Petco
Thinking back on it, this may be one of the worst ideas Strauss has ever had.
We’re all gathered on the plane now, the BAU’s private jet. The couches are comfy and I’m currently laying on one of them with my forearm over my eyes and my headphones blasting heavy rock music that I know is very audible to everyone. I expected the atmosphere to be a little tense, sure, but I wasn’t expecting it to be the most awkward encounter of my entire life.
Without moving my arm or shifting the thin blanket over me I can tell where everyone is. Rossi and Derek are seated together at the back of the plane near the coffee machine. JJ and Hotch are seated on the opposite side with Emily while Dad sits on the part of the couch I’m not sprawled out on. He’s reading a book a lot faster than he usually would, which I know means he isn’t retaining any of the information.
There was some attempts by Emily, JJ, and Hotch to talk to me, but Dad put my headphones over my ears and that was that. Is it extremely infuriating to be treated like a toddler? Yes, yes it is. Am I kind of relieved anyways because I don’t know what to say? Absolutely.
See, the thing is, I’m still plenty angry. And definitely a bit hurt. But with all the cutting recently I’ve taken a big chunk of that anger out on myself. And I mean a big chunk.
I meant what I said, my earlier version of self harm was nothing more than a few burns. The marks JJ must have seen up and down my wrists after Emily ‘died’ were deep scratch marks that were too shallow to draw blood and not deep enough to scar.
What I’ve been doing recently? It’s a fucking horror show.
Angry purple scars are raised on my forearms like I branded a bar code there. I’ve gone through a pack of twenty cigarettes in the last week when in the past I’ve had maybe one a month. The last time I ate was in the car last night but before that I can’t remember, and I haven’t slept for a decent amount of time in ages. I’m extremely pale, I know I am, and the shadows under my eyes look more like bruises. My hair is pretty greasy because I don’t have the energy to wash it correctly in the shower, and I’m wearing a paint-splattered sweatshirt and sweatpants because I haven’t done laundry in forever.
I don’t know why I can’t stop it all. I’m trying, all the time, but it’s just too hard.
I’m startled back to reality by a small hand grabbing my bicep. Turning my head lazily, I blink at the sight of Henry next to the couch and wonder for a second if I’ve reached the hallucination phase of sleep deprivation before Derek speaks up.
“Uh, why’s Henry here?” He doesn’t direct his question towards Emily, he doesn’t seem to be able to look her in the eyes.
She answers anyways. “Will’s in New Orleans for a family reunion and we couldn’t get anyone to watch Henry.”
I do my best to ignore their little conversation and take in Henry’s appearance. The seven year old boy looks exhausted and a bit green around the gills. He’s airsick, most definitely, and looks like he’s on the verge of tears.
With a sigh, I lift the side of my blanket and the plane falls silent as Henry beams at me and wriggles his way into my little cocoon. He keeps squirming and shimmying until he’s half-sprawled on top of me with his head resting on my shoulder. The kid’s like a furnace and within seconds he’s asleep.
Quietly so I don’t wake him, I take off my headphones. I maneuver us until we’re upright so Henry’s clinging to me like a baby koala. Then I reach to the side of the couch, pull out a gallon ziploc bag and remove the contents, before starting to knit.
But before I can even get one stitch done something else falls out of my bag and my Dad’s eyes widen at the sight of it.
He pinches his nose before turning his brown eyes to mine. “Finley. Pray tell why you have a fake ID?”
I rush to think of an answer that doesn’t involve ‘oh, right, see, I have a nicotine addiction and I’ve been smoking since I was ten. My bad, I would have told you but you had your own stuff going on’. Finally, I settle on the second reason I got the ID and feel my face get warm.
“You … eighteen … hold,” I mutter, glaring at my knitting needles.
Derek speaks up this time, him and everyone else looking just as livid as my dad. “What was that kid?”
I sigh, not loud enough to wake Henry but loud enough to convey my embarrassment. “You have to be eighteen to hold the puppies at Petco…”
There’s quiet.
Then my Dad facepalms and chokes on a bought of laughter.
“Dad!” I hiss, red cheeked. “It’s not funny!” Derek and Rossi snort too, and I snap my head towards them. “Uncle Rossi! Uncle Derek!”
“Oh whatever, kid,” Derek beams, and a shot of guilt hits my stomach as he ruffles my hair. “Calm down and take a nap with Henry. You both look exhausted.”
Still grumbling, I comply, laying back down to try and pass out even as my Dad giggles.
That was close.
****
Here ya go