Chapter 1: A Wish
Isn't It Wonderful?
a/n: I should stop reading the TV prompt forums on ff.net; they get me into way too much trouble. :D This time I was inspired by Sienna's request that someone retell a classic Christmas story using the CM gang. I chose It's a Wonderful Life because it's one of my very favorites, and the holiday prompt is the one from House...because obviously there is a guardian angel in the story. Sort of. My angel is kind of...well, you'll see.
Um, here's the deal. This first chapter obviously deals with suicide, since that's what pretty much motivates the whole plot. Also, this story is in general going to be a good deal darker than Frank Capra's version. I love Frank Capra's movies, don't get me wrong, but I'm just not that feel-good. :)
Disclaimer(s): I own neither Criminal Minds nor It's a Wonderful Life. Thanks to Jeff Davis, Philip Van Doren Stern, Frank Capra, et al., for creating them and letting me play. :)
Chapter 1: A Wish
Prompt(s): House - “Guardian Angels”
Buffy the Vampire Slayer - “Doppelgangland”
Go to my room and I close my eyes;
I make believe that I have a new life.
I don’t believe you when you say
Everything will be wonderful someday
-Everclear, “Wonderful”
Aaron Hotchner couldn’t stop staring at his hands. They were abraded, broken, throbbing. He could still feel Foyet’s skull giving under his barrage of punches. He could still smell the blood, the piss, the fear - Foyet’s fear. A man who could feel no remorse could fear his own death, especially when it’s coming by way of two furious, pummeling fists.
He could smell Haley’s blood, too.
He could hear her voice. The tears. The courage. The love.
That broke his heart most of all: even after everything he’d done, after all the times he’d disappointed her and hurt her and let her down, her voice had still been so filled with love for him. Even as Foyet pointed the gun at her and told her who had caused all of this, the love was still there. It was nearly unfathomable to him.
His shoulders shook, but no tears came. He was out of tears, dried up and spent. Scraped raw, turned inside out, and left to wither in the cold, sunless existence of after. After he listened to the woman he still loved die. After he beat a man to death with his bare hands. After his son was a hair’s breadth from death because of his arrogance and stupidity.
The gun’s barrel yawned before him, wide and dark and welcoming. He knew how to do it: one simple shot and everything would be over. Aim up through the roof of your mouth, otherwise the bullet could just bounce around your brainpan and you end up a vegetable forever…
He slid the gun between his lips; relished the taste of cold metal and gun oil. He locked his teeth around the barrel; wrapped a finger around the trigger.
Jack was better off with Haley’s sister. The man who caused his mother’s death didn’t deserve to have a hand in the shaping of his young life. The team would be fine without him; he’d been a shitty leader since the attack anyway, and Morgan was doing a good job.
He started to squeeze the trigger, but at the last minute pulled the gun from his mouth. Wait. He had to make it look like an accident or Jack wouldn’t get the life insurance. He lowered the gun to his lap and stared down at it, pondering. Could he make it look like the gun went off accidentally as he was cleaning it?
His mind was cycling through a variety of possibilities when a knock at the door intruded on his thoughts. He ignored it, but it persisted, getting louder as the seconds passed.
Frowning deeply, Hotch rose to answer. Checking the peephole, he saw a man he didn’t recognize, and he opened the door cautiously.
“Hello, sir,” the man said in a friendly, warm voice. It was an odd voice, both intimidating and comforting at the same time, and it made him blink in consternation as he tried to make sense of it. Strangely (and he wasn’t a man prone to such whimsy), it reminded him of both the thundering of a waterfall and the gentle roll of a brook over stones; the deep clanging of bells and the soft whisper of the wind through aspen leaves. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
His frown transformed into a scowl. “I’m not interested. Thank you.” He started to slam the door closed, but the man slid his foot into the gap.
“Please, sir, just a moment. I’m not selling anything. I’m not peddling any religious pamphlets. I just think I’m someone you would be interested in speaking to.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked the man up and down. There was something…curious…initially Hotch had pegged him for his mid-sixties, but now he seemed much younger, younger than the agent himself. He stared into the man’s young-old eyes, and something he saw there…He took a stumbling step back, and the door fell open.
“Thank you, young man. I promise you won’t regret it.” The man stepped inside and locked the door behind him. “Can never be too careful these days, you know. The world is sometimes a crazy place.”
Hotch, who should have been both irritated and alarmed by this man’s intrusion, instead only grunted, shrugging his shoulders. “You can say that again.” He turned away to throw himself back onto the couch, resuming the face-off with his weapon.
“What’ve you got there?” the man asked curiously as he perched on the nearby chair.
“A gun. I’m trying to figure out how I can use it and make it look like an accident.”
“Hmmm,” the man replied mildly. “That might be tricky. Everyone knows what a good shot you are. You were SWAT, after all; not many SWAT guys accidentally shoot themselves in their own homes.”
Hotch blinked up at the man, his dark eyes clouded with confusion. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“Yes, and also no. I’m Clarence.”
“Clarence,” he repeated. Odd name; rather old-fashioned. “What are you doing in my apartment, Clarence?”
“I’m here to help you, Aaron.”
If he were surprised that the strange man knew his name, he didn’t show it. He was too numb to be surprised. “Help me? What in God’s name could you possibly do to help me?”
He seemed amused by the question; ageless eyes twinkled in the lamp’s pale light. “So you believe in God, do you?”
“I thought you weren’t here pushing religious pamphlets.”
“I’m not. It was just an innocent question.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Ah, of course. Are you going to profile me, Aaron?”
He looked away, stone-faced. “No. No more profiling for me.”
The man looked crestfallen. “What a shame. You’re really very good at it, you know.”
“I was. Once. Now…” He shook his dark head. “There’s nothing left for me, Clarence. I can’t trust my own instincts anymore.”
“That must be a terrible feeling for a man like you,” Clarence commiserated. “But surely there’s something left. You have your son. What about Jack?”
“As long as I can make this look like an accident, Jack’s better off with me dead.”
“That can’t be true. How hard would it be on a little boy to lose both parents so suddenly and tragically?”
He ran strong hands through his hair, scrubbing his scalp warily. “I don’t know. I don’t…I guess it would be better for him if I’d never been born. Better for Haley. Better for all of them.”
Clarence raised a brow. “Do you mean that?”
Hotch glanced at him curiously. “Who the hell are you?”
The man smiled enigmatically. “A friend, Aaron. That’s all you need to know. Now tell me: did you mean what you said about having never been born?”
He huffed out a breath; spread his hands in defeat. “Yes, Clarence, I meant it. I wish I’d never been born.”
There was a small, expectant silence like the world holding its breath. Clarence’s merry eyes were suddenly unfathomably deep, unimaginably old. Hotch felt dizzy looking into them, as though he’d stepped too close to the edge of an abyss. “It’s done, then,” he said in a soft, resonant voice. “You were never born. There is no Aaron Hotchner. I suggest we leave before the owner of this apartment comes home.”
“What are you talking about? I’m the owner of this apartment.”
He smiled a little. “Not anymore, young friend.” His head cocked like a bird’s. “Here they come, I think. Perhaps put away the gun and try to look confused and innocent?”
There was the sound of a key in the door, and the panel slowly began to open. Hotch burst to his feet, gun raised, and as the door opened a woman saw him; dropped her groceries; screamed fit to wake the dead.
“Who are you and how do you have a key to my apartment?” Hotch demanded, trying to make himself heard over the woman’s screams.
“What the hell!?” someone cried from out in the hall. “Call the cops; there’s some guy with a gun in Sheryl’s apartment!”
“My name is Aaron Hotchner; I’m an FBI agent. I live here. I’m going to reach for my badge now.” Holding the gun with one hand, he reached into his pocket with the other. He searched a moment; checked the other pocket. No wallet; no credentials. What the hell?
“Clarence! Explain, please!” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
The strange man was gone, the woman was still screaming, and Hotch thought he could hear sirens in the distance.
Holy insanely fast police response time, Batman! Yeah, I know. But, honestly, how long could I drag this scene out before the cops came? :)