Log in

No account? Create an account
In the life of a Finch
Scribbled words
Kelly: Secret Santa 3 
27th-Dec-2009 11:20 pm
Fuck yes!!!!

Home (And why it's important)


The house was big, because that’s what they both wanted. Big. When she first saw it, she smiled and said thank you, rubbing her swollen stomach. He kisses her to ease her mind. He could pay for it. Anything for their family, his family. He held her hand as she showed her inside, showed her to the living room, the kitchen, the master bedroom, and then the nursery. It was painted blue. She cried when she saw it.

The apartment was small, which, at first, felt odd until he realized he was the only one living in it. The house wasn’t that far away, and he knew he could visit whenever he wanted, but he rarely did. He would take the long way home, just to trick and torture his mind into thinking he was really going home, but then would always turn the other way and go home to the apartment. He’d call later that night when his tie was off and his brief case was down. Jack would normally be asleep, but he sometimes just liked to hear her voice. When he hung up the phone, he could never decide if he felt better or worse. Almost four hours later he would fall asleep, never choosing one or the other.

When they moved back into the big house, he held Jack when they came in through the door. It was silent and empty. The furniture was all there, placed perfectly because she had taken almost two years getting everything right. There was a thin layer of dust on everything. He put Jack down, telling him “we’re home”. The words would sound happy, as if he didn’t choke on them as they came out. He would never be able to say those words again without it hurting. When he went up the stairs, he stopped at a door and opened it. The nursery was still painted blue.


He would get home late, because he stopped by the church on the way home and after had to go to the bar to forget about it. He never got drunk, and he never had to call a cab. He only drank until his throat burned. It erased the rest of the day. He had been in the business too long for anything to affect him past that. Mugsy would be waiting on the stairs when he got home; her eyes drooping with sleep, but always protecting the house while he was gone. She would get a tummy rub for that, every night. Those were her favorites.

His walls were empty, because he said he never really had any memories to hold on to. He says pictures make a house feel like a home. He’s had too many homes to make that mistake again. If asked, he would always agree with the ‘right company’ rule. He watches television with his dog until both of them are too tired to keep up with Moe, Larry, and Curly’s antics. Normally, it’s about midnight when they fall asleep. Mugsy lay at the foot of the bed, head turned towards the door, always ready. Rossi felt protected with her, and because of that, he could sleep without a gun in his bedside table.


She owned her apartment. It made her feel more independent then when her mother would pay for everything. That ended almost seven years ago, when they stopped talking to each other; stopped calling. For a few months, she didn’t know where her mother was, or if she was even alive. That Christmas, her mother stopped by. It was snowing outside. They shared a bottle of red wine between the two of them with baked cod, apricots, oranges, and dates, even though the meal wasn’t meant until January. After that, she’d always walk into her apartment and smell her mother’s perfume covered by fresh cod and parsley. Sometimes she hated it, over times it kept her head clear at night.

She heard the stories of Elle, the woman she replaced. Hotch had told her what Elle said about a home, about how they weren’t there for her. It was supposed to be for comfort, because they all knew better, but she never acknowledged that. She liked to think she didn’t need them, that her home could be hers without that being taken away. She moved around a lot as a kid. She was constantly here and there, and never called anything a home. She never thought it was a correct term for a place someone stayed in for three months. So, when she finally had a home of her own, she was dead set on protecting that. She would never admit how she would love to have J.J. or Rossi over for baked cod and red wine someday.


It was so easy for her to say it, home. For it to slip out of her mouth when ever the subject came up and not once would she think about what that meant. Never would she see how it seemed so emotionless, or how she threw it around. It was just that common for her. She’d lived in the same place all her life, grew up with the same people, and even now when she had grown up and moved away she was never too far from home. It was just the way she thought.

Until she met him, and until she had Henry. Now it’s hard to believe she can stay away for so long or to even still have this job. It was dangerous and far and long and would surely screw up her life even more, as it has done with Hotch, Rossi, Elle, Gideon, Spencer….everyone. Sometimes, sometimes, she wonders how any of them could still get up in the morning and come to work; how she possible could. At home she had her son. At home she had her family. At home she was safe. She’d think this and think this and think this until she left her house, and got to work.

There, she saw Spencer by the coffee machine, still trying to wake up. She walked by Morgan and Prentiss teasing each other. She saw Rossi laughing beside them. She saw Hotch in his office, looking as hard working as ever. She said hi to Penelope on her way to her own office, commenting on the woman’s outfit that day. And then she’d sit at her desk, in her chair, and stare at the piles of papers and folders filled with pictures of corpses and detailed reports. She would sigh.

Because this was home too.


He drops his keys on the counter and locks the door, knowing far too well what might happen if it’s not locked. He can never really shake off work. It was a Tuesday, so he was home earlier then usual without slurring his words too. He didn’t bring home a girl either. He never did, as he knew his mother would disprove of it. As soon as the door was closed, he heard a bark from the living room and Clooney would come running. The English bulldog would be panting happily, barking at his presence. He scratches his head and telling him how hard of a day he had. They lay down on the couch together, starting at the ceiling.

He’d then say “Almost forgot” like it wasn’t on his mind as soon as he walked through the door. He would grab the phone and quickly dial the number, the print on the buttons are faded from how many times he has pushed the combination. The ‘7’ is always the most faded. The number had three of them in it. He’d answer just as he always did, ‘Hey pretty lady’ until his mother reprimanded him and he said ‘Hey, momma.’ They’d talk until Morgan yawned, and she would tell him to go to bed. He would, just as long as she would tuck him in. She’d say I love you. And he’d fall asleep on the couch, clothes on, Clooney on his back, taking up half the couch. His bed upstairs would almost always go untouched. She’d never tuck him in.


She was always the last to leave the office. She would use anyone as an excuse to get away sooner, but on normal day, on boring days, she’d turn off her computers long after the janitors stopped cleaning. It was because she never wanted to go home, and because she always wanted to leave this place.

On her way home, she always went to the video store and bought the worse chick flick she could find. Sometimes, she actually believed loved worked that way. Those were the nights were she fell asleep happily. The walk up her steps was a struggle, and she would always have to take a breath before opening her door. Maybe it was for her mentality, maybe it was physical preparation. There was never anything wrong. Her chest would always ache with that thought.

The computers would be too hot to touch when she was done with them. Whether it be playing, fixing, or programming, she couldn’t stop until she actually noticed the clock read 2:37 am. She kill the power and then notice the movie had been over for almost four hours. Still wired from being online, it would take another hour to fall asleep, and even more if she ever noticed the other half of the bed was cold beside her. Hugging a stuffed dragon, she’d finally fall asleep.


The three locks were because, deep down, he was paranoid. The miss matched socks were because, deep down, he was superstitious. He’d throw down his bag after those two facts ran through his mind. He’d never tell.

The day he finally realized he might die of a tower of books falling on him was the day he finally bought book shelves, even if the statistics of that happening were very slime, he was still cautious. His entire apartment was filled with book shelves, and even still there were a few piles of books, one almost up to his shoulders. He made a mental note to fix that, but he never would. His living room was messy, at least in his eyes. It was filled with books, files, and quilts. The tv was hidden by books, his floor by files, and his couch by quilts. If he stood by the door and stared at it long enough, he’d force his brain into not caring, and finally walk into his home.

He could use that word because he looked up it’s meaning, and decided it was a proper description for the apartment. He didn’t hate it that much and it did protect him, even if filled with deadly book piles. He always ignored the fact that it was quiet, empty, and alone. It kept the frown lines out of his forehead longer.

The only person to ever come into his home was Garcia, and that’s only when she came by unexpected with a movie, a bowl of popcorn, and a bag of twizzlers. Even then, she’d have to tell him he needed it, and he did. Always. She didn’t criticize his living space, only deeming it in her mind the ‘World of Spencer Reid: Boy Genius” as if it was a good thing. He always saw it as four shelves of mental illness, one and a half of which were dedicated to schizophrenia, a kitchen was hadn’t had fresh food in it in almost three weeks, a bedroom that was never tidy and always with an unmade bed, and a bathroom filled with sleeping pills because the nightmares still got to him.

He would smile at her anyway and say ‘Come on in.’
28th-Dec-2009 05:54 am (UTC)
Hayleyyyyyyyyyyyyy. This was all sad and pretty. Why didn't you tell me to read it first so the other stories would cheer me up?

Anyhow, I looooves it. And you.
This page was loaded Apr 22nd 2018, 8:37 am GMT.