Work Text:
The constant hum of the jet was quite possibly the only thing tying her to reality.
It pinned her to the usually plush seat, the plastic and metal supports digging uncomfortably into her back.
In spite of the dozen hours she’d spent in the shower the night before, scrubbing blood and dirt and grease from her skin until it was rubbed raw, grime still felt as though it coated every inch. If she closed her eyes, a foul mix of slobber and blood washed over her once more, soaking the fabric of her shirt, embedding into the strands of her hair, it’s blonde infested.
Emily’s spare shirt, not quite so well-fitting as her own but the only option with both her go bag clothes and destroyed button up out of commission from the days spent recovering before the flight home, sat uncomfortably against her skin. Whatever fabric softer the woman used, while comfortingly floral in scent offered little in softening at all, the edges as jagged as loose material could be.
She voiced none of this, of course, thankful to the brunette for sacrificing another day in the same clothes she’d wore all week to allow JJ a change of attire, but still the fabric irritated enough that she pondered a newfound allergy.
Spencer would, no doubt, have chimed in with a statistic about adult allergy development, or a vaguely-but-not-altogether-interesting ramble about the growth of unnatural products in basic cleaning supplies had she announced the un-comfortability. Perhaps even a mildly distracting joke about Emily’s sub-par clothing maintenance clashing with her novel area of expertise.
Or, rather, he would have a week ago.
Now, as JJ forced her glance across the jet to where the man was hunched, he scarcely looked capable of hearing her complaint, let alone bantering around it.
She wasn’t sure what concoction of pain meds he was on, ankle broken and a myriad of various injuries and infections sustained from his time (let alone the heart attack that had momentarily stole him away), but the man was thoroughly out of it.
Even with drugs running through his system, designed to push away the pain and stressors of the past days, he appeared thoroughly exhausted, the entire time he’d spent in the hospital bed scarcely conscious, let alone indulging in his usual info-dumping habits.
He made no attempt to meet her gaze, though JJ could see the slight flicker of his swollen eyes that informed her he was aware of her focus, instead re-settling his head against the wall of the jet as it had been prior. Gideon sat aside him, the elder man flicking through a book that was ever so slightly angled Spencer’s way in case he took interest, their usual chess game evidentially paused for the time being; They’d all had enough of games for the rest of their lives, she supposed.
With a brief bump in turbulence, she watched as Spencer flinched a little harder than usual, Hotch not so much as rocking in his seat with the momentary dip while Spencer’s forehead slid from his resting place for a few seconds. In the dim light of overhead lighting, the blackening of his cheek stood in stark contrast to the pale, sunken skin aside, tendrils of guilt digging their way once more through her gut.
JJ went to open her mouth (to ask if her was alright? To reassure him he was? To attain reassurance herself?), closing it again when her throat rapidly dried, the air sharp and unpleasant against her tongue.
It wasn’t until her view of Spencer was blocked that she registered the motion as being observed.
Morgan slid into the seat opposite with practiced ease, positioning directly in front of her, eyes readily meeting hers.
JJ was used to having eyes on her.
Her very job demanded it, more so than the rest of the team by far, running laps around the press second nature. For the team, the job was nearly always different- a drastically different profile for each case, contrasting explanations for overlapping behaviours, varying techniques for common practice. But for the media liaison? Her process, while holding variables in cases of particular interest, was consistent, if not identical.
Invitation accepted, she’d delve into existing media coverage, running checks of media personnel, witnesses, victims, and local PD alike, preparing statements before Hotch and Gideon had even fully assessed the folder she presented them with. If they were to go public, she’d deliver a press conference, dozens of reporters or cameras trained on her every move, if they were supressing coverage, she put on her most convincing smile and talked reporters out of their best story yet as though it were easy.
Granted, there was the occasional stumble in structure. Like an officer refusing to share intel, or a journalist who just wouldn’t comply, or a witness who just so happened to turn out to be a religious missionary with a pack of feral dogs and a maze of a wheat field out the back of his house. But those were, in most cases, exceptions to the rule.
She was used to casual observation, the expectation of answers often hanging on her in spite of her role as the only none profiler on the team. Family and friends of the victims would look to her as a source of resolution, whether such a thing was laced with hatred or comfort.
And yet, under Morgan’s gaze as he settled into his chair, she had to bite the interior of her cheek to halt herself from squirming.
Derek Morgan was a big guy, there was no denying that. She’s accompanied him as he tackled knife-wielding maniacs and busted down doors as though it were the simplest thing in the world, but prior to Hankel JJ couldn’t recall a moment where she’d found such a thing intimidating.
Now, with the hum of the jet pinning her to her seat and his stare a bit too carefully placed in a way she’d only ever witnessed for Reid, Greenaway, and his family, it was the most troubling thing in the world.
She was cornered once more by a rapid pack of dogs and was willingly allowing their inching forward. The lack of pistol at her side – bagged away as evidence for the inevitable string of meetings and tribunals they’d all have to attend to explain just how an agent ended up in the custody of a serial killer – only served to accentuate such a feeling.
If she allowed it, she was quite sure they’d consume her whole. The rugged bite on her arm, bandaged uncomfortably tight beneath Emily’s too-rough shirt sleeve, was a mere taster of what was to come. She’d end up just like Helen Douglas; Shreds of flesh and muscle and nothing more, stomach split – torn apart – and mangled, guts trailing throughout the space, with little more than-
“How’re you getting home?”
A simple question dislodged her from the spiral, the hum of the jet engine pulling her back down to find the hounds long gone, Morgan sat across from her with the rest of the team dissipated throughout the jet.
Emily sat mere moments away, feigning disinterest in spite of the glances she kept sneaking towards the pair.
Morgan didn’t move his eyes, though JJ could’ve sworn she saw him shuffle a little uncomfortably in his chair, rather uncharacteristically. To see Derek Morgan feeling awkward, oh what a sight that was.
“Gideon is driving Reid back, he shouldn’t be alone with the med program he’s on, not for a few days at least, even genius over there was getting confused which pills he was supposed to take when.” The man paused, brief but pointed. “You probably shouldn’t be alone either. You got a ride home?”
JJ paused for a moment, considering the slight tremble in her arms she hadn’t quite shifted since they’d arrived at the hospital days prior. Her car sat in the Bureau car park, abandoned for days along with the others as it often was, awaiting her return.
She had a handful of friends in the city, though fewer than she’d care to admit, even less that she’d feel comfortable requesting a late-night pick-up from… admittedly, none that didn’t already work at Quantico and were no doubt dealing with an overgrown shift as it was. Their work scarcely allowed for planning ahead, after all. No one particularly wanted to rearrange a quick catch up over drinks for the 9th time when she got dragged away to another state with little to no explanation.
“I’m headed your way, baby girl over there left her keys in her rush to leave Hank-“ Morgan cut himself off, though it didn’t stop the brief cough of concealment that Hotch conjured up. “The house. Scene techs are gonna ship them over when they’ve cleared the place, but until then looks like I’m on school run duty. If you need it.”
It was an olive branch, plain and simple. It didn’t halt the words he’d spat days earlier running through her minds, tauntingly true.
One of you is here and one of you isn’t.
Despite being a profiler, the man was painfully easy to read when he wasn’t facing off with an unsub.
“You sure you want me in your car?” JJ’s voice was closer to a croak than it’s usual, practiced tone, having received little use over the week. “I can find my own way back, it’s fine.”
She was aware, vaguely, that she had instead ripped the fruit from the branch, stomping on them without so much as acknowledgement, but she couldn’t quite find it in herself to care.
The motion was met with a huff, though unamused in it’s portrayal, nor quite irritated as she’d anticipated.
“Look, JJ, we were on the case, things were tense. We all say what we need to get through it, it’s nothing personal. It’s just how it goes.”
There was a newfound bite to his words now, not unlike there had been in that wretched house.
“Oh, you needed to say that did you?” She didn’t bother explaining what exactly she was referring to, the crease in his brows betraying he already knew.
She and Morgan were rarely paired up in the field, the handful of times she’d hopped into his passenger seat usually in the absence of a particular team member, their roles sharing arguably the least overlap between the team.
JJ was there to mediate, for all intents and purposes, while Morgan was there to rip the scene to shreds, in a metaphorical sense.
He’d run through, play acting as it were, placing himself in the mind of the killer, while she forced herself to speak for the victim.
Granted, they all spent time together, of course. Countless hours on the jet, incomprehensible time in the round table room, even more so scattered across the hundreds of stations they’d collate themselves in. But out of all the team- Spence, the closest friend she’d ever had that wasn’t a girl, Emily, and her growing place in her life through wine nights, Penelope, and their catch ups between cases, even Hotch who she’d babysat for a number of nights – she had never felt particularly close to the man.
Gideon, of course, was a whole other story, their resident founder having fought for her role to be instated and yet shown little interest in chatting beyond absolute necessity, but their dynamic had never felt like distance but more a comforting lack of relationship. Should she need back up, advice or solace, the man was there with an open door and a solemn attitude, and that was enough.
Morgan however, despite their years working together, they had yet to find that commonality that made them click into a unit of their own within the larger team.
So, when she spoke, JJ half anticipated retreat, the man giving up, moving back to his seat with Penelope and continuing as though nothing had been exchanged. Instead, she met his eyes once more to find his head tilted downward, considering what he could respond with.
She wasn’t quite certain if it was refreshing or troubling.
“Yes. I did,” he spoke carefully, and JJ had to dig her teeth once more into her cheek to stop a physical response before it could manifest. “But I shouldn’t have.”
That, in spite of its simplicity, caught her off guard.
“I was worried, and angry. I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t angry at you, too, but also at Reid for running off, Hotch for sending you there, and myself because if we’d connected that dot sooner, no way in hell either of you would’ve been there without back up. But I was still angry with you and couldn’t fix the reason why, so I took the easiest path and pinned it all on you because I knew it was the only way I would get something done.
I shouldn’t have done that.”
No sorry quite snuck in there, though she could’ve sworn she heard one between the words.
She chose not to acknowledge what went unsaid.
Instead, she thought back to those few moments after they’d found Reid, inches away from his own half-dug grave, a bled-out Tobias Hankel beside him.
She’d caught Morgan’s eyes trailing her then, as Reid embraced Hotch a thanks on his tongue. A momentary nod had sprung from the other man, acknowledgement and little else, before they’d moved along to wrap up the crime scene.
At the time it had felt nothing beyond infuriating. Now, his words processing in her mind, it occurred that Morgan was a man that apologised in a lot of ways, though rarely verbally.
Somehow, it felt like enough to satiate the nibbling anger in the back of her mind.
“Could you drop me at Monico’s?” At that, the man’s brows shot up, as though he’d been expecting to be met with a brick wall. “My fridge will be out of date by now and I don’t think I ate today.”
It was forced, but she plastered a small smile to her face as he huffed out a laugh.
“Sure, Monico’s it is. Babygirl?” Head twisting to Penelope, Morgan opened the invitation, and JJ could’ve sworn she felt the atmosphere of the jet settle a little as it became apparent the two were not in conflict. Of course, she’d end up with a team of the most un-subtle profilers to ever have gathered. “Monico’s later?”
She choose not to listen to the squeal of agreement, nor the influx of flirty banter about Morgan having asked Garcia to a ‘candle-lit dinner for 3’, rather leaning back against the chair.
The back support still felt a little too bony for comfort, springs digging in from beneath the usually cushion-y surface, her borrowed shirt still harsh against her skin. But as she leaned into the hum of the jet and allowed it to lull her to sleep, she couldn’t quite hear the growling of beasts over the careful chatter of her team.