#time stopped

Posting this because we have yet to experience the full collective trauma of 2020.

If you are reeling from the COVID-19 pandemic & events of 2020, this is your sign in 2026 to keep going… & know that your deeply feeling experiences make you an amazing person,

And you are SEEN… KNOWN… LOVED

TW: blood.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

THEY SURELY GOT ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ON YOU.

No more than 24 hours had gone by since George Foyet called you with his doomsday message, but that was enough to have your nerves completely unsettled — and unfortunately for you, who always considered yourself as someone that was always in control of your own feelings, you were really close to losing your mind.

Not that you believed in a word said by George's crazy lips (you've learned soon enough that his mind worked differently from... well, anyone, and while he was a computer genius — one that had fixed your own computer problems more than once —, he was also a victim of a dormant serial killer, which meant that he had traumas that definitely made him function differently from you), and you knew they were usually lies, conspiracy theories or food cravings, but even you had to confess that receiving his call on the day before Tom Shaunessy — a former police officer from Boston PD — died was a hell of a coincidence.

Or maybe George's guts were finally starting to get things right.

No, no, no. You couldn't give yourself the luxury of thinking George was right, because if he was right, he was in danger, and considering your shared background, you were acutely aware that if George Foyet was, in any capacity, in danger, you were possibly the next one in line.

"He's probably not right" you muttered to yourself for what was possibly the 100th that day, your hands moving frantically as you tried your best to clean up a glass you had in your hands, "Yeah, he's crazy. He could never be right. Everything's ok, and George is just crazy...".

"The best people are" a female voice came from behind you, causing you to jump on your place, turning to meet the friendly face of Diana Clairemont looking back at you, her blonde hair perfectly tied in a fancy bun (something not too usual), "And considering your talking to yourself, I guess you're a bit crazy, too".

Diana's words were low, almost confidential, and the smirk on her lips as she leaned to tell you her "secret" showed you she was just kidding; still, you couldn't bring yourself to offer her nothing but a strangled and not real smile as you placed the clean glass among the others.

"If I'm not..." you muttered to yourself, clearing your throat loudly before grabbing yet another cup, "I sure will be soon enough".

Diana's eyes were pitiful when she took a deep breath, diminishing the space between the two of you to place one friendly hand on your lower arm before you could re-start your previous cleaning agenda, "Craziness is a state of mind, honey" she said, and her accent — a strong, clear, British accent, a contrast to your own Mexican one — showing as it usually did whenever she was offering someone a piece of advice (or scolding her husband), "Wanna talk about it?".

You didn't. God knows you didn't. But after Foyet called you, you had the worst 24 hours of your life, and since your therapist seemed to be too busy to answer your calls — which, you thought, should be prohibited —, talking with someone seemed better than bottling up your feelings for more and more time, until it consumed you.

Just like what happened the last time.

"A friend called" you sighed heavily, placing the glass back on its previous place to cross your arm in front of your body, eyes fixed on the big windows that showed a clear image of the road outside, a bustle of people walking in and out of stores, smiley and happy, minding their own business as if nothing could get to them. You know something that could, something that would end their happiness for the rest of their lives, but something you could never desire them to feel, "He practically said that the end of the world is knocking at the door, and I just... I don't know, I've been thinking about it".

"About the doomsday?".

"No!" you chuckled dryly, shaking your head as you looked down at your feet, "You know... when I was a kid... something happened. Something that forced my parents into moving back to Mexico, so I could have stability and could take care of my mental health..." Diana hummed in agreement, and you knew by the look you saw when you stared at her that she had found her own word for what had happened, and that word was abuse, "It's not its birthday or anything like that, but the cop who was taking care of the case just... passed. And I feel like things are linked. That's it, I'm pretty much crazy".

"Oh, honey, no! You're not crazy!" Diana assured, pulling your for a sided and mostly clumsy hug (or what she could make look like a hug, considering that you were taller than her), "So many things happened at the same time, it's normal to think those things are linked in some degree. And while I imagine you felt safe while he was alive..." you didn't, "You may think that now he's passed, you'll be in danger again. That's a mind trick, you're gonna be ok".

You nodded, muttering a small and weak "Thank you, Di" before squeezing her arm to acknowledge her kindness. Diana was really a good person, and have her around in a moment like that was a gift, considering she gave you a space to let out whatever you feared — and right now, you feared a lot.

But the point was: Diana knew nothing about your background story; as far as she knew — as far as most of the town knew — you were just a good cook from a poor Mexican family that was lucky enough to be blessed with the opportunity of having your own business in a country that had a lot of questions with Latin-American people. You were the one in a million, that rare coin grandpa's kept hidden because they were rare enough to be worth the value of their own houses. You were an example to every little Latin-American girl who had heard that they should return to their own country.

You were a very lucky girl.

On the other side, though, the truth was a lot darker than anyone could think — they didn't know about the years of PTSD; how you could barely leave your home, afraid of whatever hid in the darkness; how you never felt safe at home again; how waking up every day was both a curse and a blessing; they didn't know that even the names of your cakes had a past, and a story, and a deep meaning.

People knew nothing about you, so to expect they understood your pain was... impossible. Because the only person that could understand it was...

A crazy, doomsday-prophet man that barely made it out of his house.

Maybe you and George needed to have a little talk.

"You feeling better?" Diana asked after a few moments of silence, that same small smile still dancing on her lips as she looked up at you — it was, to some extent, a maternal look, and you were grateful you still had that even with your mother miles away from you.

"Yeah, I am. Maybe the only way to get rid of those thoughts is if I go straight to its source" you said, stomping on your feet as you offered the older woman a smile of your own, "Matilda! I need a Foyet, please!".

Your waiter, Matilda, looked at you from over her shoulder, saluting you as she started to march to the showcase where all the cakes were, "Yes, Ma'am!".

You laughed at her foolishness, turning back to face Diana, whose smile had not faltered yet. With a last squeeze on her arm, you started your walk towards Matilda, ready to pick the to-go box of cake when the bell on the door rang, causing you to look up at the door, a frown appearing on your face at the man who had just joined that ambiance.

"Roy?" you asked, clearly baffled, "What are you doing here? Thought you'd talk to Shaunessy's family—".

"Something else came up" Roy informed, walking hurriedly towards you, his hands moving frantically as he spoke, "You need to come with me, now".

"Why?" you asked, your accent a lot more pronounced now that your anxiety started to slowly come back at his own nervousness — you've known Roy for a long time, and you've never seen him as unsettled as he seemed to be at that moment, "What happened?".

"I'll explain on the way, but now you need to—".

"No!" you replied firmly, stepping firmly to stand your ground. You didn't realize when you switched to your mother language, petulance in your every word, "No me iré a ninguna parte hasta que me digas lo que pasó!".

Roy didn't speak Spanish (and you knew that because you've helped him as a translator in a lot of his cases), but it didn't take him a lot to understand what you were saying, even in a different language — if he didn't start talking, he should be ready to stay the whole day trying to move you out of that bakery, because you wouldn't leave.

He sighed heavily, running both his hands over his face before finally looking back up to you — and that was the first time you saw he wasn't just nervous or stressed, he was also tired.

A goosebump ran up your spine, and when he finally uttered the next words, a part of you already knew it was coming.

"He's back. The Reaper is back".

(***)

CAUSE EVEN THE BEST WORRIER THAT EVER WAS GOT NOTHING ON AARON HOTCHNER — not a not-so-fully relaxed Aaron Hotchner (the one who appeared whenever he had to explain to Jack why mommy wasn't joining them for dinner again) and much less with a dead-set to a goal SSA Aaron Hotchner.

It wasn't exactly a secret to anyone that, from the moment he left the US Attorneys to become an FBI Agent, Aaron had immediately become an overthinker — a polite way not to call him an extreme paranoid; of course, it didn't show at the job, place where he was supposed to always be calm and collected (and he made it perfectly, by the way), but those traits showed up whenever he was away, in moments he'd spend with Jack, or the rare talks with Haley...

Oh, and last night when Tom Shaunessy told him they were being watched by a prolific Serial Killer. That was the highlight of his night.

"There's something bothering you" Rossi whispered, leaning against the table that separated him and Aaron, his analytic eyes focused on his friend, one glass of scotch (that he shouldn't be drinking, considering they were working) in hands as he tried to cover his lips not to call the attention of the rest of the team, "Mind sharing?".

"Aside from the fact that Shaunessy made a deal with the devil and now we have to find and arrest a dormant serial killer?" Aaron grumbled between his teeth, not looking up from his papers, "No, I think that's all that's bothering me".

It wasn't. And Aaron knew that Rossi was aware of that.

"Hmm" the older man hummed, grabbing his own file to take a look at it, "That's an unsettling fact, yes... but I think you're more worried about something that's not here..."

Aaron peeked up at Rossi through his thick eyelashes, sighing heavily with an unamused expression on his face when he muttered, "I guess you're gonna tell me what it is?".

David smiled cheekily, and it didn't take a profiler to know how pleased he was about that talk — and about his ability to show off how smarter he was, if compared to Aaron (who, they all knew, was a really good profiler), "The gap".

“Which gap?” Aaron asked, raising one brow. Had he noticed the gap? Yes. Would he tell David, and let that cocky smile on the older profiler’s face grow bigger? Of course not!

“Don’t play dumb, Aaron. Doesn’t fit you” David retorted, "I know you noticed the gap between Michele and Felicity's killing, how he spent more than his usual cooling off period without killing anyone—"

"And how Felicity was his last victim before Shaunessy's deal, yes" he gave up, finally allowing himself to completely look at David, "What do you want me to say now?".

"Why this is bothering you" the older man shrugged, one brow raised, "Because I can see it is. Something tells me that you've seen something in this gap, something more than you're willing to tell us".

"Because it's just a theory" Aaron retorted, "A theory based in a bigger cool off period, that possibly doesn't mean anything—".

"But that can give us a lead" Rossi retorted, licking his lips, "So if you won't tell me, I'm gonna build my own theory about your theory".

Aaron didn't reply, keeping his eyes set on David for a few moments, aware that his co-worker was studying him — Rossi was one of the few Agents at BAU able to profile him, and possibly (no, certainly) the only one he didn't close himself off to; he knew that a part of him, as hidden as it was, wanted Rossi to read him, to know what he was thinking. That way he wouldn't be the one burdening people with his points of view, or pitiful stories — he couldn't be accused of plaguing someone when they found it out first.

Maybe his inability of opening up was the reason why his marriage ended. That is, another reason why his marriage ended — at this point he had found so many of them, that he could barely discover which one was the real reason.

"I think you believe there's another victim" David pointed finally, his hands moving through the pictures inside his manila folder, analyzing each and every one with care and attention, "Someone we never knew about, and they couldn't have died, otherwise we'd know".

Aaron nodded slowly, leaning heavily against his chest, feeling the weight of this whole case weighing on his shoulders, "I don't wanna believe it, though" he confessed in a low tone, "Because if there's another victim, and they're alive, it means that Shaunessy uncovered an attempted murder for the sake of his career, and this story is getting worst at every minute".

David nodded slowly, his face showing he understood Aaron's point — if there was a surviving victim, one that dated that far on the investigation... well, he couldn't imagine the retaliation the Boston PD would suffer over it, over Tom Shaunessy's mistake.

"He did what he thought was right, Aaron" David said lowly, closing his folder and taking a sip of his drink, "I'm not saying Shaunessy is innocent, he's not, but he regrets his choice".

"Yes, but the first thing we learn at the Academy is that those calls..." he pointed at the rough contract the Reaper had given Shaunessy, "We don't make them. We don't decide whether a serial killer's gonna be free or not, we make sure they'll pay for what they've done, prosecuted to the full extent of the law...".

"But we're profilers. We're FBI" David emphasized the last word, as if Aaron had forgotten it for a minute in his speech, "We make decisions that can affect the whole country, we travel all around it to make sure everyone is as safe as possible, and we do whatever it takes to make sure they're safe and sound" he stopped for a minute, taking into Aaron's expression — as usual, Aaron had a scowl on his face, but the lines were softer, a sign that, even though he didn't agree with everything David was saying, he was still listening, and still learning, "Shaunessy thought he was doing the right thing to protect Boston, and for ten years it worked pretty well. He did what he could do with the limited resources he had. Now it's on us to use every resource we have to make sure history doesn't repeat itself. To do better than Shaunessy could ever do".

Aaron humphed, looking outside the jet's window, the rays of sun warming his face as he took inhaled and exhaled for a moment before turning back to the folder, "History is already repeating itself" he said, staring at the pictures of the most recent couple killed, "Let's just make sure it won't be as terrible as it was the first time".

(***)

CAUSE EVEN THE BEST WORRIER THAT EVER WAS... there were no more headlines to describe what was happening that day.

You licked your lips slowly, your eyes fixed on the crime scene in front of you, hands going up and down your arms nervously as you bit your inner cheek, the pain starting to build and the metallic taste of blood already present on your lips.

"It can't be happening" you whispered, looking at the black car that had just parked outside the crime scene's limits, "Not again, it can't be...".

You felt when Diana's hands touched your upper arm in a comforting way, just as she had done previously that day; you weren't exactly sure why she and Matthew had decided to come with you and Roy to the crime scene, but they seemed as baffled as you, keeping their bodies close to yours as if trying to shield you from whatever was making you nervous.

They didn't know, and yet there they were.

"Sargeant O'Mara says it's a copycat" Matthew said, but his eyes showed clearly that he had his own doubts about it. Looking down at you, he tried to offer a weak smile before reaching for his pocket, taking his phone out of it, "I have a friend at CIA, maybe...".

"What is he doing here?".

Diana and Matthew immediately turned to look at the same spot you were, head slightly tilted to the side, "I know him" Diana commented, "He worked at Scotland Yard for a few days, helped on a case".

"It's Aaron Hotchner," you said in a whisper, "He's with BAU, he investigated the original case, he..." you stuttered when your eyes met for a second, taking an almost unnoticeable step behind. But if Aaron Hotchner noticed it, he didn't show anything before turning his back towards the car where the victims were left, "If he's here, it means..."

"That it's not a copycat" Roy finished.

You hated romantic books — the cliché ones more than any other. You hated how they always romanticized the terrible and suffocating sensation of fainting because you had had your fair share of experience with fainting to know things didn't happen as glamorously as in the books.

Now, for example, it all started with the sensation of not being able to breathe; it was like your windpipe had suddenly closed, and even the memory of how to breathe had faded away — you knew you were inhaling, but was just impossible to let it out. Then, you weren't able to hear anything. You could see Diana's lips moving, her eyes wide in worry as she tried to get a hold of you — and while you knew you were slowly moving away, you couldn't feel your feet moving.

The blur was the next thing you noticed, and the last...

Before you hit the ground.

Source details and larger version.

Are you shaken, are you stirred    By a whisper of love, Spellbound to a word    Does Time cease to move, Till her calm grey eye    Expands to a sky And the clouds of her hair    Like storms go by?

Then the lips that you have kissed    Turn to frost and fire, And a white-steaming mist    Obscures desire: So back to their birth    Fade water, air, earth, And the First Power moves    Over void and dearth.

Is that Love? no, but Death,    A passion, a shout, The deep in-breath,    The breath roaring out, And once that is flown,    You must lie alone, Without hope, without life,    Poor flesh, sad bone.

---- The Kiss

Robert Graves  1895-1985

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And I forgot what I was thinking