It Began With Silence, for annieVH, Hotch/Haley, FRT
Title: It Began With Silence
Author: oldwickedsongs
Recipient: AnnieVH
Pairing: None- I suppose Hotch/Haley
Rating: FRT
Word Count: 1067
Warnings/spoilers: Angst; spoilers for Onmivore, 100, Slave of Duty
Summary/prompt: Jessica finds out about the deal with Foyet.
A/N: A character study of a man who never blinks but should.
If only.Those must be the two saddest words in the world.
Mercedes Lackey
It began with silence.
You’ll remember that for as long you live; and you’ll wonder if it would have made it easier if she yelled. If she had clawed and bit, had scratched her way to understanding, you will wonder if it would have provided some closure to either of you. Or maybe you just want to hurt. It doesn’t make sense does it?
It’s not that you aren’t grieving. It isn’t that your son is without a mother, or that he could have been lost and in so many ways that horror is fresher and stronger then the myriad of physical scars that will forever remind you that Foyet touched you everywhere that mattered from the surface inward.
You want to hurt. It’s that defiant child in you; your father’s son who always seemed desperate to prove that no fist could hurt, no broken bone could shatter you. You were always so strong, able to withstand everything. The team wondered if you ever blinked as Foyet attacked you.
You, the stalwart and brave- the true. You can withstand everything-
Except the way Jessica is folded up on herself on the sofa, with the letter in her hands from Roy Coulson. It was addressed to you, and you left it unopened. She recognized the name from the book, she says- in a distant tone that reminds you of her sister, your wife…your love. ..
And she says she knows what the profile says and the way she turns that one word over in her mouth- like a curse word or magic spell that makes everything better or worst- makes you flinch. Blink. But it doesn’t hurt. You want to hurt. Why isn’t she screaming? Why isn’t she yelling?
She wants to know if you got the offer. Her eyes haven’t met yours; they just stare at the paper between her fingertips. Her voice is crisp, even and clear; like the ringing of distant bells. The courage of a Brooks woman…
Jessica, I…
The words come from your chest, heavy like an undertow, drowning you in their meaning, in what they’re hiding.
Just tell me the truth, Aaron. She sounds tired.
Her eyes won’t move from the letter.
Please do something. The thought silks across your brain like a stone in the pool. Please make this hurt more. You wonder if this is what Foyet wanted, what he fell in love with a decade ago, watching Shaunessy waste away under guilt. It was enough to sate him. Was this first step for Tom, you wonder, did he push everyone away and want to bleed alone? You can feel the desire well up in your chest even as you think it; the idea that you want to be hated for what you didn’t do- or did. Did he want this too? This idea that even though everything in you feels destroyed- you almost welcome the fresh pain; just to make this all somehow more manageable…
…to feel like you have solid footing again; like you did with your father and his fists. At least then, you knew where you were. ..
(You know where you are now though- don’t you? Father to a motherless son, husband in an empty marriage bed…)
You know, and aching you still want more. It’ll eat you alive and oddly the thought doesn’t scare you. You’re almost ready to stand there and let it overtake you. All you have to do is tell her the truth.
…No. the words slip out like a fish through water, sleek and effortlessly. You can’t help it. You hate yourself in that moment but you aren’t lying. Not really.
The words were spoken, yes but you were never able to make that choice. Maybe that’s why this all hurts as much as it does, maybe it’s why you’re hungry for more pain because even now, even knowing the costs- you know there wouldn’t have been a way to accept what Foyet offered. It’s not vanity; it’s not even an attempt at comfort. It’s worst in so many ways because it’s simply truth.
You would have died for Haley a hundred times over if you could. If given the chance, you would die for her now. How could you not? She was your wife and love.
You would have given her everything except Foyet’s victory.
That Jessica knows what you mean without pushing for more makes it worst. Makes it harder. Crueler. For a second, you wish you had Gideon’s cowardice; the ease with which you could choose escape over pain, at least then Haley would be alive.
Maybe there’s an honor in failing strength but then you’ll never know will you?
Jessica finally looks up and meets your eyes- she has her sister’s eyes; the same color of blue, the same sharpness of knowledge, and trace of sorrow as she watches you. She knows and when she moves, it’s not even to shake her head, to muster up some semblance of anger, or rage. She simply realizes something- and judging if it gives you courage or damnation, decides neither is in her authority- so she gets up and tells you she’s checking on Jack.
She left the letter on the table and you can feel her absence in the room; it settles with the emptiness in your chest- the heaviness. You wonder what it reads. You wonder what she’s thinking but neither possessing the courage at the moment to cross the room to the letter, nor the bravery to follow her into Jack’s room you find yourself pinned in the center of your living room like a buoy in the ocean.
There’s an apology owed somewhere. There are words that should have been said. There’s laughter that should have spilled from your lips in the years that followed, and hers. There are dances and arguments a teenage boy should have had with his mother, and moments of comfort and affection from a dozen years spread out ahead of them that should resound against the walls. There are promises you should have made. Choices and decisions that were worth more than one stand against the darkness, against monsters- however noble it was. There was a father and husband that should have fought instead of an FBI agent who stood.
You wonder if you should have blinked. There’s an answer somewhere in the silence.
But it swallows you whole.
Tell me not, sweet, that I am unkind. I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more.
-Richard Lovelace
Author: oldwickedsongs
Recipient: AnnieVH
Pairing: None- I suppose Hotch/Haley
Rating: FRT
Word Count: 1067
Warnings/spoilers: Angst; spoilers for Onmivore, 100, Slave of Duty
Summary/prompt: Jessica finds out about the deal with Foyet.
A/N: A character study of a man who never blinks but should.
If only.Those must be the two saddest words in the world.
Mercedes Lackey
It began with silence.
You’ll remember that for as long you live; and you’ll wonder if it would have made it easier if she yelled. If she had clawed and bit, had scratched her way to understanding, you will wonder if it would have provided some closure to either of you. Or maybe you just want to hurt. It doesn’t make sense does it?
It’s not that you aren’t grieving. It isn’t that your son is without a mother, or that he could have been lost and in so many ways that horror is fresher and stronger then the myriad of physical scars that will forever remind you that Foyet touched you everywhere that mattered from the surface inward.
You want to hurt. It’s that defiant child in you; your father’s son who always seemed desperate to prove that no fist could hurt, no broken bone could shatter you. You were always so strong, able to withstand everything. The team wondered if you ever blinked as Foyet attacked you.
You, the stalwart and brave- the true. You can withstand everything-
Except the way Jessica is folded up on herself on the sofa, with the letter in her hands from Roy Coulson. It was addressed to you, and you left it unopened. She recognized the name from the book, she says- in a distant tone that reminds you of her sister, your wife…your love. ..
And she says she knows what the profile says and the way she turns that one word over in her mouth- like a curse word or magic spell that makes everything better or worst- makes you flinch. Blink. But it doesn’t hurt. You want to hurt. Why isn’t she screaming? Why isn’t she yelling?
She wants to know if you got the offer. Her eyes haven’t met yours; they just stare at the paper between her fingertips. Her voice is crisp, even and clear; like the ringing of distant bells. The courage of a Brooks woman…
Jessica, I…
The words come from your chest, heavy like an undertow, drowning you in their meaning, in what they’re hiding.
Just tell me the truth, Aaron. She sounds tired.
Her eyes won’t move from the letter.
Please do something. The thought silks across your brain like a stone in the pool. Please make this hurt more. You wonder if this is what Foyet wanted, what he fell in love with a decade ago, watching Shaunessy waste away under guilt. It was enough to sate him. Was this first step for Tom, you wonder, did he push everyone away and want to bleed alone? You can feel the desire well up in your chest even as you think it; the idea that you want to be hated for what you didn’t do- or did. Did he want this too? This idea that even though everything in you feels destroyed- you almost welcome the fresh pain; just to make this all somehow more manageable…
…to feel like you have solid footing again; like you did with your father and his fists. At least then, you knew where you were. ..
(You know where you are now though- don’t you? Father to a motherless son, husband in an empty marriage bed…)
You know, and aching you still want more. It’ll eat you alive and oddly the thought doesn’t scare you. You’re almost ready to stand there and let it overtake you. All you have to do is tell her the truth.
…No. the words slip out like a fish through water, sleek and effortlessly. You can’t help it. You hate yourself in that moment but you aren’t lying. Not really.
The words were spoken, yes but you were never able to make that choice. Maybe that’s why this all hurts as much as it does, maybe it’s why you’re hungry for more pain because even now, even knowing the costs- you know there wouldn’t have been a way to accept what Foyet offered. It’s not vanity; it’s not even an attempt at comfort. It’s worst in so many ways because it’s simply truth.
You would have died for Haley a hundred times over if you could. If given the chance, you would die for her now. How could you not? She was your wife and love.
You would have given her everything except Foyet’s victory.
That Jessica knows what you mean without pushing for more makes it worst. Makes it harder. Crueler. For a second, you wish you had Gideon’s cowardice; the ease with which you could choose escape over pain, at least then Haley would be alive.
Maybe there’s an honor in failing strength but then you’ll never know will you?
Jessica finally looks up and meets your eyes- she has her sister’s eyes; the same color of blue, the same sharpness of knowledge, and trace of sorrow as she watches you. She knows and when she moves, it’s not even to shake her head, to muster up some semblance of anger, or rage. She simply realizes something- and judging if it gives you courage or damnation, decides neither is in her authority- so she gets up and tells you she’s checking on Jack.
She left the letter on the table and you can feel her absence in the room; it settles with the emptiness in your chest- the heaviness. You wonder what it reads. You wonder what she’s thinking but neither possessing the courage at the moment to cross the room to the letter, nor the bravery to follow her into Jack’s room you find yourself pinned in the center of your living room like a buoy in the ocean.
There’s an apology owed somewhere. There are words that should have been said. There’s laughter that should have spilled from your lips in the years that followed, and hers. There are dances and arguments a teenage boy should have had with his mother, and moments of comfort and affection from a dozen years spread out ahead of them that should resound against the walls. There are promises you should have made. Choices and decisions that were worth more than one stand against the darkness, against monsters- however noble it was. There was a father and husband that should have fought instead of an FBI agent who stood.
You wonder if you should have blinked. There’s an answer somewhere in the silence.
But it swallows you whole.
Tell me not, sweet, that I am unkind. I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more.
-Richard Lovelace