❝I feel certain that I am going mad again.❞

VIRGINIA WOOLF

✩

1.0 : ian doyle

OR

season 6, episode 17 : valhalla

IT IS JUST AFTER NOON AND FIN IS HAVING HER POST-LUNCH COFFEE WITH A SIDE OF GOOD NEWS. Blair is currently on the phone, telling her at length that Esther has done absolutely nothing since the message at the abandoned store in downtown Quantico.

"Like I said, no CCTV hits, no suspicious murders, no stolen vehicles or credit cards... She's laying low for the time being."

"That's good, at least." Fin pushes open the BAU office doors, holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear as she holds her coffee cup carefully in her free hand. "Any hits on the credit cards used to buy expensive camera equipment?"

"Not yet," Blair replies. "The problem is that a lot of people buy camera equipment in the D.C. area, and a lot of the stores are small boutique places who don't have digital records. It's taking our techs some time to compile a comprehensive list."

"Okay." Fin sighs. "Call me back when you have that list. I'd like to look through it with Agent Hotchner."

"Will do. Anything else you need?"

"I'm fine, Blair. I actually have to go, we've got a case." Fin pauses at the top of the stairs, lowering her voice so whoever's in the conference room already can't hear her. "Thanks for everything."

"No problem. Stay safe, Fin." And Blair hangs up.

Hotch glances up when Fin hurries into the conference room, shoving her phone into her pocket and dropping into the chair between Spencer and Penelope. "Great. Let's get started."

Fin frowns at the empty chair next to Morgan. "Where's Emily?"

"I don't know, but we don't have time to wait for her," Hotch replies. "Garcia?"

"Yes, sir." Penelope clicks a button on her remote, bringing up photos of two houses, clearly burnt, and severely damaged. "Two D.C. homes torched, two families, on the same night, last night."

"I'm surprised it still hasn't hit the news," Morgan says, frowning. "It's already midday."

"Yeah, all anyone's talking about is this storm that may or may not hit." Penelope says this with an air of disgust, as if disappointed in the media for covering a possibly massive snowstorm. "I managed to find an online article about the fires written by this guy, Jeff Hastings, but no one's running with it."

"How strange," Rossi says, rolling his eyes. "They usually thrive on tragedy."

"Yeah, and it gets weirder." Penelope clicks another button, bringing up photos of people this time: a man, a woman, and a young boy.

"Ron and Lauren Cosenza and their ten-year-old son were found in the master bedroom of their home, each shot through the forehead," Hotch says, reading off of his tablet screen. "The gun belonged to the father."

"Poor boy," Fin whispers softly, staring at the sweet face of the boy on the screen. Ollie wasn't much older than him... So much life yet to live. She forces herself to look away, back at the others around the table.

"Murder-suicide?" Rossi suggests. "At least, that's what Metro PD seems to think."

"Well, it's still the first forty-eight," Morgan replies. "They want our help."

"Kerry and Frank Fagan, like the Cosenzas, were found in their master bedroom from a suspected gas leak," Spencer says, as Penelope pulls up photos of an older couple.

"It had to be massive to cause that," says Rossi, staring above Fin's head at the photos of the burnt house. "How does the news miss a house explosion?"

"That is weird." Fin nods. "And a suspected murder-suicide? I mean, normally that's a three o'clock news gold mine."

"Any connection between the families?" asks Morgan, looking across the table at Penelope.

"Only one. A continent. Kerry Fagan was born in Germany, Ron Cosenza is from Italy."

"So two of the five victims are from Europe." Morgan raises his eyebrows. "How does that help?"

"It doesn't," Penelope replies, somewhat apologetically. "I'm just stating the facts, and the facts happen to be–"

She pauses, glancing up at Emily, who's just hurried through the door, sliding her purse off her shoulder and slightly out-of-breath. "Guys, I'm sorry I'm late," she says, shaking her head, setting her purse down on the floor next to Morgan's chair.

"You okay?" asks Hotch, and Fin bites back a smile. There's a seriously concerned look in his eyes. She makes a mental note to ask him about that later.

"Yeah, it's just one of those weeks, I guess," Emily replies, as if she hasn't been chronically late for the past month. "I'm sorry. What did I miss? Arsonist?"

"One appears to be murder-suicide, the other a freak accident," Morgan says, cutting his eyes at her before looking back down at his tablet. He's not convinced, either.

"So why are we looking at it?" Emily asks.

"House fires are rare." Rossi shrugs. "Add to that a few miles apart, within the same hour, kind of tips the scales of coincidence."

"Yeah, if somebody did this, they're highly motivated and organized," Spencer adds.

"And if he wants to strike again, he's got seventy-two hours before the storm shuts the city down." Hotch stands up, grabbing the files next to him, and Fin follows him, Morgan, and Rossi out the door.

✩

Well, Fin follows Hotch out the door for a maximum of five minutes, until she's told she's staying in the conference room with Penelope and Spencer, working on building out an evidence board and checking the families' records.

Fin considers pouting about not going out into the field, but Emily's in one of the grumpy moods she's had lately, and Morgan, while considerably better after the talk they had in L.A., still avoids talking to her whenever possible. Rossi and Hotch are both fine, of course, but Spencer and Penelope tend to treat her more like a human being.

Although, after that...situation in Louisiana, Spencer's been a little off. Fin can't really blame him; she hates herself for how she acted. But she's doing her best to protect him, and personal sacrifices have to be made. She thinks he understands, but he's certainly not making it any easier on her. Especially when he's wearing purple, like today.

"There is no history of any kind of psychological weirdness with either family," says Penelope now, walking back through the door, laptop in hand. "They were healthy, happy, fit."

"Which makes a murder-suicide a little weird," Fin replies, adjusting the photos on the board. "What about financial issues?"

"No. They were healthy on that front, too."

Fin turns around and raises her eyebrows at Penelope's scarf and gloves, despite the fact that it's comfortable in the conference room. "Are you cold, Pen?"

"Oh, not now, but the heat is out in my lair." Penelope rolls her eyes. "Not a single snowflake has fallen and yet the weather remains the top news story."

"Nothing about either case? Really?"

"No." Penelope shakes her head. "They're bound to get hip to it. Once our presence is felt and we connect the cases, it'll be a ballroom blitz."

Spencer, who has said nothing for a full ten minutes, hums thoughtfully, bent over the files of the Fagans and Cosenzas.

"What's going on in that brain of yours, Spence?" asks Fin, perching on the edge of the table.

"You know, considering the time these fires occurred, the habitual patterns of both families were in direct conflict with where the bodies were found," Spencer says, looking up, directly into Fin's eyes. He doesn't blink. It sends a shiver down her spine. "Normally Lauren Cosenza would be downstairs helping her son with his homework, and Ron wouldn't even be home from work yet."

"What about the Fagans?" Fin asks, frowning. Spencer's right; for both families to be found in the master bedroom is weird. If they weren't murders, that is.

"Their routines were less established. They traveled a lot, but they were expected at a dinner party last night." Spencer clears his throat, still staring directly at Fin. She's the first to break, looking over at Penelope, who's shaking her head disbelievingly.

"If someone did this," Penelope begins, fidgeting with the rings on her hands, "what are the chances these victims are random?"

Spencer purses his lips, looks back up at Fin, who shrugs. "There has to be some connection between them. Penelope, you're gonna have to dig deeper."

"I will find a proverbial shovel and hit the proverbial dirt," Penelope says, grinning, and soon the sound of furious typing is the only noise in the otherwise tensely silent conference room.

Fin grabs the Fagans' file and retreats to a corner, sitting cross-legged against the wall with a new cup of coffee. She reads through it as slowly as she can, doing her best to pick out anything that seems out of the ordinary. But Frank and Kerry were as normal as they come, damn it.

Penelope says something about needing to take a break and leaves the room, stating that she'll be back in fifteen minutes, and then it's entirely silent in the conference room. Fin and Spencer are both in their own worlds, reading and poring over files and photos.

Fin finishes her cup of coffee too soon, and with a sigh, she stands up, mug in hand, and walks over to the coffee bar to pour herself a fresh cup. But in the process, being her own clumsy self, she drops her empty mug. It lands with a dull thud on the carpet.

There's a soft hiss from the table, and Fin glances over at Spencer, who's blinking repeatedly and rubbing his eyes. "Spencer, are you okay?" she asks softly, bending down and picking her mug up from the floor.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Spencer attempts a smile, but it's not genuine: He's clearly in pain.

"Do you have a headache right now?"

He nods, rubbing his eyes more furiously and looking down, away from the lights.

Fin leans over and flips the light switch, the conference room instantly darkening. Spencer lets out an instinctive sigh, still covering his eyes.

"Where does it hurt?" Fin asks, walking over to his chair.

"Everywhere," Spencer whispers. "But mostly behind my eyes and–and the top of my head."

Fin checks her watch: It's been five minutes since Penelope left the room. They've got ten minutes of uninterrupted silence. She'll probably regret this.

But Spencer's in pain.

So Fin cries screw it to no one in particular and slides her hands tentatively into Spencer's hair. He flinches at her touch, but almost instantly relaxes as she moves her fingers in gentle circles on top of his head, leaning back into her touch.

"Is that okay?" Fin asks quietly, pausing to hear his answer.

"Don't stop," Spencer murmurs, grabbing her wrists, pulling her hands back toward him. "Please. It's more than okay, Hazel, it's–" He sighs and tilts his head back, more relaxed than she's seen him in weeks, maybe months.

His hair is soft, and Fin does her best not to remember the times she played with his curls, the nights she fell asleep with one hand combing through his hair, the times he kissed her and her hands found their way up his jaw and into his hair–

She does her best not to remember it.

Fin opens her eyes, not remembering she'd closed them. Spencer's turned his chair around, so that he's facing her, and his own eyes are wide and boring directly into hers. The intensity in his gaze sends a shiver down her spine.

There are footsteps outside the door, and then Penelope comes back into the room, carrying her favorite cat mug. "Why is the light off?" she asks, frowning.

Fin glances up at her from her seat across from Spencer; she moves fast when she needs to. "Is the light off? I didn't notice."

Penelope flicks the light switch, a suspicious glance at the both of them, and then sits back down in front of her laptop, resuming her furious searching for a connection between the Fagans and Cosenzas.

After a few minutes, Spencer gets up, taking his files with him, presumably retreating to his desk, where the typing won't be so loud in his ear.

Fin hazards a look in his direction and surprise, surprise–he's looking at her, too. She gives him a small smile, and in return, he mouths "Thank you", grinning shyly.

Fin's gonna have to work harder at keeping her walls up, because whether or not Spencer's trying to wear her down, it's working.

The others return to the conference room in a matter of hours, Rossi and Emily bringing news of unusual security in the Cosenzas' home, Hotch and Morgan confused by the lack of smoke in their lungs.

It was Spencer, not Fin, who finally found a connection between the victims, so Fin is currently leaning back in her chair, massaging her temples and listening to Penelope ask Hotch about tracking down Jeff Hastings, the original author of the article that still hasn't shown up on the news anywhere.

"What's the connection?" asks Hotch, as Penelope drops into the chair next to Fin.

"It's a small one," she replies. "Both families coach soccer on the hill."

"And before any of you say the Fagans didn't have children," Fin says, as both Morgan and Rossi open their mouths, "Kerry Fagan coached her godson's team."

"The two victims from Europe were the soccer coaches," Morgan says, rolling his eyes at Fin. She bristles slightly, but does her best to keep her mouth shut.

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" Penelope nods.

"I'm beginning to think that they've crossed paths before," Morgan continues, and Fin glances up at the doorway as Spencer walks in, waving a folder and looking proud of himself.

"I ran the victims' phone numbers," he says. "They never contacted each other, but there is a common name between them."

"Give it." Penelope gestures to him, immediately turning back to her laptop.

"Uh, 703-555-0118," Spencer reads.

It only takes a few seconds for Penelope to come up with a match. "Byron Delaney. His wife Grace died last summer, children grown. What do you know?" She looks up at them, eyebrows raised. "He's British."

"Garcia, send me the address." Morgan stands up, adjusting his suit jacket. "I'll grab Prentiss."

"Sent!"

✩

Morgan's next phone call is a nailbiter. Fin grips the edge of her chair so tightly her knuckles turn white as he tells everyone over the phone that he and Emily were almost shot outside of Byron Delaney's house. Byron Delaney is dead. And so is one of the shooters.

Hotch and Rossi drive down to meet them and inspect the crime scene, and they return with new evidence: Byron Delaney was drugged, his death made to look like a heart attack, and the shooter who was killed had some sort of tattoo on his wrist that was shot so they couldn't identify him.

Morgan thinks they're a European gang, ex-military, working off some kind of hit list that connects all of the victims.

Fin's worried they might come after the BAU next, after what happened to Morgan and Emily.

But it's late, and Hotch orders everyone to go home, get some rest, and come back fresh in the morning.

Fin can go home and come back in the morning, but she can't promise to actually rest. Sleep is a luxury she's seriously missing these days.

Penelope heads out to a meeting with Jeff Hastings, and Spencer spends most of the morning attempting to recreate the blown-apart tattoo. Fin's not sure what to do, so she ends up perching on her desk with a cup of coffee, watching Spencer work.

Morgan, Emily, and Hotch come striding in from the elevators just as Spencer appears to be finishing up his third and final sketch, which is leagues better than Fin could ever do. "Reid, you got anything?" Morgan asks.

"The damage is pretty extensive," Spencer replies, tongue between his teeth, "but luckily some of the tattoo remains."

"Prentiss, get the victim's photo out to the press," says Hotch, and Emily nods, pulling out her phone and turning away.

Then there's a familiar click-clack of heels and Penelope appears, her expression that of a woman on a mission. "I think I know who dug the hole. The journo told me to follow the money–like straight up, that's what he told me–so I did. It turns out the Gazette is owned by a multinational global conglomerate–oil, new technologies, shipping, air and ground transportation, all of which employ the services of one company: CWS."

Hotch frowns. "Clear Water Securities?"

Penelope nods.

"You know them?" asks Rossi, turning to Hotch curiously.

"I've come across them," Hotch replies. "They're a private counterintelligence group out of Geneva."

"Ron Cosenza, Byron Delaney, Kerry Fagan all worked for CWS," Penelope says, tapping her feathered pen against her knuckles anxiously.

"When?" Fin asks, setting her coffee cup down and pulling her sleeves over her hands: They're shaking too much to be trusted with anything spillable.

"Seven years ago."

"Prentiss, hang up," Hotch says commandingly, and Emily puts her phone away, rejoining the group with a confused expression on her face.

"Do we have a problem?" asks Rossi quietly.

"Well, CWS does," Hotch replies.

There's a brief, tense silence, during which everyone stares at each other meaningfully, and then Spencer rolls his chair back into the center of their circle, holding up his sketch. "Got it."

He turns it so that everyone can see, and Fin squints at it: It's a four-leaf clover.

Behind her, Emily inhales sharply, and before Fin can ask her what's wrong, she turns to leave, pulling out her phone again.

Penelope notices this, too, and she mouths, "Is she okay?" at Fin.

Fin shrugs. She really doesn't know. Then she wonders if this has anything to do with the late night coffee meeting she stumbled into a few days ago. She hopes against hope it's nothing serious.

Penelope, who won't take no or even "I don't know" for an answer, dutifully follows Emily in the direction of the restrooms, and Fin leans over to look at the clover Spencer's drawn, pushing the thoughts of Emily out of her mind for a moment. "That's really impressive. You did that in what, ten minutes?"

"Eighteen minutes, forty-three seconds," Spencer corrects her. "But I spent a lot of time on the first two drafts. It was tricky, what with the bullet hole in his wrist and all."

"Finley."

Fin's smile disappears as she looks up at Hotch, a grave look on his face. "Go tell Prentiss I need her in the SCIF as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir." Fin squeezes Spencer's shoulder gently, out of habit, without thinking, and then hurries off toward the ladies' restroom. She's about to push the door open when Emily's voice, muffled slightly, reaches her ears.

"It's a recurring nightmare... There's a hill, and there's this little girl on top of the hill. She's like six years old, dark hair. And she's just dancing in the sun. But somehow I know that she's waiting for me, so I start to walk up the hill... But the hill gets steeper and steeper, and by the time I climb to the top, the little girl's gone. And I look everywhere for her, and when I can't find her, I start to panic. And I panic because I know what's waiting out there for her."

Emily's voice is trembling a little as she continues. "I know what the world can do to a girl who only sees beauty. Like you. Somehow you–you always make me smile. And I don't think I've ever thanked you for that."

She must be talking to Penelope with that last part, but the beginning hits Fin harder than she expected. She, too, has had dreams about her past self, about her own innocence being stripped away from her like a thief in the night.

Except her thief has a name.

And her thief has a target on her back.

Fin composes herself, attempting to make it look like she wasn't just listening to their conversation, and pushes the door open a crack. "Hey, Em? Hotch needs you in the SCIF."

Emily leans around Penelope, forcing a half-smile. "Sure. Thanks."

Fin walks back toward the bullpen, deep in thought. Emily's connected to this case somehow, she's sure of it, but she doesn't know how, and judging by Emily's mood the past few days, asking her straight up might get Fin shot.

And she won't mention it to the others, that would be inappropriate, but it's clear that no one's blind to the fact that Emily's acting strangely. It's likely they're all thinking about a version of the same story.

But Fin has no idea how to help and it's killing her.

So she sits in agitating silence at her desk, waiting for the meeting with the CWS people to be over, to have some kind of news, while trying to keep thoughts of Emily being targeted by European gangs out of her head.

And finally, Hotch emerges from the SCIF, Rossi, Morgan, and Emily behind him.

They have a name.

Ian Doyle.

~

......

this is *one* of the parts of hate to be lame that i said would melt your faces off.

i apologize in advance.