[JP] Confidant
Sep. 24th, 2010 02:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
They’ve been stuck on the tarmac for forty-five minutes, waiting for takeoff and no one speaks- no one really knows what to say. The details of the case are in that place between stark recollection and the damning aftereffect of forgetting. None of them mean to dismiss them out of hand so easily, but it becomes a necessity, as much a tool for survival as sleep and food. They have faced the dragon, slain it and now, a return to the castle. A victory cheer. A moment to bury the dead, and the knowledge that one day there might be stories about this.
Normally, this was always the best part for Rossi. He lived for the thrill of the hunt, for the moment when you returned with the hide, or head. He loved the flourish of the victory, the moments when struggles were vindicated, and the wrongs in some small place, in some small way righted.
And it was moments like this, when the victories weren’t as clear, and the dark a little less defined that shook him. The case had been neither overly unique nor particularly dreadful when set against others; and the unsub was no one of importance and statue. Perhaps that was what had frightened him; the fact that four bodies later, Rossi had almost been bored, by the monotony of it all. He’d felt his armor harden a little on his case; rust over and it shook him.
The hum of the plane’s engines suddenly filled the cabin with a low buzz, and without ceremony, the team began to go about the motions of take off, buckling seats and closing laptops; all routine, all without thought and familiar to them all by now. As second nature as the gun holster on their side and microphones in their ear.
He finds his phone and scrolls through the numbers until he finds the entry whose name he’s deleted but couldn’t quite bring himself to delete entirely. For a moment, he’s reminded of one of the boy wonder’s odd stories: in Egypt how unpopular pharaohs and traitors had their names erased, and images chipped away as if banishment could somehow remedy what had been done. The rational part of his mind reasons if the person was smart, he would have had the number disconnected long ago.
But he sends the text anyways and shuts the phone off because he doesn’t want to see the error message the company will send if the line is dead.
He dreams of girls with scratched off faces, and wakes up with a start and aching fingers. Hotch offers a ride home and he’s careful to decline without suspicions being arisen. They are all like that; part hive and part battalion; one is hurting and the others sense it and somehow through it all they toe the line between understanding and respect of distance.
The bar is tucked into a corner of Quantico, VA that people forget about. He can’t remember if Ryan was the first one who found it- or was it him during those many nights of battles with his ex-wife. It’s not legal but no one in there seems to really care or notice. It’s the sort of place where you bring your own alcohol when you don’t want to drink at home. Those who take up seats seem to have aged with the place itself, and they’re quiet. Shadows.
Gideon hasn’t changed much since last he saw him. There’s a beard this time, more gray then brown that makes him seem so much older than he is; more feral and when Rossi approaches, Gideon pushes both hands flat on the table before him as if to show he wasn’t carrying anything. His hands are rough, torn from some form of manual labor he can’t quite pick out. There’s paint under the chipped fingernails.
And he looks up, finding Rossi’s eyes and doesn’t smile. Most people comment on Gideon’s sad eyes when they met the other man. Dave always thought of Emma; someone completely unguarded and innocent. Gideon has pain written onto his skin that no amount of external neglect can cover up but his strength, the thing people didn't really notice until they needed it from him was that unobtrusive way of sliding pass defenses and castle walls and never ever misusing what he found there. It had burned him through a dozen different times: from Sarah to Boston and he had never once calloused over.
Maybe he had tried.
“I brought you Whisky.” Gideon said, quietly. His voice was distant and airy. Rossi wondered how long he’d been driving to arrive there, and what he had interrupted. “Do you want to talk?”
“No.”
“Alright.” It’s as simple as that, Rossi shuts his eyes and uncoils in the chair as Gideon opens the first bottle of the night.
Normally, this was always the best part for Rossi. He lived for the thrill of the hunt, for the moment when you returned with the hide, or head. He loved the flourish of the victory, the moments when struggles were vindicated, and the wrongs in some small place, in some small way righted.
And it was moments like this, when the victories weren’t as clear, and the dark a little less defined that shook him. The case had been neither overly unique nor particularly dreadful when set against others; and the unsub was no one of importance and statue. Perhaps that was what had frightened him; the fact that four bodies later, Rossi had almost been bored, by the monotony of it all. He’d felt his armor harden a little on his case; rust over and it shook him.
The hum of the plane’s engines suddenly filled the cabin with a low buzz, and without ceremony, the team began to go about the motions of take off, buckling seats and closing laptops; all routine, all without thought and familiar to them all by now. As second nature as the gun holster on their side and microphones in their ear.
He finds his phone and scrolls through the numbers until he finds the entry whose name he’s deleted but couldn’t quite bring himself to delete entirely. For a moment, he’s reminded of one of the boy wonder’s odd stories: in Egypt how unpopular pharaohs and traitors had their names erased, and images chipped away as if banishment could somehow remedy what had been done. The rational part of his mind reasons if the person was smart, he would have had the number disconnected long ago.
But he sends the text anyways and shuts the phone off because he doesn’t want to see the error message the company will send if the line is dead.
He dreams of girls with scratched off faces, and wakes up with a start and aching fingers. Hotch offers a ride home and he’s careful to decline without suspicions being arisen. They are all like that; part hive and part battalion; one is hurting and the others sense it and somehow through it all they toe the line between understanding and respect of distance.
The bar is tucked into a corner of Quantico, VA that people forget about. He can’t remember if Ryan was the first one who found it- or was it him during those many nights of battles with his ex-wife. It’s not legal but no one in there seems to really care or notice. It’s the sort of place where you bring your own alcohol when you don’t want to drink at home. Those who take up seats seem to have aged with the place itself, and they’re quiet. Shadows.
Gideon hasn’t changed much since last he saw him. There’s a beard this time, more gray then brown that makes him seem so much older than he is; more feral and when Rossi approaches, Gideon pushes both hands flat on the table before him as if to show he wasn’t carrying anything. His hands are rough, torn from some form of manual labor he can’t quite pick out. There’s paint under the chipped fingernails.
And he looks up, finding Rossi’s eyes and doesn’t smile. Most people comment on Gideon’s sad eyes when they met the other man. Dave always thought of Emma; someone completely unguarded and innocent. Gideon has pain written onto his skin that no amount of external neglect can cover up but his strength, the thing people didn't really notice until they needed it from him was that unobtrusive way of sliding pass defenses and castle walls and never ever misusing what he found there. It had burned him through a dozen different times: from Sarah to Boston and he had never once calloused over.
Maybe he had tried.
“I brought you Whisky.” Gideon said, quietly. His voice was distant and airy. Rossi wondered how long he’d been driving to arrive there, and what he had interrupted. “Do you want to talk?”
“No.”
“Alright.” It’s as simple as that, Rossi shuts his eyes and uncoils in the chair as Gideon opens the first bottle of the night.