╭──╯ . . . . . VIOLENT DELIGHTS ܴೈ

✧.* ONEERTAXEA . . . . . ╰──╮

july 20th, 2010

it's been months since that day. haley's funeral followed not long after—quiet but beautiful. i didn't know her well, but i imagined it was exactly what she would have wanted. no theatrics, no unnecessary fanfare. just the people who loved her, saying goodbye.

jack sat in hotch's arms as they lowered her casket to the ground, his small head tucked against his father's shoulder. jessica stood beside them, silent tears trailing down her cheeks as she mourned her baby sister. hotch spoke a eulogy that was both heartbreaking and composed, a tribute to the woman who had been his wife, the mother of his child. something was devastating about the way his voice never wavered—how he carried his grief like a responsibility.

after the service, we gathered for a small dinner, all of us in our best attire, speaking in soft voices, offering what little comfort we could. we tried to be there for hotch in the ways we knew how. in the early weeks, when he barely left his apartment, emily and i took jack with us sometimes—to the store, to or from his school, anywhere that gave hotch a moment to breathe. penelope insisted on dropping off gift baskets every week, but it was usually jessica who took them inside.

the months without him were hard. the cases were hard. keeping the team together was hard. we felt his absence in everything we did, in the way we looked at his empty office, in the silence he left behind. strauss kept us under a microscope, making our paperwork more detailed, and more scrutinized, ensuring none of us let our emotions bleed into the job.

now, summer has settled in. virginia's heat stretches from may into early september—my least favorite time of year. maybe it's the humidity, or the way everything feels too still, too slow. maybe it's the weight of these months, how they hold both matthew's birthday and the anniversary of his death, making them unbearable in a way that never really fades.

i get to the office early that morning, unwilling to stay home any longer than necessary. the quiet hum of the bullpen is the only sound as i settle into my desk, the fabric of my chair itchy against my skin. i slowly swivel side to side, my knee tapping gently against the desk, eyes drifting over the case files in front of me. none of the words sink in. it's july—five months almost to the day since haley died.

the elevator dings, and when i glance up, i see hotch step out. he adjusts his suit jacket, his expression unreadable, but there's a sharpness to him—a sense of control, of purpose. for a moment, it feels like everything shifts, like the weight we've been carrying settles differently. but there's no time to dwell on it. serial killers don't wait for us to heal.

we're called to the jet in a hurry, slipping back into the rhythm of the job like muscle memory. i take my usual seat next to emily, the familiarity of it grounding me as jj begins reading off the details of the case. 

july 21st, 2010

the dark forest stretches endlessly ahead, the rural outskirts of lockport, new york, a stark contrast to the cityscapes we usually work in. twigs snap beneath my boots as my flashlight cuts through the thick trees, swinging side to side, chasing after the barely audible footsteps ahead. distant beams from the others' flashlights flicker through the trees, shadows shifting wildly.

a sudden scuffle to my right snaps my head in that direction. i sprint toward the commotion, heart hammering. morgan is on top of our suspect, wrestling him into submission. "you son of a bitch!" morgan grits out, his voice sharp with exertion. the suspect—dale schrader—lunges, sinking his teeth into morgan's hand with a sickening crunch. "did he just bite you?" i ask, breathless from the chase. "yeah," morgan grunts, still grappling with the suspect. i yank my handcuffs from my belt, clicking them onto schrader's wrists. 

"don't move." morgan exhales sharply, shaking out his injured hand. i tighten my grip on the cuffs as we pull schrader to his feet. "dale schrader, you're under arrest for the murder of stacy ryan and the abduction of your daughter, jenny." we haul him toward the glowing red-and-blue lights of our squad cars. ahead, jenny sits on the steps of an abandoned cabin, her small frame curled into itself. schrader's eyes lock onto her, his breath ragged. "let me say goodbye to her." he pleads, his voice a quiet rasp.

"no," i snap, pulling him toward the car. "you lost that right the second you took her." "she's my daughter..." he huffs, yanking against the cuffs. "jenny! jenny, i'm sorry!" his voice rises, desperate. jenny flinches, fear flickering across her face. "you should get that hand looked at," i tell morgan, nodding toward the deep bite wound. "i'll take him back to the station with one of the officers." morgan hesitates, but the pain in his expression is clear. finally, he nods. "alright. just be careful."

he cradles his injured hand as he steps toward the paramedics. i wave over an officer, explaining the situation—protocol requires a second officer in the vehicle for transport. he nods, sliding into the driver's seat as i take the front passenger side. schrader slumps in the back, silent for now. the drive is quiet, the road stretching dark and empty ahead. exhaustion presses into my bones—this case has been draining, physically and mentally.

"murder a random woman and kidnap his daughter... and then use the same damn truck? not the brightest bulb." the officer mutters. "he's been locked up for eleven years," i reply. "out of practice, i guess." "i thought guys like him were supposed to come out better criminals?" the officer says, his hands casually sitting on the steering wheel. "the smart ones do." i answer. from the backseat, schrader scoffs. "you saying i'm dumb?" "you're impatient. angry. you took your kid to get back at your ex. you let your emotions make the decisions for you." i say, casually. 

schrader exhales through his nose. "you think you've got it all figured out." "your ex-wife said—" i start before he speaks.  "—she was a whore and a liar," he interrupts. his tone is eerily neutral like he's discussing the weather. "should've killed her when i had the chance." my stomach tightens. "like you killed stacy ryan?" i press, twisting in my seat to look at him. "why'd you do it?" "you wouldn't understand," he mutters, turning his gaze to the window. i huff a short laugh. "try me." he doesn't answer. i shake my head, turning back to the officer. "here's what i don't get about this guy."

"what?" the officer says, clearly enjoying getting schrader riled up. "his whole life, he was a thief. comes out of prison, and suddenly he's a murderer." i say. "killed an innocent woman." the officer tuts. schrader exhales sharply. "how do you know she was innocent?" the officer scoffs. "you stabbed her in the neck and dumped her body on the side of the road. what the hell did she ever do to you?"

"you know," the officer continues, shaking his head, "i don't get why you couldn't just accept the freedom. could've holed up in that cabin, laid low. enjoyed the quiet. but i guess some people need chaos. guess you got used to it in prison." schrader's lips curl into something almost like a smile. "it's madness for the sheep to talk to the wolf." i frown. "thomas fuller." i recognize the quote. "you impressed?" schrader asks, an unsettling amusement in his voice. i grimace. "surprised."

"so, you're the wolf?" i challenge. he hums. "you have no idea." i scoff. "there it is—that ego. you know, for a second, you were unpredictable. but you just couldn't help yourself, could you? you're all talk. and honestly? that's boring." before the words fully leave my mouth, schrader jerks forward, convulsing. he hunches over, groaning, his body heaving. "hey, what was that?" i snap. "sit up." "i'm gonna be sick." he gasps, retching. the officer glances at me. "what's going on?" "i don't know." i say, scanning schrader warily. "i'm pulling over." the officer announces, easing the car onto the shoulder.

"turn on the light." i request. "i'm gonna be sick." schrader repeats. i exhale, shifting to look at him. "am i still boring?" he suddenly rasps. my brows furrow. "what?" his head snaps up. "am i boring?!" he roars. before i can fully pull my gun from the strap, the windshield explodes. the impact sends the car careening off the road, flipping violently down the ditch. my body slams against the door, my head cracking against the window. the world spins in chaotic, deafening crashes—metal screaming, glass shattering, bodies grunting in pain.

when the car finally settles, everything is muffled, dazed. my vision swims. my skull pounds with a pain so sharp it makes my stomach lurch. a low, strangled grunt breaks through the ringing in my ears. i force my head to turn. schrader is on top of the officer, his cuffed hands strangling him. i groan, my arms sluggish as i try to reach for my gun. it's gone—torn from my grip during the crash. "where are the keys, bitch?" schrader snarls. he shifts, one knee digging into my thigh as he fumbles through my pockets. i try to shove him off, but my body is useless—weak, disoriented.

his elbow smashes into my cheek, intentional or not, i don't know. pain flares, hot and sharp. his fingers close around something. the handcuff keys. he unlocks himself with frantic urgency, struggling with the mangled car door. then, footsteps--someone approaching. "wait!" i shout, throat raw. "i'm a federal agent! my prisoner just killed an officer!" the man outside hesitates. schrader grins. "knew it," he pants. "you are one committed son of a bitch."

the man wrenches the door open. schrader stumbles out, groaning. "no, no, that's the suspect," i yell, forcing myself upright. "what are you doing?!" the man hesitates again, gripping schrader's arm. "you killed a cop?" "give me the gun." schrader demands. "what?" the man looks at him bug-eyed. "give me the gun." schrader repeats.  "she's a fed." the man argues, his grip tightening. "she knows there's two of us now." schrader pants.

the man curses under his breath. "you're bleeding bad—you're gonna need stitches." schrader scoffs. the man then looks over at me. "put pressure on it, you're gonna be okay." he says and i wonder who he was speaking to--me or schrader? i'm still searching for my gun when i hear the truck doors slam. my fingers close around cold metal. i punch through the shattered windshield, dragging myself free. 

i raise my gun, fire. bullets rip through the darkness, missing their target as the truck peels away. i stumble up the ditch, heart pounding, blood dripping down my face, but they're gone. and i am left alone on the side of the road—bleeding, gasping, and pissed the hell off.

_______________︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶_______________

author's note

hey--so yes, i am alive. i am and have been so ill though for the past few weeks not much has gotten done but i didn't forget about y'all 😔🫵

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⍣ ೋ disclaimers

this story contains sensitive subject matter, including depictions of violence, murder, detailed crime scenes, and themes of trauma, grief, and ptsd. additional warnings include references to home invasions, child endangerment, vandalism, gentrification, and socioeconomic struggles. this work is intended for mature audiences. reader discretion is advised—take care of yourself while reading.

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