A hard days night

"Eight days a week"

"There is a poem called ‘Loss’ carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read loss, only feel it.”

The quote won’t stop echoing in your mind. 

It’s from a book you read once, though you couldn’t remember when or what it was. Reid would probably know. If you only turned to where he sat next to you at the table you shared with the rest of the team all dressed in black and wearing solemn expressions, he would tell you. 

But you didn’t ask him. 

The quote would not stop echoing, and you could not stop thinking about loss. You saw so much of it in your work, so much tragedy and pain and the tragedy and pain that came out of it. 

Whenever you thought you’d begun to make sense of the seemingly endless cycle of hurt in the world, something like this happened. 

You cannot read loss, only feel it . 

You wondered, looking at Jack where he stood beside his father in a tiny suit and tie, if he understood what he was feeling. Friends and family, mourners all, approached with condolences. Jack listened quietly as Hotch shook hands and nodded, thanking them all for coming. You knew Jack felt it, he knew that his mother was gone...but he was so young. 

“I worked the case with Daddy,” He told you as you carried him out of Hotch’s office and out of the house. “Just like you.” 

You set him down on the front lawn and crouched in front of him. You kept his eyes on you, his back to the place he had called home now swarming with FBI agents, medics, and police officers. You held back your own tears, pushing his hair away from his face and managing a smile. 

“You know, Jack,” You said. “I think you’re very brave.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” You nodded, your gaze drawn to the sight of Hotch emerging from the house. 

His hands and his shirt were splattered with blood. You couldn’t tell whose it was– his, Foyet’s, or Haley’s. Maybe all of them. 

He met your gaze, his amber eyes haunted. 

“Jack,” You spoke quietly, “I want you to remember that even when you’re being brave, you can still feel scared or sad and ask for help. Okay?” 

He nodded in the somber way children do, eyes wide as he looked at you. 

“Okay,” You said, neatening his hair again though it hadn’t ever fallen out of place. You stood, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder to turn him towards his father. 

“Daddy!” 

You’d watched as Hotch took his son in his arms, pressing his nose to the top of the boy’s head. You turned away.

You looked away from the receiving line, gazing at the photo of Haley across the reception hall. Her hair was short and blonde, a big smile stretched across her face. 

She was beautiful. 

You hadn’t seen her since she and Jack got into the marshal’s car and left the hospital. You hadn’t seen her that day at the house, not without the white sheet spread across her body as they wheeled her body away.