Chapter Text
No one knows.
Well, that’s not entirely true. JJ and Emily obviously know. The sperm bank has a record. But that’s the extent of it. You’re 8 weeks in - still in disbelief, still very unsure, still wanting time to move fractionally faster to make it to that 11 week appointment scan. If you thought JJ and Emily doted on you before, carrying their child, your child… it’s a whole different ball game. They’re hyper aware of your physical location and your potential needs. Emily has spent hours researching morning sickness remedies, not to mention spending far too much money on every possible product that could alleviate any of that discomfort for you. JJ is basically never not touching you. In the time since insemination, you have gotten very good at swatting her hands away in the office or in the field.
“We won’t be gone long,” JJ insists, shoving things into her go-bag without even paying attention. “If you need anything, we can be back in a flash.”
“Relax,” you roll your eyes. “I am a big girl and plenty capable of being on my own for the 48 hours you two have to go testify. We’ve done this thousands of times,” you remind JJ. Emily is slightly more sane, and she is not panicking at the thought of leaving you unattended for 2 days.
“Yes, but you’ve never been pregnant any of those times,” JJ counters. “What if you need something?”
You catch her hand and pull her into your space. “I will be fine. Peanut will be fine. We all have a job to do, Jayje.” She pouts at you with her hands on her hips. “And again, I am a fully functioning grown up. If I need something, I can get it myself, and you’ll both be home before we know it. Relax, Jen.”
She takes a purposeful inhale and exhales sharply through her nose. Her forehead presses against yours. “I can’t help it.”
“I know,” you understand. “Your protective self is in overdrive. And we will be okay.” Eventually Emily drags JJ out of the bedroom and out of the house, but not before they both kiss you and your still-flat stomach.
By the time you get into the office, Strauss is already next to your desk. Her perfume makes your stomach flip, and you school your features to neutral. “I need you to retrieve a witness and deliver her to court.” She hands you a file. “This one needs more of a woman’s touch, I think.” You scan through the reports and photos secured inside and nod your understanding. “Her foster family lost track of her, so she’s in the wind. Use Penelope to find her.”
Locating the teenager is not as hard as it could be. Street kids are smart and resourceful, but sometimes they’re still kids. This is one of those instances. You give Morgan a head’s up that you’re going out and head to the warehouse district. Scaffoldings obscure the warehouse entrance, and plastic coverings flap in the wind, as you stare at your phone to confirm this as the location Garcia sent you. Lovely.
Unholstering your weapon to be on the safe side, you weave your way through the different levels searching for the young girl. It feels deserted in a way that makes your hair stand up on the back of your neck. Unused construction material everywhere, layers and layers of dust. Garcia tells you that the contracting company went belly-up. The city shut off the power and water for everything except emergency services. “Mari,” you call out when you hear the faintest shuffle of someone moving against the plastic tarps. “My name is Ace. I’m an FBI agent. Can we talk?” Wherever she is, the girl is good at blending into the surroundings. “Your file says you ran away from your foster home. Was it a shitty one, or did the idea of being in court scare you enough to run?” Carefully you step over segments of pipe strewn on the concrete floor. “I used to be a kid like you. I started in foster care when I was 5. I just want to help. I can take you to get some lunch; we can talk. What you choose is entirely up to you. I’m going to sit by the elevator while you think about it.”
When Mari does finally come out, your hips are sore from sitting on the concrete. “You became an FBI agent,” she asks timidly. “Because of what happened to you?”
“I became an FBI agent in spite of what happened to me,” you correct. “Sometimes life really sucks that way.” She grimaces and nods. “Bad luck with placement this time around?”
“No, they’re fine,” Mari shrugs. “Nice, even.” You wait quietly for her to continue if she feels like it. You’ve long since learned when to keep your mouth shut and just listen. “I don’t want to testify. I didn’t see anything helpful.” You nod empathetically. “I’m just a kid. I want to keep my head down and get out of this place.”
You pass her your card. “Keep it. If you ever need it…” You let your words trail off, the message and intention clear. “Are you hungry?” Mari nods, nudging a pile of dirt with the toe of her sneaker. Something catches your attention, and you hold your finger to your lips, listening past the ambient sounds of the warehouse district. “Go hide. Do not come out unless it’s me or someone who can tell you my name, ok?”
Scared, Mari books it. Briefly, you watch her fleeing figure, so you’ll know where to look later. Then you focus on the definite foot falls you hear from the open stairwell. With a quick text to Garcia for possible back up, you rise to a crouch, gun raised and finger just off the trigger. You steady your breath, slipping into your tried-and-true sniper mindset that drives your focus and awareness. Peering around the wall and keeping most of your body protected behind it, you look into the stairwell to see a tall man, dirty blonde hair, suit and tie. What you notice most is the silencer screwed onto the barrel of his gun.
He fires at you, plaster raining around you where the bullet clipped the edge of the wall as you tucked yourself away. Time to relocate. Quietly you hustle across the open layout, grabbing a pipe as you pass the ones strewn across the floor, and flatten yourself against a wall on the opposite side. A scaffolding partially obscures you from view.
A: shots fired. Send back up. Seems like a pro.
After you secure your phone, you focus on the matter at hand, trusting Garcia to get you the help you and Mari need as long as you can hold off the armed assailant long enough. You line your shot up, waiting. God, Emily and JJ are going to kill you if you get shot while they’re out of town. His movement affects your line of sight, and your shot nails him in the arm. The bastard, definitely some sort of hired piece, catches some view of you that sets him off, and he fires nearly at the same time as you, hitting your bullet-proof vest straight on. Both guns clatters off to the side with the impact of each hit. The main issue being, he now knows exactly where you are by following the shot’s trajectory.
Before he can retrieve his weapon, you rush over, swinging the pipe into his injured arm. That’s your intention anyway. He catches the pipe with his other hand, and for a long moment, you’re stuck in a stalemate, both of you holding onto a segment of pipe. The man has the upper hand though, both in height and sheer strength. He rips it from your grip. Holding it like a bat, he knocks you in the stomach, and you double over in pain. Then he brings the pipe down across your back, sending you flying onto the floor. Groaning, the man picks up his gun, leveling it at you. “I just want the damn girl.” You twist away from his shot, feeling pieces of concrete spray into your face. It brings you in arms reach of another pipe segment. “Where is she?”
You drive the end of the pipe up into his groin as hard as you can and then scramble for your gun, rolling onto your back to fire up at him. That shot is a kill shot, and his body weight falls on to you, knocking the wind from your lungs.
With all your strength you peel your body out from under him. You push yourself to sitting and take stock of your injuries. You’re sure there will be a nasty bruise where you caught his bullet in your vest. You feel blood oozing from your temple. Your back smarts if you try and shift in any direction. You actively avoid thinking about the hit to your stomach or the intense ache it radiates.
A: need medics and the ME
With the deepest, most steadying breath you can manage, you lever yourself onto your feet. You feel for his pulse, just to be damn sure he’s dead. You tuck his gun into the waistband of your pants against the small of your back. “Are you okay,” Mari asks, her voice a scared sound. You nod, ignoring the head rush and the wooziness and the panic that is starting to set in because the pain in your stomach isn’t dissipating.
“C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”
“Can you walk down the stairs,” Mari wonders, pulling your arm over her shoulders to help support your weight.
“Elevator is on the emergency power, city regulation,” you answer. You hear sirens in the distance.
By the time you both make it downstairs and out into the street, an ambulance and a police car are parked next to your SUV. A medic rushes over to help you, and Mari floats hesitantly near the back of the ambulance. Morgan’s voice echoes through all the chaos as he hollers your nickname through the clump of first responders. Before he can steamroll into his overprotective, brotherly spiel, you introduce the two of them. “Mari, this is Morgan. He’s a friend of mine. He’s going to make sure you’re taken care of, ok? One of the EMTs will check you out and make sure you’re not injured. Morgan will make sure you get something to eat. Your social worker will meet you either at the hospital or back at our office. You have my number, right?” Mari nods, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Call anytime.”
“Kid, you are off your rocker if you think you’re going anywhere by yourself. They would kill me.”
“I’m not asking. Take care of Mari. I will be fine,” you insist. “I will call them when I’m in recovery.”
Morgan scoffs. “You know PG already told them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re speeding back home by now.”
“Ma’am, we need to go,” the medic tells you. You acquiesce and climb into the back of the ambulance. You just hear Morgan mumble something under his breath about your stubborn nature. “Anything we need to know? Medications, surgeries, health issues,” the EMT lists, peeling the bulletproof vest off your body, now that the doors are closed and you’re in reasonable privacy.
“I’m pregnant,” you force yourself to say.
It’s the only thing you can think of that matters.
It’s a doctor who looks pityingly at you as he reads off the file. It’s confirmation to what your body already knows, what your heart already feels. “Okay, when can I leave?”
“We recommend staying overnight for observation. An injury like that that bruises your spleen, kidneys, and liver can…”
“I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign. When can I leave?”
The doctor fidgets with his clipboard. You’re aware this can’t be a comfortable conversation with him, and you can’t bring yourself to care. You want to go home. “You’ll likely experience some pretty heavy bleeding for a few days.” You swallow thickly and will your emotions into an ironclad box in the back of your mind. “If the intensity doesn’t decrease after 2-3 days, you need to come back in. With your paperwork, I’ll include a list of other symptoms to look out for as well as some informational packets about pregnancy loss and some resources that you may find beneficial. Again, we don’t recommend you checking yourself out.”
“What do I need to sign?”
“I’ll have a nurse draw up the paperwork and pull together those resources. Shouldn’t be more than 30 or 45 minutes. Is there someone available to sit with you? Or drive you home?”
You’d prefer to be alone.
One of the nurses takes pity on you. She gives you the thickest discharge packet you’ve ever seen, and the paperwork you have to sign is longer than War & Peace. So many spots to signal your understanding that you are leaving against medical advisement. It just makes you mad.
Your phone rings for the 30th time in as many minutes. “Seems like you’ve got some folks who really care about you,” the nurse comments. You bite your lip and collect your stuff, ignoring every ache and pain in your body. “Down the hall, elevator to the lobby. Please come back if anything seems out of the ordinary.”
Out of the ordinary. The words are heavy in a way you don’t expect. There was nothing ordinary about being pregnant. Nothing ordinary about the way you lost it either.
A cab takes you home, and you drag yourself through the door, dropping your stuff where it falls. You pour yourself a drink and head upstairs.
A: made it home
JJ: answer your goddamn phone
It rings again, and you steel your resolve. “Hey,” you answer tiredly. You can hear the tears and the worry in JJ’s voice before she’s even said a word. “Just letting you know I made it home. I’m going to shower and get some rest.”
“Baby,” JJ exhales slowly. “What happened?”
“I’m… umm… picking up a witness for a testimony for Strauss. Ran into a hit man. Just another day at the BAU.”
“Morgan said you looked like hell,” Emily interjects. You shrug even though they can’t see you. You take a long sip of the whiskey and flip the shower handle to hot. All the way hot. “What did the ER say?”
“That when you take a pipe to the stomach like a battering ram, you can expect lot of intense pain and bleeding.” You can’t say the actual words. It hurts too much.
“Ace. What,” JJ drawls slowly, somehow each word laced with a host of painful emotions. You swipe angrily at your tears. “Baby, talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Bullet hit the vest. Pipe to the stomach, pipe across the back. Superficial cuts from debris going every which way,” you relay the facts as statically as you can manage. “Bruised spleen, kidneys, and liver. Bruising on my chest where the vest caught the bullet. I haven’t seen my back but I can imagine it looks like the bruising across my stomach. A couple of lacerations on my forehead use butterfly sutures. Others have skin glue.”
“And they let you check out of the ER,” Emily questions suspiciously while JJ asks the point blank question you’ve been trying to avoid.
“I’m not anymore.” It’s the most you can say. It’s as close as you’ve come to saying it out loud. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Hey,” JJ catches your attention before you hang up. “We love you,” she swears. “This doesn’t change that at all. Tell me you know that.” You mumble an affirmative that you don’t entirely believe. “Ace. Promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”
“I promise, I’ll see when you get here.” You hang up before they can say anything else. You strip, studiously avoiding the mirror, and climb into the shower, sinking to the tiled floor to let the hot water rain over you, gauze and sutures be damned.
When you drag yourself out of the shower, your skin is wrinkled like a prune. You don’t bother drying off. You rifle through Emily’s stuff until you find her Yale hoodie, the one she teases you about because it’s possibly older than you are. You don the loose, heather gray Redskins sweats that JJ could live in if given the choice. Again you avoid all mirrors. Every last possible reflection. You take your whiskey and grab the fluffiest blanket you can before curling into Emily’s side of the bed, burying yourself under the layers.
And then a sob wrecks through your chest, which aches at the force of the emotions. It doesn’t feel better. It just hurts. You cry until it feels like you can’t breathe. You cry for your lost pregnancy, your aching body, your partners and their hopefulness. You cry because maybe this is how it’s supposed to happen. People like you don’t get families like that. People like you get hurt and pain and trauma and the kind of pervasive bad luck that makes you feel like the world is out to get you. You cry because you loved the baby growing your in belly. You cry because you wanted them more than anything. You cry because facing your girlfriends after losing their baby might be more than can you bear.
You don’t remember how or when you stop crying. Just that eventually your body shuts down and you fall asleep with your face buried in Emily’s pillow under sheets, covers, and blankets, wearing your girlfriends’ favorite clothes.