Summoning Up the Ghosts
Title: Summoning Up the Ghosts
Characters: Elle, Hotch, & Garcia
Prompt: i am so sorry via cm_het_drabble
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers up through S5 (especially Aftermath, 100, Nameless, Faceless, & The Fisher King I & II). A spot of language. Heavy-handed didactic-ness? *snort* I hope not, but there's a distinct danger of it ;)
Jack’s breathing is even and his brow relaxed, but Aaron stands over him for a long time, anyway. The nightmares are unpredictable and ferocious, and he’s always afraid one will swoop down over his son the moment he closes the door.
There are monsters everywhere. Even in your own home. Especially in your own home.
It takes a good four minutes, but he leans down and presses a kiss to Jack’s cheek and walks away, leaving the door cracked enough for the nightlight to spill through.
In his own bedroom, Aaron strips off his shirt and stands in front of the mirror. This has become his nightly ritual; this punitive examination of his own failures. His body is carved like a headstone; nine neat, surgical lines of code.
Some of the names are obvious. His own. Haley’s. Jack’s.
But some are so old he has to run his fingers across to feel. To summon up the ghosts.
More and more, there is one that haunts him. One that circles like the vultures of his son’s fears. One that wanders.
_______________
“Hello?” Garcia’s voice is bleary and thick, but the speed at which she recovers speaks to the frequency of these early-morning calls. “Sir?”
“Gar…” Aaron coughs. “Garcia. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Is everything all right, Sir?” He has never opened with an apology before.
“Yes. I… I need to ask a favor of you.”
“Of course.”
“I need you to find Elle.”
There is a lengthy pause as Garcia absorbs this. “Elle… as in, Elle Greenaway, Goddess of Badassery and Sketchy Vengeance?”
“Yes.”
“May I be so bold as to ask why, Sir?”
“No.”
“Ooookay. Roger that. You’ll have her on your desk by nine-a-m sharp. Well. Not her, per se, but… you know what I mean.” She pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine, Garcia. Thank you.”
“… Goodnight, Sir.”
_______________
The number has a New York area code. It’s unlisted. He should have figured as much.
It feels heavy as a stone in his pocket all day long. Or a holstered weapon.
Garcia watches him sidelong all day. She’s distracted, fiddling absently with Reid’s hair and giving Morgan only a half-smile every time their paths cross. She’s trustworthy, though. Aaron knows how many secrets she’s kept.
He finds her in her office a little after lunch. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate your keeping this between us.”
She nods. “My lips are sealed. But….”
He raises his eyebrows at her. “Yes?”
“For what it’s worth - I think it’s a good idea.”
Aaron nods back at her, his jaw set and his eyes troubled. “Thank you.” He turns to leave, but when his hand touches the knob, he turns back. The corners of his mouth are lifted in a tense smile. “Have you ever considered profiling, Garcia?”
She smiles back. “No. I have too much going on in my own head to get all creepy-crawly in someone else’s.”
_____________
He dials six times before he presses send.
She picks up on the third ring, just as he’s about to hang up. Her voice sounds far away, like it’s stretching itself across the years that have opened up between them. It’s just as he remembers, though.
“Hotch?”
He freezes, not expecting the immediate recognition. He should have, though. It’s the same phone. The same number.
“Y-yes. Hello, Elle.”
“I decline. Sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m assuming you’re calling to offer me my job back.” There’s a current of amusement running through her tone. “Bureau’s getting pretty hard-up these days, huh? I’m going to have to say no, though. Sorry. Pizza’s way better up here.”
“Elle, I… I was just calling to…” The words stall in his throat, his tongue suddenly too thick.
She can read his meaning from hundreds of miles away.
“I know what happened, Hotch.” Her voice has gone quiet, subdued. “I wanted to come. Or send a card, or a note, or… but I just… I didn’t think it would help. I thought maybe it would…”
“Make things worse? It’s all right. I know. And you were right.” He pauses for a second, the silence ringing. “Elle, you were right more often than you were wrong, and… and I just wanted to apologize. I understand now.”
“I know you do. And I wanted you to. God, there were so many times when I just wanted you to know. But not… not like this. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“Hotch?”
“Yes?”
“You did what you had to do. And don’t you ever let anybody tell you otherwise.”
Aaron closes his eyes and thinks of Jack, safely tucked into the cocoon of his bedclothes, the monsters staved off - at least for now. He thinks of Haley. He thinks of Jessica. He thinks of Lisa Blake. Cheryl Cosgrove. A thousand nameless women who could have come after. And, finally, Elle; her scar the dot to his lines of Morse Code. “You, too,” he says. "You, too."
Characters: Elle, Hotch, & Garcia
Prompt: i am so sorry via cm_het_drabble
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers up through S5 (especially Aftermath, 100, Nameless, Faceless, & The Fisher King I & II). A spot of language. Heavy-handed didactic-ness? *snort* I hope not, but there's a distinct danger of it ;)
Jack’s breathing is even and his brow relaxed, but Aaron stands over him for a long time, anyway. The nightmares are unpredictable and ferocious, and he’s always afraid one will swoop down over his son the moment he closes the door.
There are monsters everywhere. Even in your own home. Especially in your own home.
It takes a good four minutes, but he leans down and presses a kiss to Jack’s cheek and walks away, leaving the door cracked enough for the nightlight to spill through.
In his own bedroom, Aaron strips off his shirt and stands in front of the mirror. This has become his nightly ritual; this punitive examination of his own failures. His body is carved like a headstone; nine neat, surgical lines of code.
Some of the names are obvious. His own. Haley’s. Jack’s.
But some are so old he has to run his fingers across to feel. To summon up the ghosts.
More and more, there is one that haunts him. One that circles like the vultures of his son’s fears. One that wanders.
_______________
“Hello?” Garcia’s voice is bleary and thick, but the speed at which she recovers speaks to the frequency of these early-morning calls. “Sir?”
“Gar…” Aaron coughs. “Garcia. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“Is everything all right, Sir?” He has never opened with an apology before.
“Yes. I… I need to ask a favor of you.”
“Of course.”
“I need you to find Elle.”
There is a lengthy pause as Garcia absorbs this. “Elle… as in, Elle Greenaway, Goddess of Badassery and Sketchy Vengeance?”
“Yes.”
“May I be so bold as to ask why, Sir?”
“No.”
“Ooookay. Roger that. You’ll have her on your desk by nine-a-m sharp. Well. Not her, per se, but… you know what I mean.” She pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Fine, Garcia. Thank you.”
“… Goodnight, Sir.”
_______________
The number has a New York area code. It’s unlisted. He should have figured as much.
It feels heavy as a stone in his pocket all day long. Or a holstered weapon.
Garcia watches him sidelong all day. She’s distracted, fiddling absently with Reid’s hair and giving Morgan only a half-smile every time their paths cross. She’s trustworthy, though. Aaron knows how many secrets she’s kept.
He finds her in her office a little after lunch. “Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate your keeping this between us.”
She nods. “My lips are sealed. But….”
He raises his eyebrows at her. “Yes?”
“For what it’s worth - I think it’s a good idea.”
Aaron nods back at her, his jaw set and his eyes troubled. “Thank you.” He turns to leave, but when his hand touches the knob, he turns back. The corners of his mouth are lifted in a tense smile. “Have you ever considered profiling, Garcia?”
She smiles back. “No. I have too much going on in my own head to get all creepy-crawly in someone else’s.”
_____________
He dials six times before he presses send.
She picks up on the third ring, just as he’s about to hang up. Her voice sounds far away, like it’s stretching itself across the years that have opened up between them. It’s just as he remembers, though.
“Hotch?”
He freezes, not expecting the immediate recognition. He should have, though. It’s the same phone. The same number.
“Y-yes. Hello, Elle.”
“I decline. Sorry.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m assuming you’re calling to offer me my job back.” There’s a current of amusement running through her tone. “Bureau’s getting pretty hard-up these days, huh? I’m going to have to say no, though. Sorry. Pizza’s way better up here.”
“Elle, I… I was just calling to…” The words stall in his throat, his tongue suddenly too thick.
She can read his meaning from hundreds of miles away.
“I know what happened, Hotch.” Her voice has gone quiet, subdued. “I wanted to come. Or send a card, or a note, or… but I just… I didn’t think it would help. I thought maybe it would…”
“Make things worse? It’s all right. I know. And you were right.” He pauses for a second, the silence ringing. “Elle, you were right more often than you were wrong, and… and I just wanted to apologize. I understand now.”
“I know you do. And I wanted you to. God, there were so many times when I just wanted you to know. But not… not like this. I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“Hotch?”
“Yes?”
“You did what you had to do. And don’t you ever let anybody tell you otherwise.”
Aaron closes his eyes and thinks of Jack, safely tucked into the cocoon of his bedclothes, the monsters staved off - at least for now. He thinks of Haley. He thinks of Jessica. He thinks of Lisa Blake. Cheryl Cosgrove. A thousand nameless women who could have come after. And, finally, Elle; her scar the dot to his lines of Morse Code. “You, too,” he says. "You, too."