane lands, the team splits up. You go with Reid and Prentiss to the ME to examine the body.

“Four layers of fatty tissue sliced through like butter,” the ME says, uncovering the body. “I only seen that three other times.”

“You work this case initially?” Reid asks.

The ME nods as you slip on a pair of latex gloves. “You don’t forget victims like this. It’s like they were dissected.”

“I can still smell the alcohol on him,” Prentiss notes, also putting on gloves.

The ME shrugs. “This is New Orleans. Dead or alive, it’s a smell you get used to.”

“No defensive wounds,” you note, carefully lifting up the victim’s arm.

“Most likely a blitz attack,” Reid adds. He examines the stab wounds. “No hesitation marks or rapid thrusts. Cuts were methodical. Almost procedural.”

“My guess?” the ME chimes in. “Whoever gutted this guy was taught to.”

“You’re thinking he might have some medical training?” Prentiss asks.

The ME nods. “How else could he carve around every organ and leave each one intact?”

“Has anyone come to claim the body yet?” you ask.

“Anyone we could speak with?” Prentiss says.

“No,” the ME says, shaking his head. “I’ll end up boxing up the poor bastard’s ashes, left to collect dust in storage. All the bodies I’ve been through in the last year and a half, it’s a wonder I still have room.”

*   *   *   *   *

When the three of you get back to the station, Hotch is looking at a projection on the wall.

“Is that the letter from the unsub?” Prentiss asks.

“Yeah,” Hotch says. He reads it aloud. “‘I’m back with a vengeance. I wanted you to know… the last guy made it easy, being out so late, stumbling home drunk. I enjoyed slicing around the organs, thought about sending you one. He was asking to be ripped. Don’t you think, Boss? Yours Truly.’”

“To say that the victims were asking to be killed denies all culpability,” Reid says. “Most sexual sadists rationalize their own behavior by blaming the victims like that.”

Prentiss shakes her head. “But there was no evidence of sexual assault in the autopsy. He could be a homosexual male stabbing because he needs violence for arousal.”

“Every kill he’s acting out a fantasy of revenge,” Hotch says.

“What if he’s trying to act out something else?” Reid says.

“Like what?” Hotch asks.

Reid glances at the projection of the unsub’s letter. “With the exception of the victims being men, it’s the same MO.”

“What are you talking about?” Prentiss asks.

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Jack the Ripper?”

Reid nods. “Exactly. All four victims were found with their throats slashed, eviscerated, and the murders perpetrated in semi-public places after dark. Investigators taunted with letters addressed to ‘Boss.’ The only difference is that case was a hundred years ago and the murders took place in London.”

“And the unsub wants us to think that he’s the modern-day version loose in New Orleans,” Hotch says.

*   *   *   *   *

The next day, you find yourself at the scene of another murder. You, Morgan, and Reid are questioning the victim’s friends.

“So the three of you were out together last night?” Reid asks.

The man to your left nods. “Mark had just paid his tab at one bar and was on his way to meet us at another.”

“You guys get in any trouble?” Morgan asks. “Drunken brawl? Anybody get out of hand?”

The other man shakes his head. “We were just out to have fun, you know? Minded our own business.”

You adjust your glasses on your nose. “Could Mark have met a girl? Maybe upset her boyfriend?”

“No, ma’am.” The man on the right shakes his head again. “He struck out like we all did.”

Morgan nods. “Thanks guys.” You, Morgan, and Reid turn back to the body, where Prentiss, Gideon, and Detective Will LaMontagne are standing around the victim.

Will crosses his arms. “I can hardly keep up with this guy.”

“Well, if he’s mimicking Jack the Ripper, that might be precisely the point,” Prentiss says. “He terrorized London for months without ever getting caught.”

Gideon looks at Will. “I’d appreciate it if you’d gather your men. We’d like to give you a profile of who you’re up against.”

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the precinct, the team stands in front of the New Orleans cops, ready to tell them the profile. Hotch stands in the middle, while Emily is leaning against the wall next to you.

“The offender we’re looking for is friendly, agile, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five,” Hotch starts.

“He’ll lure with charm, kill with rage,” Gideon continues.

“We believe he’s murdering men to reclaim his power,” Emily says. “This unsub suffers from low self-esteem, but he probably covers it well. He dresses impeccably to feed the facade. Jack the Ripper himself was an impetuous lust murderer, whereas this offender is organized, calculating. He might even stalk his victims for days before the actual kill.”

“We believe this killer identifies with Jack the Ripper because he’s lost his own identity,” Gideon says. “Maybe through years of child abuse or some catastrophic event.”

Hotch continues the profile. “Because he overcompensates to hide his insecurities, we believe he may hold a position of authority at work.”

“We also believe the unsub has had medical training,” you add. “Consider EMTs, doctors, and veterinarians, people who may have an advanced understanding of the human body.”

“Please be careful,” Gideon says. “For this unsub, the French Quarter is a hunting ground. He’s certainly already proven he knows the terrain.”

The cops disperse and you and Emily return to the conference room to look over the evidence when Emily’s phone rings.

“Prentiss,” she answers, putting the phone on speaker.

“What was the thing Jack the Ripper took from one of his victims?” Garcia asks. “Besides. Well, you know. Her life.”

“Oh, uh….” Prentiss trails off.

“Tick, tock,” Garcia says.

You think for a moment. “Kidney?”

“Ding ding ding! Y/N’s right,” Garcia exclaims. “How horrifyingly fantastic is that?”

Emily nods at you, making you smile. “Garcia, are you going anywhere with this?” she asks.

“Just that I found an unsolved murder that happened four months ago in Galveston, Texas, with the same MO, the victim missing that very organ. I amaze myself.”

“Hey, I did wonder if the unsub was displaced by the hurricane,” you point out.

“Y/N, you are also amazing,” Garcia says.

Emily laughs. “I agree,” she says, causing your cheeks to heat up. “Great work, Garcia,” she says.

“Who was that?” Gideon asks, walking into the room.

“I may have been right,” you tell him. “Garcia found a case in Texas that fits the Ripper’s MO, four months ago.”

Gideon nods. “A lot of Katrina refugees relocated there after the storm.”

“It could definitely be our unsub,” Prentiss agrees. “He removes the kidney, just like Jack the Ripper.”

Gideon gestures to you. “Call Reid and Morgan. I want the four of you on a plane to Texas tonight.”

You nod, biting your lip. “Will do,” you tell him quietly.

*   *   *   *   *

Emily glances back at you as you follow her up the stairs into the jet. “Are you okay? I know you had a hard time in Texas during the last case.”

You sigh, fiddling with your hands. “I’m treating it as exposure therapy,” you tell her with a shrug. “It’s how I got myself used to the grocery store during the weekend days when it was wicked crowded. Besides,” you say, shooting her a smile, “I know you wouldn’t let anything happen to me, even if my asshole ex somehow did show up.”

She chuckles, throwing an arm around you. “You got that right. We have your back.”

The two of you settle in and wait for Reid and Morgan to get there, chatting about the case as you wait. After a few minutes, Morgan walks onto the jet.

You nod at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, putting his bag down. “Where’s Reid?”

“He’s not with you?” you ask. Morgan shakes his head.

Next to you, Emily frowns. “We were hoping he was.”

“Thought you said you called him?” Morgan asks her.

She nods. “I did! Four times, nothing.” She glances at her watch. “The victim’s fiancée is expecting us.”

“What do we do?” you ask.

Morgan shakes his head. “We got one option. Wheels up.” He goes to tell the pilot to take off.

*   *   *   *   *

When you get to the fiancée’s house, it’s dark out. She invites you in and you take a seat next to Prentiss on the couch, Morgan on her other side.

“Everyone kept saying crime’s gonna skyrocket after the relocation,” the victim’s fiancée says. “You just never think it’s gonna happen to you.”

“The report said that your fiancé was bar-hopping for his bachelor party on the night he was killed,” Prentiss says.

“We were supposed to be married in October,” the fiancée says. She takes a deep breath. “He was just out celebrating that with friends.”

“Was there anyone at Leonard’s bachelor party you didn’t know?” Morgan asks.

She shakes her head. “We all grew up together. They’re like family to me. Whether they met somebody out, you know, that’s a different story.” She laughs humorlessly. “They’re a rowdy bunch. They’d party with anybody.”

You finish up the interview and leave the house. You hop in the back seat, giving Emily the passenger seat while Morgan drives. Emily sighs. “Each of the last two victims was traveling with a group. Both were drinking, both in public arenas, bar-hopping. So how could their friends not see anything?”

“It’s like when the lion preys upon an antelope,” Morgan says.

Emily frowns. “You lost me.”

Morgan laughs. “Well that’s because you, Emily Prentiss, have never been one of the antelope.”

“Oh, scratch that,” Emily says. “You totally lost me.”

“Me too,” you say, frowning.

“Okay, check this out,” Morgan says. “The antelope travel in packs. So the lion just sits and waits. Waits for just one of the antelope to break away from its herd, so when he’s alone, vulnerable, and completely unprotected, that’s when the lioness strikes. That’s when she makes her move.”

“Wait a minute, ‘her’ move,” Emily repeats.

Morgan nods. “There’s only one thing that’s gonna make a straight man leave his friends on a guys night out. And it’ll make him leave every time. One of the victims was out for his bachelor party. Another one out with just the guys. What’s the only temptation that’s gonna lure these men away from each other.” He takes out his phone and dials.

“The unsub’s a woman,” you finish.

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the precinct, you, Morgan, and Prentiss are looking through the case files again when Reid walks in.

“Hey, you guys are back from Galveston?” he asks, sitting down next to you.

“First light this morning,” Morgan replies. “Where were you?”

“I was out with a friend, I already told you,” Reid says casually.

“I called you four times,” Prentiss says.

“I didn’t have any cell phone reception, so I didn’t get your message until late,” Reid says.

Prentiss rolls her eyes. “Right.”

Reid looks to you. “What’s going on?”

“Unsub’s a woman,” you tell him. “We’re looking through the evidence again with that in mind.” He opens his mouth to respond when Hotch walks up behind him.

“We just found another body in the Quarter,” Hotch says. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *   *   *

At the scene of the newest murder, Morgan is examining the body as you, Prentiss, Gideon, and Reid watch him.

“Throat’s been cut,” Morgan says. “He’s been disemboweled, too.”

Gideon crouches down next to the body. “Reeks of booze,” he says. “It’s more than a pattern.”

“Only this time, she cut off the earlobe,” Morgan adds.

You nod. “Like Jack the Ripper.”

Prentiss looks at you. “What do you mean?”

“In one letter or correspondence, Jack the Ripper promised to cut the earlobe off his next victim, and he did,” Reid says.

“Wasn’t that the only day he killed twice?” you ask. Reid nods.

“So she’s gonna kill again by the end of the day,” Gideon says.

“Most likely,” you say. “Unless we can stop her by then.”

“Okay,” Prentiss starts, “what do we know about female serial killers?”

Gideon nods. “Basically, you have two types.”

“The Sante Kimes model,” Morgan says. “Cold, calculated. Preys on men for money. Takes her time building relationships.”

“Doesn’t sound like this unsub,” you say.

“It’s more likely we’re dealing with the Aileen Wuornos archetype,” Reid agrees, nodding at you. “Motivated by paranoia and fear, luring men with sex.”

“This unsub’s organized,” Gideon says. “She follows a routine. She meets men in a bar, flirts with them over drinks, and suggests they consummate the evening in an alley.”

“We should patrol the streets tonight,” you say. “Especially knowing we can expect another body by the end of the day.”

“Office just brought me this,” Detective LaMontagne says from behind you. You turn and see him holding out an evidence bag with what appears to be another letter from the unsub inside.

Emily takes it from him and reads. “Dear boss, by now I have rid the world of one more. So many men, so little time. I hope you don’t mind the mess. They make it so easy, I just can’t help myself. Yours truly.”

*   *   *   *   *

Later that night, you and Emily are patrolling the alleys together.

“Most of the women are in groups,” you note, looking around.

Emily nods from beside you. “We should be looking for someone on her own.”

You frown, thinking of the latest letter. “So many men, so little time,” you repeat. “She’s dead set on killing men. I wonder why?”

“She might be misplacing the rage from a father who molested her,” Emily suggests. “Some people think Jack the Ripper mutilated women after his mother sexually abused him for years.”

“She seems apologetic, weirdly enough,” you add. “At least for leaving a messy scene. I don’t understand why.”

Emily shrugs. “That might be what the detective’s father figured out before he died.”

You sigh. “Okay, I’m going to preface this with the fact that I’m not victim blaming, simply curious, but why are these men just fine with following a stranger into a random alley alone? I would never.”

Emily chuckles. “They’re not thinking with their head.”

“At least, not the correct one,” you respond. She laughs.

“Exactly.” The two of you continue looking around for anything that stands out, conversation lulling for a bit.

“Do you know what’s going on with Reid?” Emily asks after a little while.

You let out a long breath. “He… I mean, he hasn’t been the same since Tobias Hankel, and understandably so,” you tell her. “But I wish he’d let us in.”

She looks out at the crowd around you. “Not to change the subject, but I feel like we’re missing something. Let’s go meet up with the others, see if they’ve had any luck.”

You nod, following her through groups of people, fighting the urge to reach out and grab her hand so you don’t lose her. You find Morgan and Reid first.

“Hey,” Morgan says, shaking his head. “We got nothing.”

You frown. “Well, we’re running out of time. Day’s almost over.”

Emily sighs. “Hopefully Hotch and Gideon or JJ and the detective had better luck. Otherwise….” Her voice trails off, but you all know what she means.

Otherwise, you’re going to find another body.

*   *   *   *   *

The next morning, you arrive at the scene of the newest murder. Detective LaMontagne is kneeling next to the body, shaking his head.

“She’s mocking us,” he says, standing as you, Emily, JJ, Gideon, and Reid duck under the crime scene tape.

“And she’s true to her word,” Emily notes.

Reid crouches down next to the body. “Does anyone have any tweezers?” he asks. One of the crime scene techs hands him a pair. “Thank you.” He uses them to extract something white from the victim’s mouth.

“What is that?” JJ asks.

“I have no idea,” Reid says.

You look closer as Reid stands. “A note, maybe?”

Reid unfolds the paper and nods. “Y/L/N is right.” He looks over at the detective. “It’s addressed to your father.”

“Let’s see it,” Gideon says. Reid hands him the paper. “‘Dear boss,’” Gideon reads, “‘he wanted it, with that sharp tongue and vulgar hand. Thought you’d like to know, another will soon get what he deserves. Yours truly.’”

“It’s weird,” Reid notes.

You frown. “How so?”

“Typically offenders write letters to be heard,” he explains. “Jack the Ripper bragged about not being caught, but this unsub isn’t using correspondence to flaunt her latest kill, only to explain why she did it.”

“It’s possible that she considers herself a vigilante,” Prentiss suggests. “That the men she’s killing deserve to die.”

“Or maybe she’s contacting your father, not because he was the lead detective on the case, but… because she believes he’d understand,” Gideon tells the detective.

“You think he knew her somehow?” Detective LaMontagne asks.

“Can you think of a woman in your dad’s life he helped through a tough time?” JJ asks. “Might be another police officer, I don’t know, a prostitute he helped get off the street?”

The detective shakes his head. “Nah, he hasn’t dealt with prostitutes since he worked sex crimes.”

“The unsub wrote, ‘he was asking to be ripped,’ ‘I just couldn’t help myself,’ and ‘he wanted it,’” Reid says.

“Wait, that sounds a lot like what rapists say to excuse their behavior,” you say. You turn to the detective. “You said your dad worked sex crimes? Maybe she was one of his victims.”

Reid nods at you. “Exactly. She may be mirroring the man who raped her.”

“Detective, where are the files stored from your sex crimes division?” Gideon asks.

Detective LaMontagne shakes his head. “They were housed in the same place as homicide. Most of them washed away.”

“Did your dad have a partner?” JJ asks.

“Yeah, J.R. Smith,” the detective says. “Smitty, they called him.”

“Maybe he remembers something,” you suggest.

“Yeah, but they had a falling out,” Detective LaMontagne says.

Emily frowns. “What about?”

The detective shrugs. “I don’t know. They stopped talking when he left sex crimes. That was nine years ago. The guy didn’t even come to my daddy’s funeral, so….”

“Do you have a problem calling him?” Gideon asks.

“Not if it means breaking this case,” Detective LaMontagne says. He looks down at the body, frowning. “Honey, may I borrow your hand for a minute?” he asks JJ. She nods. The detective uses her to look at the victim’s hand, where there’s a stamp. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What?” you ask.

He gestures to the hand. “That stamp? It’s admittance into the Mon Cherie. It’s a bar in the French Quarter.” He stands. “Nine years ago? It was called Jones.”

“Bingo,” Gideon says. He turns to JJ. “Get Garcia on the phone.”

*   *   *   *   *

At the Mon Cherie, Detective LaMontagne leads you all towards a man sitting alone at a table. “Smitty, how are you?” he says, holding out a hand to shake.

Smitty stares at him. “I hope you got a good reason for dredging this crap up,” he says coldly.

Detective LaMontagne lowers his hand. “Well I was hoping you might remember being called here with my daddy nine years ago.”

“Is that a joke?” Smitty asks, glaring at him.

The detective shakes his head. “No?”

Gideon steps forward. “My name’s Jason Gideon. We’re from the FBI. We’re investigating the series of murders in the French Quarter.”

Smitty shrugs. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“We need you to tell us what happened the night you and Detective LaMontagne answered the call in this bar,” Emily says. Smitty just stares at her.

“Am I missing something?” the detective asks.

Smitty smiles, and it makes you want to take a step back. “You really don’t know, do you? After that night, your daddy tried to bring me up on sanctions.”

“Why?” Detective LaMontagne asks.

“It was Mardi Gras. Some girl claimed she was raped,” Smitty tells him. You grit your teeth at his wording and flippant attitude. “I wasn’t buying it.” You fight the urge to cross your arms.

“What did she say happened to her?” JJ asks.

“Brass backed me up,” Smitty continues, ignoring JJ. “They ended up transferring your daddy out to shut him up.”

“What happened here?” Emily asks, glancing at you with a frown.

“It almost cost me my career.” Smitty ignores her.

“Do you mind telling us what happened?” Gideon asks the question this time.

Smitty stands, walking across the room. “My best recollection, she said she was sitting at the bar with two friends. One of the boys asked her if she wanted to play some pool. Witnesses claim she was up for anything.” You grit your teeth again but say nothing.

“She followed him up here?” Emily asks as he gets to the stairs.

Smitty nods. “His friend not far behind. She knew he was there.” You bite your lip. “That girl was a tease,” Smitty says. You want to punch the smug look off his face. “She was looking for a good time. Anyway, a couple guys were going along with that.”

“Did she yell out for help?” JJ asks.

“She said she did,” Smitty says, rolling his eyes. “But not a single person claimed that they heard her.”

“That’s what you registered as a disturbance?” you ask incredulously, your voice coming out louder than you mean for it to.

“It was Mardi Gras,” Smitty tells you. “Listen to me, that girl had enough beads hanging from her neck to jewel a small city. Anyone who exposes themself that much in one day isn’t a credible witness in my book.” You flex your fingers in an attempt to not curl them into a fist, a habit you formed as a child when you would get upset.

“But she wanted to press charges,” Detective LaMontagne says.

“I told her it was a waste of time,” Smitty says. “I knew one of the accused. He was a good kid.” He shakes his head. “He didn’t need the stink of that accusation.” You grab the bottom of your shirt into a fist.

Gideon sits down next to Smitty. “So you protected a rapist.”

Smitty scoffs. “Well, that right there was a bone of contention between his daddy and I. As far as I was concerned, no such rape ever took place. Now are you gonna tell me why you went and dragged this dirt back through my life?”

There’s a pause, and then Gideon speaks. “You know the serial killed who’s cutting up men in the French Quarter? She was your victim.”

“We’re trying to find a name,” Detective LaMontagne says. Smitty shakes his head.

“You don’t even remember her name?” Emily says.

Smitty rolls his eyes. “It was nine years ago.”

“Okay then, how about the name of the ‘good kid?’” you ask. “You know, the one who raped her.” Smitty takes another sip of his drink, not responding.

“Smitty,” Detective LaMontagne says. “You tell me right now or I’ll file a new sanction against you, and I guarantee you, this time it’ll stick.”

“Ronnie Thibideaux,” Smitty grumbles.

You turn and stalk outside, where you allow yourself to clench your hands into fists.

“You okay?” Emily asks from behind you.

You turn to face her. “I don’t like him.”

She smiles softly. “I can tell.”

“Was I that obvious?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Maybe not to a normal person, but I am a profiler, and it was written all over your face.”

You sigh. “I’ve watched enough SVU to know how common his mindset it, but I can’t fucking stand it.” You kick a pebble. “Like, he’s supposed to help protect people, not victimize them further! God, I fucking hate people.”

She puts an arm around your shoulders as the others exit the bar. “Caring so deeply about other people is a good thing,” she tells you. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Gideon gives you a questioning look, and you nod resolutely at him. “I’m good. Let’s go interview a rapist.”

*   *   *   *   *

Back at the station, you’re watching from the other side of the glass as Emily and JJ talk to the rapist, Ronnie.

“Mr. Thibideaux,” Emily starts, “we need you to answer a few questions about a disturbance you were involved with in 1998.”

Ronnie looks at her, a small smirk on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“At a bar called Jones,” JJ adds. “It was Mardi Gras.”

“Well, then, I must’ve been drinking some, because I don’t remember a thing,” Ronnie says, that stupid smirk growing wider.

“We just need to know the name of your accuser,” Prentiss tells him.

Ronnie shakes his head. “Look, I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

JJ shakes her head. “The statute of limitations is up,” she says, rubbing her face. “We just need a name.”

“Someone accuses me of rape, I’m gonna remember her name,” Emily says, sitting down across from the rapist.

“Unless you’re used to it,” you grumble to yourself. “Probably raped other women, too.”

“Well what can I tell you, cher?” Ronnie says, slight agitation creeping into his voice. “I guess she didn’t make that good of an impression.”

“Oh, that fucker,” you seethe, fidgeting. Your cross your arms, then uncross them.

“Unlike yourself, right now?” Emily is saying to Ronnie.

“Y/L/N, take a breath,” Hotch says quietly from beside you, his tone soft.

You sigh. “I’m fine,” you tell him. “Just really hate rapists.” You refocus on the interrogation room.

“You know,” Ronnie says, leaning forward, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I’m guessing if someone did do something to that girl that night, then she was probably asking for it. Maybe even liked it.”

“Oh, what a fucking ass hat,” you say. “He’s not even gonna tell us a name!”

“Guy’s not giving up anything,” Detective LaMontagne says from behind you.

“Reid, after the double murder, what was the Ripper’s next move?” Hotch asks.

“He mutilated and dismembered Mary Kelly in her one-room flat until she was unrecognizable,” Reid reports. “It’s believed to be his most vicious kill of all.”

“He had privacy,” you say.

“And time to torture his victim before killing her,” Morgan adds. “Maybe we’re not too late.”

You shift your attention back to the interrogation room, where JJ is showing Ronnie pictures of the victims. “She murdered these men, and I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time before she works her way back to the one she really wants to kill.” Ronnie looks at her abruptly, alarm written all over his face.

“She make an impression now?” Emily asks.

Ronnie swallows. “Sarah Danlin.”

You turn and walk away, grabbing a drink of water while JJ calls Garcia. She’s hanging up when you return, water in hand. “We got her,” she tells you.

*   *   *   *   *

At Sarah Danlin’s apartment, the team spreads out in groups to cover all entrances. You’re paired up with Hotch and Morgan, while Reid and Detective LaMontagne take the back entrance.

“Sarah Danlin! FBI! Open up!” Morgan yells. When there’s no answer, Hotch gives him a nod and he kicks the door in. You follow behind Hotch and Morgan, gun drawn, as you check each room.

“Clear!” you call out.

“Clear!” Morgan shouts.

You meet in the living room. “She’s definitely not here,” you say.

“Guys, there are some ripperologists who speculate that Mary Kelly was actually killed in a flat that Jack the Ripper rented for the night,” Reid says.

Morgan takes out his phone. “I’m gonna have Garcia check Sarah Danlin’s credit card accounts. It’s a long shot, but maybe we can trace her room back to her charge cards.”

You look closer at the coffee table. “Look.”

“Souvenirs,” Hotch says, picking up a paper. “These are from bars in the French Quarter. This is from Mon Cherie.”

Morgan shakes his head. “She’s trolling for victims in the place where it all began.”

“She can’t move on,” Hotch says. “The rape isn’t the whole story. I’ll bet there’s a history of sexual abuse that contributes to her rage as well.”

“It’s almost like by taking on the Ripper persona, she was trying to kill something within herself,” Reid says.

Morgan’s phone rings. He opens it and puts it on speaker. “Yeah, mama, what do you got?”

“Sarah Danlin’s Visa was charged an hour ago at the Royal Ruby Inn,” Garcia tells him.

Morgan smiles. “Ah, baby girl, you never disappoint. Thank you.” He hangs up and looks at the detective.

“That’s two blocks from here,” Detective LaMontagne says.

“Let’s go,” you say, everyone rushing out of the room and back to the SUVs.

It only takes a minute to get to the Inn, and you jump out of the car as soon as it stops, following Hotch at a run. He quickly describes Sarah Danlin to the desk attendant, who directs you to her rented room.

Hotch kicks the door open to find Sarah Danlin standing over a naked man who’s tied to the bed by his wrists. She has a knife in her hand. “FBI!” Hotch shouts.

“Drop the knife!” you tell her.

“Drop the weapon!” Hotch repeats.

“He wanted it,” Sarah says, pointing the knife at the man’s throat. “And he got it.”

“Put it down, now,” Morgan says.

Hotch raises his wrist to his mouth. “We need an EMT tech right away,” he says quietly into the receiver.

Sarah looks over her shoulder, focusing on you. “What are you waiting for?”

Morgan shakes his head. “Ma’am, we don’t want to shoot you,” he says.

She smiles humorlessly, looking at Morgan. “Be such a shame to waste this. Do you want it, too?”

“What we want is for you to please put the knife down,” Morgan says.

“Come on,” Sarah tells him. “Don’t fight it.”

You shake your head. “Sarah, please. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Detective LaMontagne comes into the room, lowering his weapon. “Sarah,” he says carefully. “My name’s William LaMontagne Jr. You knew my daddy?” Sarah’s eyes fill with tears as Detective LaMontagne inches his way closer to her. “Hey there. You trusted him, so trust me.”

“Where is he?” Sarah asks him.

“The storm took him,” the detective tells her. A tear rolls down her cheek. The detective puts a hand out, slowly reaching for the knife. “Come on. It’s over.” Sarah gives him the knife and breaks down, falling into his arms. “It’s over,” he repeats, carrying her out of the room.

You immediately start working to free the victim from his restraints, taking out your knife and slicing though the fabric. “You’re going to be okay,” you tell him as the EMTs rush into the room and begin their assessment.

You follow the EMTs as they load the victim into a stretcher and wheel him out to the ambulance, breaking away from them when you notice JJ and Prentiss pulling up.

“Hey,” you greet them. JJ gives you a nod as she walks over to where the detective is leaning against his car. You smile over at them.

“What’s that look for?” Emily asks, following your line of sight.

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you tease.

She laughs before her expression turns more serious. “I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you’re okay.”

You nod. “I’m good. I just hate that rape isn’t taken seriously a lot of the time. There’s a quote, something along the lines of, ‘rape is the only crime where you have to prove the victim’s innocence.’ I just hate that that’s pretty much true. It doesn’t matter if the victim was walking around naked, as long as they say don’t provide consent, it’s rape.” You sigh. “I’m lucky enough to never have been sexually assaulted, but I know a lot of women who were. Well, you know. I used to know a lot of women who were,” you correct yourself, frowning. “Anyway, as much as I miss my old life, I’m glad I found a new family, too. The BAU and the Jeffersonian team are the only reason I’m able to function, really. I’m not sure what I’d do without you guys.”

She smiles, putting an arm around you. “You’ll never find out.”

[rosepetalgold]

i look at you (and i dream)

Summary: Roman tells Logan what he’s thinking about and discovers his dreams might be closer to reality than he’d dared to imagine.

Relationships: Romantic Logince

Warnings: None! Pure domestic fluff!

Word count: 962

Notes: Title inspired by Mikrokosmos by BTS

Read on Ao3 Masterpost

-

“Roman, are you even listening to me?”

Roman blinks, emerging out of the colorful tapestry of his thoughts to find Logan staring at him from where he’s paused chopping vegetables for the dish he’s concocting for dinner, one eyebrow arched in a silent question.

“Sorry, my love,” he says sheepishly. “I just got caught up daydreaming.”

Logan sighs, shaking his head not unkindly as he returns to his cutting board, the slightest upturn of his lips betraying that he mustn’t be too put out by Roman’s lapse of focus. “I suppose it would be too much to ask for your ambitions of fame and grandeur to wait until I was done telling you about my day.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking about any of that.”

“Work, then?”

“No, not that either.”

“Then what on earth were you daydreaming about?”

“You.”

Logan casts him a sideways glance, clearly baffled, even as his knife doesn’t falter in its steady rhythm. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” Roman breathes, not even trying to keep the wonderment out of his voice at the truth of such a simple statement, still unable to quite believe that this was real, that Logan was here, was choosing him, was his. “But I look at you and I just can’t help but dream.”

But his words only cause the puzzlement furrowing Logan’s brow to deepen. “I don’t understand. What could you possibly be dreaming about?”

Roman laughs under his breath, answers dancing over one another in his mind like so many bits of dandelion fluff caught in a breeze, too many to ever count. Where to even begin?

“Everything.”

He shifts closer, gently finessing the knife from Logan’s grip and laying it on the counter before taking his lover’s hands in his own.

“I dream about waking up next to you every morning and watching the sunset next to you every night. I dream about seeing you land your dream job and finally being recognized for that endlessly brilliant mind of yours. I dream about buying a house together out in the country like you want and us making it our own. I dream about surprising you with homegrown roses on idyllic summer mornings and slow dancing in the dark with you on starlit winter nights. I dream about all the days I’ll come home to you and all the ways I’ll fall even deeper in love with you and all the countless quiet moments I’ll get to just be by your side as we grow old and gray.” He laces their fingers together, marveling inwardly at how readily Logan reciprocates the touch, palms warm and steady against his own. “I dream of us, of the life we’ll lead, of the future we have together.”

Logan only stares at him for a long moment, gaze searching his own as a hint of pink begins to tinge his cheeks, and Roman can’t help but smile softly at the sight, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the bloom of color.

“You really think about all that?” Logan’s voice is slightly choked, words scarcely more than a whisper, and Roman draws back, a twinge of worry flickering to life in his stomach, but Logan’s grip tightens around his, keeping him from retreating.

“Of course I do. You’re it for me, Logan; why would I ever dream about anything else?”

Logan doesn’t even bother replying, simply tugs one hand free from Roman’s fingers, wraps it around the back of his neck, and pulls him into an ardent kiss.

Logan had never been as much of one for words as Roman was, had always tended to struggle a bit to vocalize his deepest feelings, but Roman doesn’t need a long-winded reply, not when the press of the other man’s body against his is all the answer he needs.

Logan, though, apparently isn’t content to let his reaction do all the talking for him.

“I know that not many people would call me a dreamer,” he says as he pulls back, gaze so open and vulnerable in the golden rays of the late afternoon light that Roman’s heart squeezes in his chest. “But I want that too. That future. The two of us. You.”

“It’s ours,” Roman vows. “And I’m yours.”

They meet in the middle this time, an intoxicating press of lips that tastes of hopes and dreams and happy endings, and oh nevermind all his indulgent imaginings about what might be, this is all Roman could ever want.

If this is his reward for daydreaming, he really needs to do it more often.

Entirely too soon Logan is drawing back again, rosiness now fully blossomed across his cheekbones.

“We don’t have to have a house in the country,” he says as if his brain has just caught up to Roman’s earlier words, the delay in processing entirely more endearing than it should be. “I know you like the city.”

Roman shrugs, sure the expression on his face can only be described as utterly besotted as his hands find a home in the familiar curve of Logan’s waist, pure affection melting through every inch of his body. “I can compromise as long as there’s no bears.”

Logan chuckles, low and bemused.

“No bears,” he promises, and with the way his eyes are sparkling with amusement, what else is Roman supposed to do but kiss him again?

“Love you,” Logan murmurs against his lips, the words still enough even after all this time to send butterflies dancing through Roman’s stomach like it’s the first he’s ever heard them. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” he whispers, and here, with Logan in his arms, present and future inseparable from each other for one breathlessly suspended moment, he can’t dream to ask for anything more.

-

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!): @darth-does-stuff

[arval-larva]

[a-lonely-dunedain]

great news! Ethedis found the best napping spot (a big soft Ranger)

in other news I'm finally figuring out how I actually wanna draw Corunir. decided to make his hair floofier and I'm really liking it :)

[trianglesimpfordpines]

recently learned that ford’s outfit is basically just copying carl sagan and man. ford is way too cool to be out here cosplaying another scientist. so i decided to make a low-effort edit of “what if ford had his own fashion sense (and also it was more sci-fi-looking)”

alternative caption: “Say Dipper, did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise?”

[thedocs-in]

Military School Pt.1

Sorry this took so long to get out, a self-indulgent Cecilxreader fic that I started to write took over my life for a couple on months. And then school started.

But I wrote this about two years ago, and I only meant for it to be shared with people on this Cecil server I was in. But, considering its gone now, I figured why not. And Cecil is supposed to be like, 14 or 15 in this.

This is part one of a three part story. The second part should be up possibly by the end of the week. Gotta make some edits to it first.

Plot: Cecil gets into a fight that nearly gets him expelled from high school, and almost gets sent to military school.

Link to Pt.2

TW: blood, injuries, and mentions of violence and sexual harassment (very briefly on that second one)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sitting there in an uncomfortable chair, Cecil leaned forward. His elbows resting on his knees and a bloody rag pressed against his nose. Though, given the fact that his shirt was already covered in his own blood, the rag was pretty much useless. Craning his neck, he looked at the senior who sat across from him. The senior he’s labeled ‘Jackass’ looked like shit, his shirt stained with blood. The skin around his nose and one of his eyes starting to turn purple.

The senior pressed a bloodied rag into his face, as his lip had been busted and his nose broken. Two of the seniors’ fingers were in a makeshift splint; and while he had heard something pop, he wasn’t sure if they were broken or just dislocated.

But it didn’t matter; he was still screwed regardless. Up until this point he had gotten away with getting into fights with assholes or bullies. Middle school kids were too embarrassed that they got their ass kicked. Sure, there were times when someone would snitch, and he’d get in trouble. But most of the time he’d get a warning or detention, considering the other kids never got hurt enough to warrant suspension, or worse, expulsion. But high schoolers were different, you fight back, hurt their ego, and they’ll find a way to make your life miserable; especially if they had been on top of the food chain.

But here he was, sitting outside the principal’s office contemplating everything that went wrong, how he let his temper get the better of him.

Craning his head up, he got a better look at the ‘jackass’ sitting across from him. And he was met with a glare that could melt steel. Lowering the rag, he checked his nose; thankful that the bleeding finally stopped.

He returned the dirty look to the senior, scrunching his nose in the process. Which only sent a wave of pain through his face, and he was convinced that it was broken. It wasn't the first time it's been broken, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. But knowing his dad, a trip to the emergency room wasn’t likely, as his dad would rather just set it at home.

Looking at the floor, he stared at the ugly linoleum. He could see a few stray droplets of blood on the ugly brown linoleum, that was probably outdated when it was put down. And he wondered who had the bright idea to choose brown of all colors.

But his thoughts were interrupted when he heard a shouting match break out behind him. The door to his right muffled the voices, but he quickly straightened up when he heard his dad shouting.

The ‘Jackass’ spoke up, “Sounds like you’re in trouble you little shit.”

He looked at the senior and could see that he had a shit eating grin on his face. But he watched as the smug look turned to regret as blood started to run down his chin, and he moved the rag from his nose to his lip.

“I wouldn’t have kicked your sorry ass if you had just left my friend alone.” He spat back.

He leaned back in the chair and looked up to the stained ceiling, attempting to make sense of what was being said. All he could tell was that it didn’t sound good for him. Occasionally he could make out his dad insulting whoever else was in there.

The shouting quickly died down, and he heard a third voice talking, then footsteps.

On his right, a door quickly opened, and he turned his head to look. Standing in the doorway was short and portly man who looked both terrified and exhausted.

He sighs, “Both of you in my office, now!”

Forcing himself up from the chair, he reluctantly walked through the doorway. Quickly spotting his dad standing across from the ‘jackasses’ father.

His dad quickly looked at him, and ice filled his veins. He could see that his dad was not happy. Catching his eye for a moment, he quickly looked elsewhere as he walked into the office. While he was never scared of his father, for once he was nervous. The fact that this fight had gotten so out of hand made things look worse for him.

As soon as he was within grabbing distance, his dad pulled him close. Quietly seething at him through his teeth, “You are in so much trouble!”

What little color there was in his face left as he rarely saw his dad this angry.

The portly man walks around the room and sits down behind his desk. On top sat a little placard, ‘Principal Owens’.

With a sigh, the principal sat down. “Mr. Stedman, I’m afraid we have a serious situation on our hands here. I don’t take kindly to violence occurring on school grounds, especially when it leads to serious injury. And to be completely honest Mr. Stedman, this isn’t looking good for your son.”

He felt his chest tighten. And while he wanted to defend himself, he bit his tongue right as the ‘jackasses’ father started to yell.

“I want that little bastard expelled and arrested! Look at what he did to my son!” The man spat, gesturing to his son’s injuries.

Principal Owens cuts in with exasperation, “Mr. Lawson please, before any decision is made, I want Mr. Stedmans’ to explain himself.”

Now with everyone’s attention turned towards him, his mouth suddenly went dry, and he had no idea how to explain himself. Where to even begin, and if they would even believe him. Considering it was his word against ‘jackasses’ and his cronies. He had a few friends that could certainly vouch for him, but he didn’t want them involved in this mess.

He could feel his dad’s grip on his shoulder tighten, and in that moment, he was almost too terrified to even look towards his father. Taking a deep breath, knowing that even if he told the truth, he could still be screwed. “He’s been harassing my friend for days. And when I went to talk to him, to tell him to leave her alone, he took a swing at me. I didn’t start the fi-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Mr. Lawson lost his grip on his son for a moment as the senior attempted to lunge at him, calling him a liar. Thankfully, his dad quickly put himself in between the two teenagers, and Mr. Lawson pulled his son back.

Principal Owens stood up quickly and slammed his hands onto his desk, “That’s enough! I will not have any more fighting! Especially in my office.” Looking over to Mr. Lawson he said, “Control your son!”

He watched as the ‘jackass’ huffed in anger.

As soon as things started to calm down for a moment the principal looked at him, “Cecil, what do you mean he’s been harassing your friend?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, he began to explain things. “All of this started two weeks ago, when he started to harass my friend. He kept making all sorts of sexual comments towards her, or him and his friends kept harassing her after school. I went to go talk to him, to tell him to knock it off. But all he did was attack me. I didn’t go looking for a fight, but no one else was telling him to stop.”

As the words left his mouth, he could feel the tension growing in the room. But he noticed his dad’s grip loosen a bit.

The principal narrowed his eyes at him, as he leaned back into his chair. “And why didn’t you think to report this to the office? And why hasn’t she come forward?”

What anxiety he felt, was quickly replaced with anger, “I tried, and no one did anything! She tried, but no one would take her seriously. If you really don’t believe me, ask her. Ask the teacher that caught the ‘jackass’ messing with her yesterday.”

He still couldn’t remember his name, though at this point it wasn’t worth trying.

“Young man, I will not tolerate that language in my office or my school.” Owens said. “Which teacher are you talking about?”

He wracked his brain trying to remember who had caught the older student, but his memory was failing him. “I don’t know, I think it might’ve been the P.E. teacher. I wasn’t there, she just told me about all of this, this morning. She said it’s been happening after school for the past two weeks. She said that the teacher saw and stopped it but didn’t do anything else.”

Principal Owens sighed and rubbed his face. And for what felt like minutes, everyone was silent.

His dad cleared his throat, “Principal Owens, I’d like to know what you plan on doing? I agree that what my son did was wrong, but if what he’s saying is true, I hope ‘jacka-’, Mr. Lawson’s son is punished as well.”

Biting his tongue, he had to stop himself from laughing at his dad’s slip-up. Over the past couple of years, many of his teachers had complained about his colorful language. Resulting in a lot of parent teacher conferences, where they quickly learned where he got it from.

But before Principal Owens could respond Mr. Lawson interjected, “Are you kidding me? My son is the victim here, I want the little menace arrested.”

He felt his heart stop for a moment and his dad’s grip tighten again.

“Now hold on.” Principal Owens says. “Before the police get involved, I want to make sure that everyone is telling the truth.”

Mr. Lawson’s face was turning red, “I know for a fact that this isn’t the first time that little bastard has done something like this. Everyone knows he’s done this before.”

“Sir please calm down; I know all too well about Cecil’s previous incidents. I’ve seen his records, but his past incidents have never been like this. And I don’t think the police need to be involved yet.”

He internally breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the cops wouldn’t be involved just yet.

Lawson opens his mouth to start again, but Owens stops him, “I think the best course of action, for now, would be suspension for both. I want to see if what Cecil say’s is true. If it ends up being a lie then your son can return to school immediately, if not, then he’ll have to serve out his suspension. And he will be put on academic probation when he returns.”

‘Jackass’ begins to whine, “What?! You can’t do that? I’m needed on the team. I need this to get into college.”

The older Stedman cuts in, “Kid, if you have to rely on to being a football player to get yourself into college, you probably shouldn’t be going. Besides if my son is lying then you have nothing to worry about.”

Both Lawson’s looked at his father, moving their anger from Principal Owens to the older Stedman.

Before either Lawson could say anything, Owens speaks. “Now Mr. Stedman, I cannot let Cecil off with just a warning, he did injure another student. If he’s telling the truth, he’ll have to serve out his suspension, and a few weeks of detention when he comes back. But if your son is lying, I will be forced to expel him.”

His father, now much more levelheaded, spoke. “I understand.”

��Now please, go home. I have an incident report to fill out.”

As he and his dad walked out of the principal’s office, his father spoke to him quietly, “We’ll talk about this when we get home.”

He nodded his head, “Yes sir.”