❝What cannot be said will be wept.❞

SAPPHO

✩

1.2 : the sounds of grief

OR

season 6, episode 18 : lauren (ctd.)

FIN WATCHES AS ROSSI HELPS A BOSTON OFFICER DRAG A RED-FACED MAN WITH A BANDAGE OVER HIS EAR THROUGH THE DOOR. He's shouting about how he's the man and they should know who he is, struggling against Rossi's tight grip. From here, he couldn't look like more of a nobody. It's ironic. Fin wishes she could laugh.

 "Who's that?" asks Hotch, as Rossi joins them. The man's not strong enough to need two escorts to the interrogation room; Fin can tell that from here.

"Jack Fahey," Rossi replies. "Irish mob. He called Easter's cell phone twelve times in six hours."

"Any connection to Doyle?" Hotch asks, brow furrowed.

"Boston PD says he's low-level." Rossi shrugs. "But the Irish mob has long-standing ties to the IRA."

Hotch nods grimly. "See if you can get anything out of him."

"Where are you going?" Fin asks, as Hotch turns to leave.

"To get Clyde Easter to talk," he replies over his shoulder, pushing the double doors out. They swing once behind him and lock back into place.

"I could use your help with Fahey," says Rossi quietly, drawing Fin's attention back to him. "A woman in the room might make him more susceptible to questions."

"Hang on a second." Fin might have a better plan. "Grab Spencer. I have an idea."

Fifteen minutes later, Fin's adjusting her shirt outside of the interrogation room. Funnily enough, it's the same shirt she wore when she and Hotch visited Karl Arnold, aka the Fox, back in Virginia. Strange, that it would do the same job in two dire situations. It makes her nauseous. She wishes she hadn't had that last cup of coffee.

"You ready?" asks Rossi, staring dutifully at the wall, ever the gentleman.

"As I'll ever be." Fin glances up at Spencer. "Spence? You ready?"

He nods, pursing his lips, and Rossi opens the door, leading the way into the room, where Fahey's sitting at the table, looking highly uncomfortable. His leg is bouncing up and down anxiously, and he's chewing on his lip, a manic glint in his eye.

"The infamous Jack Fahey," Fin says softly, immediately drawing Fahey's attention. She lets the Mississippi accent return, words dripping off her tongue like Grandma's honey, roping Fahey in like a dumbstruck cow. "Wow. You look just how I imagined you."

"You–you've heard of me?" Fahey's surprised and albeit a little confused.

"Of course I have," Fin purrs, stepping in front of Rossi and into the light, so Fahey can see her fully. "You're the man, right? You're the guy around here. You built this place from the ground up. Everybody knows Jack Fahey."

"Who are you, exactly?" Fahey's still confused, but Fin's flattery's done a little to boost his ego. It's a good start.

"SSA Hazel Finley. I'm with the FBI." Fin gestures to Rossi and Spencer in turn behind her. "You've already met my friend SSA David Rossi, and that's Dr. Spencer Reid."

"Hazel." Fahey's twitching; something's not right with him. "Pretty name. You wouldn't happen to have a cig, would you?"

"I don't smoke." Fin shakes her head sadly, dropping into the chair in front of him and leaning forward, so he has a nice, uninhibited view down her shirt. Bile rises in her throat. "But what I really want to know–"

"Cut the crap, Fin," Rossi interrupts, playing his part perfectly. "Why'd you call Clyde Easter so much, Jack?"

Fahey ignores them, raising his voice. "Anybody have a smoke?" He glances back at Spencer. "What about you, beanpole?"

Spencer, in turn, ignores Fahey. Rossi leans over, keeping his voice low enough to feign surreptitiousness, but loud enough to where both Fin and Fahey can hear him. "What do you think?"

"Narcissism masking deep-seated insecurity," Spencer replies, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So if we puncture his self-image, this hoodrat will talk." Rossi nods.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Fahey bristles at the insult. "I ain't no hoodrat. You take that back!"

"That's right," Fin says, turning around in her chair, facing Rossi and Spencer. "He's not a hoodrat, he's a grifter. You might even say an artist, a master of his craft."

She's laying it on a little thick, but Fahey buys it. "Yeah, listen to the chick! I'm an artist, damn it!"

"But I think you're a hoodrat," Rossi says, almost patronizingly. "Because you look like one. You smell like one." He glances back at Spencer. "You smell that?"

Spencer sniffs the air, nods. "Hoodrat."

"I am not!" Fahey protests. "Take it back!"

"Hey, Jack." Rossi walks over to him, leans down in his face. "Do you know what a hoodrat is?"

Fahey stares back at him, opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. Fin purses her lips against a laugh. This is almost comical.

"You see what I mean?" Rossi shakes his head at Fin. "He's just gonna have to learn the hard way."

Fin opens her mouth to defend Fahey further, but he interrupts her. "Alright, alright, look, Clyde was gonna pay my medical bills, alright? This ear, it ain't growing back."

"What happened to it?" Spencer asks.

"This bitch teammate of his shot it," Fahey replies, his eyes inside Fin's shirt now. "Said it was a warning. Thought she could take on this IRA big shot named Doyle. So I told these–AH! What the hell, man?"

Rossi's just grabbed his bandaged ear, twisting it painfully. "Where's Prentiss?" he says, all pretense abandoned.

"Who? I don't know!" Fahey splutters, turning beet red from pain and confusion.

"Lauren Reynolds," says Spencer, bending down next to Fin, hands gripping the edge of the table. "Where is Lauren Reynolds?"

Rossi lets go of Fahey's ear, and as his face returns to normal, his mouth forms an "O" of satisfied surprise. "Friend of yours, is she?"

"Alright, dickhead, I'm done playing games." Fin grabs his shirt, yanking him across the table toward her, so close to him she could bite his nose. And she's contemplating it. "Tell us where Lauren Reynolds is in the next ten seconds, or I swear, I will find the most violent prison and I will send you there with a sign on your back that says, 'PEDOPHILE'."

"And by the time you do, she'll be in pieces," Fahey says, nearly unfazed. "So, uh... my price just went up." He smiles in an evil, saccharine way.

"You little–" Fin reaches for him with her other hand, ready to claw his eyes out and make him eat them, but Spencer's faster: He grabs her arm and pulls her back, pushing her toward the door, shutting it behind them and leaving Rossi alone with Fahey.

"You should have let me hit him," Fin growls, wrestling her way free of his grip.

"I don't think that would go over too well," Spencer replies. "Government brutality isn't often forgiven."

Fin stares through the window at Rossi and Fahey, her stomach roiling. She focuses on breathing so she doesn't throw up right here on the carpet. "Spencer, I'm afraid," she whispers, looking up at him.

Spencer nods, swallowing hard. "Me too."

"Do you think she's still–?" Fin can't bring herself to say it.

"I have to," Spencer replies quietly.

Rossi joins them after a moment with the unsurprising news that he wants $200,000, and when Hotch returns from talking to Easter–which apparently didn't go too well–they explain the whole story to him.

"We shouldn't give it to him, Hotch," Fin says, as soon as Rossi finishes filling him in.

"What other leverage do we have?" Hotch sounds defeated, which is almost more terrifying than anything else that's happened in the past twenty-four hours. He's usually the rock, the foundation for everyone, and if he's discouraged... Fin suddenly feels nauseous again.

They all glance back through the window at Fahey, who's still bouncing his leg, twitching uncomfortably. He looks like he might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "All of this for a cigarette," Fin mutters.

"What?" Hotch asks, frowning.

"He's having a nicotine fit," Rossi explains. "We wouldn't let him smoke."

"You know, we might be able to use that," Spencer says quietly, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. "He might relax a little, and it might give us an edge."

"Is that enough?" Hotch raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest.

"It's worth a shot." Fin nods at Spencer encouragingly.

"Either of you want to join me?" Rossi asks sarcastically, and both Fin and Spencer shake their heads.

"It's not that I don't love you, Rossi, but I'm not sure I can be trusted around that rat bastard," Fin says, rolling her eyes in the direction of the window.

"Fine." Rossi shrugs, looks at Hotch. "I won't be long."

✩

Rossi, in fact, was not long. Because Fahey was shot on the roof. He's dead. Their first and only lead on Emily is dead, and Clyde's still not talking. Everyone's on edge.

So now Rossi and Fin are sitting in a room off the main hallway, standing opposite each other and arguing fiercely for the first time ever. "You have the freshest eyes!" Rossi yells for the umpteenth time. "You haven't worked with her for five years!"

"That doesn't mean I don't want her back, Rossi," Fin hisses. "I am terrified out of my mind that she's already dead in a warehouse somewhere and Doyle's just tying up loose ends."

"We need you to focus." Rossi closes the distance between them, grabbing Fin's arms and squeezing so tight she almost loses feeling. "I need you to focus, Fin. You were gone for eight months, so use that–"

"Damn it, Rossi, this is my family!" Fin pushes him away, blood boiling in her veins, her temperature rising. "This is my home! I love all of you so damn much, and especially Emily, because I swear she's the only one that might understand me! And I want her back so much it hurts. I want Doyle's heart in my hands so I can watch the life drain out of him, the way he's draining the life out of me. I–" Her voice breaks, but she powers through, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand– "I've lost one family already. I won't let that happen again."

Rossi just stands there, catching his breath, his face pink from shouting, staring at her with a strange expression on his face. Fin recognizes it; it's the same one her father had when she pulled up her shirt and showed him where Esther cut her. Pain and fear and understanding all rolled into one.

After a moment, Rossi says, "So take that and use it. Step back and look at the facts. What stands out to you? What's the one thing that doesn't make sense to you right now?"

Fin pauses, opening the file in her mind and scanning the pages, the photos, the lists of names. And then it clicks.

"The families."

"What about them?" Rossi presses, an almost manic glint in his eyes.

"Why kill families? If he thinks Emily is his stressor, he should just want revenge on her, right? But he killed Samuel Cosenza, too. Why would he do that?"

"You tell me." Rossi raises his eyebrows at her.

But there's a knock at the door. JJ pokes her head in. "Easter's gonna give us the profile."

A wave of relief rolls over Fin and she closes her eyes, whispering a silent thank you to the heavens. If they have the original profile, it'll be a clearer picture. They'll be one step closer to bringing Emily home.

Back in the main room, Clyde Easter joins the BAU circle around the table. It is a tense bunch, everyone teetering on the edge of emotion, but reining it in for the time being. Fin stands between Rossi and Spencer, arms crossed over her chest, watching Easter carefully.

"Ian Doyle's a power-assertive psychopath," he says, his voice low and clipped, British accent almost too perfect. "Highly controlling and very explosive when something doesn't go as planned.

"So what's Emily's role in his newfound passion for family annihilation?" asks Rossi, nodding to Fin.

"Annihilators have a romanticized view of who their family is," Spencer replies, and Easter shakes his head.

"Well, actually, he was an orphan."

"Well, they think of family as their possession," Morgan says. "Until some law shatters that and starts them killing."

"But Doyle was never married," Easter counters.

"Children?" asks Rossi.

"No."

"You wrote in your profile that he carried out his murders with surgical-like precision," Spencer says, glancing down at the file in front of him.

"Yes." Easter nods.

"No collateral damage," says Morgan.

"That's right."

"Well, then, maybe Samuel Cosenza was a surrogate," Fin suggests quietly. "Maybe Doyle did have a kid."

"Maybe Prentiss did," mutters Morgan, staring at his feet.

"No, she wouldn't keep that from me." Easter shakes his head disbelievingly.

"Who else was in the compound the day that you arrested Doyle?" asks Hotch, frowning.

"Just his staff," Easter replies.

"All Irish?"

"Yeah."

Hotch glances around at the rest of them. "That's a start."

One hour later, they have an address.

They have photos of Doyle's son.

And Emily's hand in the corner, holding the gun.

Emily staged his death.

To protect him from his father.

Fin suits up with the others.

Her mind is numb as she follows Morgan and the SWAT team through the gate. Around the corner. Past two of Doyle's men, bullets still warm in their chests. Into the front hallway.

There's a man blocking their path. Morgan shoots him. He falls to the ground.

It is no longer a stealth game.

Doyle knows they're here.

Half of the SWAT team turns right.

Morgan and Fin go left with the other half.

Fin can feel her heart in her throat. Her breath comes shallowly. The rifle in her hands is unfamiliar.

They turn another corner.

Go through another doorway.

The light on Morgan's rifle catches a body, prone on the floor.

Fin's breath catches.

It's Emily.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Holding a table leg, embedded in her stomach.

Splintering.

Infecting.

All Fin can think is Emily.

She drops to her knees beside Emily as Morgan radios for a medic, voice dripping with relief.

"Emily, Emily, hey." Fin presses her hand to the wound, ignoring Emily's blood, warm and pouring between her fingers. "Hey, look at me. We got you. We got you safe."

Emily's eyes slide over to look at her. She struggles to focus, eyes crossing and uncrossing. "F...Fin... Derek..."

"It's me. It's me." Morgan grabs Emily's hand, squeezing it tightly. "You're gonna be alright."

Emily's eyes flutter shut and Fin's heart skips a beat. "Emily, open your eyes. Open your eyes."

"Stay with me, baby," Morgan mutters. "Come on, stay with me."

Fin's knees are digging into the hard concrete floor, Emily's blood is all over her hands, and yet she stays. Morgan coaxes Emily into squeezing his hand, tells her how proud he is of her. Fin has no words.

No words except, "I love you, Emily."

She whispers it, but it is as if she shouted it. Emily opens her eyes. Stares right at Fin.

A tiny hint of a smile crosses her face.

A single tear falls from her eye.

She mouths, "I...love...you..."

It is minutes, hours, days before medics finally arrive. They put Emily on a stretcher. An oxygen mask over her mouth and nose. One EMT wrenches Fin's hands away from Emily's stomach. Hands her a towel.

She watches the ambulance careen out of the parking lot.

Flinches at the wail of the sirens.

The blood stains her hands.

It will never come off.

The car ride to the hospital is silent. Fin rips the FBI vest off. It has Emily's blood on it, too.

Spencer, Penelope, and Rossi are already in the waiting room when they arrive. Spencer is pacing, unable to sit down, an untouched cup of coffee in his hand. Penelope stares at the wall, unseeing. Rossi's knuckles are white on the back of the chair in front of him.

Fin sits next to Hotch.

His breathing is uneven.

She puts her hand on his shoulder.

And then slides her hand into his.

He doesn't pull away.

Two hours pass by, then three.

At four hours, Spencer finally sits down.

At five, Hotch stands up.

Fin curls her legs up to her chest, rocking back and forth. If there is any goodness in the world, if there is any rhyme or reason to the workings of time, then JJ will come walking through that door any minute and say Emily's just fine. She'll say she's sleeping. They can come back in the morning.

Seven and a half hours pass before JJ does walk in.

Everyone's heads turn toward her at once.

Fin's heart leaps into her throat. She stands, ready for good news, ready to cheer, because they did it, they found Doyle, they got Emily–

JJ swallows hard.

And the world, continually spinning, always moving, always changing, seems for the first time ever to careen to a stop. It stops in respect for her. She deserves silence. How dare the world move on with her not in it?

JJ says something about not making it off the table. Fin doesn't hear. Her ears are ringing. Her stomach roils in anguish.

Penelope gasps. Rossi looks away. Hotch closes his eyes.

Spencer leaps to his feet, hell-bent on leaving.

Fin whispers his name through a cascade of tears.

He stops.

Turns.

And runs right into her open arms. Buries his face in her shoulder. "I didn't get a chance to say goodbye."

Fin pulls him close, shaking silently with rib-tearing sobs, pressing her face into his sweater. Spencer's tears soak into her shirt and she doesn't give a damn because Emily is gone.

The room is silent except for the sounds of grief.

The room feels empty.

There is a hole.

There is something missing.

It is Emily.

She is missing.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Fin doesn't let go of Spencer until the plane touches down in D.C.

It is early morning.

Spencer opens his car door for her.

Fin hesitates.

Tonight a part of her soul died.

Nothing can be worse than that.

The universe owes her.

She gets inside.

He drives faster than he ever has. They say nothing to each other. Still, it is loud in the car.

Spencer's apartment is dark.

He hands her a t-shirt and a toothbrush. Vaguely, Fin recognizes it as the one she kept at his apartment.

Or maybe it's new.

She doesn't know. She doesn't care.

They crawl into bed. It is Spencer's turn to pull Fin close.

She buries her face in his chest. He strokes her hair.

Because despite everything, despite how long she's tried to keep her distance, his arms are still the one place she finds peace. The one place she feels safe.

And holding her clears his mind.

They are two halves of a whole, cracked and bandaged and held together with Scotch tape, but a whole nonetheless. They are bound by grief and love and anger at the world. They are bound by a fierce kind of courage, the kind that gets you to your feet when nothing else can. They are bound because they are both fighters, both unwilling to quit, both rising from the ashes and refusing to let who they are stop them from becoming who they can be.

But even fighters can't win every time.

They cry each other to sleep.

~

i'm so sorry.