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She was sort of a little bit thrilled by it, thrilled by his choosing her, thrilled by the STEMI timing, thrilled by the way the department worked so smoothly sometimes she felt like a cog in a machine.
And she liked to think she was a cog in a machine because it meant she was useful and purposeful and something needed or even wanted her there. She thought of Eleanor in The Haunting of Hill House, who said, placidly, she remembered because the word was so pleasing and so sad, “I’ve never been wanted anywhere.” She felt very much like Eleanor, haunted by ghosts, reaching out her hand in the darkness and waking up alone. And her intense wanting was a wound she was sure people could see, bleeding down her forehead, a primal warning sign to back away slowly so no one else would get hurt. What about me, she wanted to beg, what about my wound, but she knew that, too, was a childish fantasy. That it would be more work than anyone was willing to put in to get past the walls she put up in the form of busyness and delight and surface-level vulnerability so they couldn’t see the depth of her hurt and grief lurking inside.
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What else did gentlemen do? He looked around and saw the rope and thought of his father, remembered the tug, and he did something he’d never done before: he saved the dying man. It was thrilling more than any ear-splitting scream when the man smiled at Blackbeard, actually smiled, before his world went dark.
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He wasn’t dumb, though he couldn’t exactly say his IQ broke the bank. But, he wasn’t dumb. He tested the theories he proposed. He traced effect back to cause. Always him. Always his wanting and wishing on the trigger end of a tragedy. Always his ruins on the sharp knife of someone else’s grin. He quit his job, upended his life, and Sam waltzed back into his world. His dad’s embolism and Bartlet wins Illinois.
So it went for Josh Lyman, the jinx. Josh Lyman, the jester. Josh Lyman, the one who had to be on the brunt end of a bruise so his friends made it out of every day alive.
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Hotch said, “You’re keeping score, just like Owen.”
If Spencer had been keeping score, the world was winning. The rolled eyes, the disinterested gazes, the way they spoke to him only when they wanted something. Only when they wanted notebooks read at an inhuman rate or statistics they could use for the profile, for a bet, for the delight of having them at all. If Reid was keeping score, he had the right to do so if only to prove to himself that he deserved to feel a little hurt. He deserved to step in front of a bullet to save a kid that felt the same way he did.
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Linden ain't easy to care for, except if she don't know that's what Holder's doing. Then, it's the easiest thing in the world.