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Realistic or Modern 𝔴𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 (itliveswithin & Soot)
- Thread starter roxybirdie
- Start date
roxybirdie
𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐢 😸
APRIL 5TH, 2025 • QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
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Eleven years.
"—von!"
Eleven fucking years.
"—ryton!"
Eleven years, six months, four thousand and five hundred hours—
"Oi, Bambi! Pay attention!"
Sharp amber eyes locked onto inquisitive green. Devon immediately scowled. "Don't call me that, Le Fey," he countered; the response automatic.
The aforementioned man — Supervisory Special Agent Rory Morrigan, one of BAU's top senior agents — snorted. "I'm not the one with a baby face and doe-like eyes," he drawled with an unrepentant smirk. He deliberately rubbed the distinct stubble over his jawline. "Have you considered growing a beard, kid?" the Irishman teased.
He rolled his eyes. "If you're calling that a beard, you're delusional," Devon snarked.
"You're unusually feisty this morning. Where's the witty Devon we know and love?" Despite the older man's jest, his eyes were inquiring.
Devon suppressed a sigh. "Guess I'm still in shock," he snorted wryly.
"Gregor's unpredictable," Rory agreed, glancing at their new teammate. He remembered when Devon suggested Lucas Moon as a temporary candidate for the team; the team was currently suffering a shortage. Devon suggested the name on a whim, but Rory wasn't surprised Gregor took it seriously. He would be lying if he said he didn't snicker at his colleague's expense; the kid's reaction was hilarious.
Gregor — Supervisory Special Agent Percival Gregor, the BAU's unit chief — was currently coordinating with the team's media liaison, Kenna. It was early in the morning, half past six Eastern Standard Time. Since the flight to Westchester, Oregon would roughly take five hours on the team's private jet — thank god for small miracles — everyone was called in earlier than normal time. Despite the minor inconvenience, Devon was use to the hustling and bustling schedule; he kept a to-go bag fully packed for such an occasion. "So, what's your take?" he inquired. He raised a case file and leafed through the photos.
He bit back a grimace. "Brutal," Rory began. He snagged the file from Devon's grip and placed it on the small table stationed between the two agents. The jet's cabin was spacious with modern leather upholstery and comfortable seating. Devon and Rory settled in the booth-styled station centered in the cabin, claiming the window seats; the secondary aisle seats were empty. The older man tapped the first photo; it featured the second victim. "Not a single indication of remorse; the unsub was methodical and decisive," he elaborated.
He glanced at the photograph. "Mexican, early thirties, dark brown hair, cognac brown eyes," Devon mumbled under his breath. Verbalizing his observations was a common occurrence; it helped him focus.
As the private jet ascended, Gregor concluded his discussion with Kenna and began the team debrief. "Last night, at a quarter past eleven, a couple of teenagers discovered the body of Elizabeth Harris in the Westchester Preserve," he began. The unit chief retrieved a laptop from his seat, approached the centermost booth, and placed it on the table. "Westchester's M.E. confirmed the cause of death matched the previous two victims; asphyxiation. Then dressed in formalwear and hung from a noose post-mortem," he continued. Gregor opened the lid and suddenly, a raven-haired woman appeared on the screen. "You're online, Veronica," he announced.
The aforementioned technical analyst nodded. "Good morning, my lovelies!" Veronica chirped. Despite her dark cosmetics, the ravenette was undoubtedly cheerful. "First victim was Jocelyn Wu, a former Tae-Kwon-Do instructor in her late twenties; the second victim was Jacob Call, a former freelancer and volunteer in his early thirties; the latest victim was Elizabeth Harris, a former waitress in her late forties." Three identification photos popped on the screen. With a flourish, Veronica displayed the crime scene photos depicting the victims hanging from different trees. "The first death was six months ago, the day after the high school's homecoming dance; the second death occurred six weeks ago, the day after the high school's prom," she announced.
"Are the dates relevant?" Rory inquired.
"Normally? No. However, all three victims volunteered as chaperones for high school dances. Last night was the high school's spring formal. Besides that, the only connection all three victims seemingly have is they lived in Westchester; born and raised locals," Veronica verified.
"See what else you can dig up and keep us posted," Gregor said.
"Will do, sir!" Without another word, the bubbly raven-haired analyst clicked off.
Gregor closed the lid. "We'll be landing in Westchester a quarter past eight Pacific Standard Time," he informed. The crystalline-eyed man noticed his subordinate's tense shoulders. "Something wrong, Peryton?" he added.
Devon blinked. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at the latest victim's photo. "Hm?" He noticed his superior's inquisitive gaze. He closed his case file. "Nothing to worry about, sir. Just thinking about what I've noticed so far," he deflected with a crooked grin. The long-haired brunette slid off his seat and sauntered down the aisle, heading toward the miniature breakfast nook at the end; a corner sequestered behind the curtains separating the cabin and cockpit. Devon slipped past the curtains, bypassed the jet's unisex bathroom located on the opposite side of the nook, and poured himself a cup of fresh coffee. The amber-eyed agent was a notorious caffeine addict. He scrubbed a hand down his face, ignoring the slight tremor in his fingers. Devon breathed in deeply and exhaled through his nostrils, focusing on the soothing aroma of freshly grounded coffee beans. He ripped open a packet of sugar and sprinkled the confection in his black coffee. As he stirred the sugar with a disposable stirring stick, Devon recalled wavy mahogany hair and piercing andalusite eyes. He wasn't looking forward to interviewing Elizabeth Harris's next of kin.
To be frank, Devon wasn't looking forward to the case period.
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Eleven years.
"—von!"
Eleven fucking years.
"—ryton!"
Eleven years, six months, four thousand and five hundred hours—
"Oi, Bambi! Pay attention!"
Sharp amber eyes locked onto inquisitive green. Devon immediately scowled. "Don't call me that, Le Fey," he countered; the response automatic.
The aforementioned man — Supervisory Special Agent Rory Morrigan, one of BAU's top senior agents — snorted. "I'm not the one with a baby face and doe-like eyes," he drawled with an unrepentant smirk. He deliberately rubbed the distinct stubble over his jawline. "Have you considered growing a beard, kid?" the Irishman teased.
He rolled his eyes. "If you're calling that a beard, you're delusional," Devon snarked.
"You're unusually feisty this morning. Where's the witty Devon we know and love?" Despite the older man's jest, his eyes were inquiring.
Devon suppressed a sigh. "Guess I'm still in shock," he snorted wryly.
"Gregor's unpredictable," Rory agreed, glancing at their new teammate. He remembered when Devon suggested Lucas Moon as a temporary candidate for the team; the team was currently suffering a shortage. Devon suggested the name on a whim, but Rory wasn't surprised Gregor took it seriously. He would be lying if he said he didn't snicker at his colleague's expense; the kid's reaction was hilarious.
Gregor — Supervisory Special Agent Percival Gregor, the BAU's unit chief — was currently coordinating with the team's media liaison, Kenna. It was early in the morning, half past six Eastern Standard Time. Since the flight to Westchester, Oregon would roughly take five hours on the team's private jet — thank god for small miracles — everyone was called in earlier than normal time. Despite the minor inconvenience, Devon was use to the hustling and bustling schedule; he kept a to-go bag fully packed for such an occasion. "So, what's your take?" he inquired. He raised a case file and leafed through the photos.
He bit back a grimace. "Brutal," Rory began. He snagged the file from Devon's grip and placed it on the small table stationed between the two agents. The jet's cabin was spacious with modern leather upholstery and comfortable seating. Devon and Rory settled in the booth-styled station centered in the cabin, claiming the window seats; the secondary aisle seats were empty. The older man tapped the first photo; it featured the second victim. "Not a single indication of remorse; the unsub was methodical and decisive," he elaborated.
He glanced at the photograph. "Mexican, early thirties, dark brown hair, cognac brown eyes," Devon mumbled under his breath. Verbalizing his observations was a common occurrence; it helped him focus.
As the private jet ascended, Gregor concluded his discussion with Kenna and began the team debrief. "Last night, at a quarter past eleven, a couple of teenagers discovered the body of Elizabeth Harris in the Westchester Preserve," he began. The unit chief retrieved a laptop from his seat, approached the centermost booth, and placed it on the table. "Westchester's M.E. confirmed the cause of death matched the previous two victims; asphyxiation. Then dressed in formalwear and hung from a noose post-mortem," he continued. Gregor opened the lid and suddenly, a raven-haired woman appeared on the screen. "You're online, Veronica," he announced.
The aforementioned technical analyst nodded. "Good morning, my lovelies!" Veronica chirped. Despite her dark cosmetics, the ravenette was undoubtedly cheerful. "First victim was Jocelyn Wu, a former Tae-Kwon-Do instructor in her late twenties; the second victim was Jacob Call, a former freelancer and volunteer in his early thirties; the latest victim was Elizabeth Harris, a former waitress in her late forties." Three identification photos popped on the screen. With a flourish, Veronica displayed the crime scene photos depicting the victims hanging from different trees. "The first death was six months ago, the day after the high school's homecoming dance; the second death occurred six weeks ago, the day after the high school's prom," she announced.
"Are the dates relevant?" Rory inquired.
"Normally? No. However, all three victims volunteered as chaperones for high school dances. Last night was the high school's spring formal. Besides that, the only connection all three victims seemingly have is they lived in Westchester; born and raised locals," Veronica verified.
"See what else you can dig up and keep us posted," Gregor said.
"Will do, sir!" Without another word, the bubbly raven-haired analyst clicked off.
Gregor closed the lid. "We'll be landing in Westchester a quarter past eight Pacific Standard Time," he informed. The crystalline-eyed man noticed his subordinate's tense shoulders. "Something wrong, Peryton?" he added.
Devon blinked. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at the latest victim's photo. "Hm?" He noticed his superior's inquisitive gaze. He closed his case file. "Nothing to worry about, sir. Just thinking about what I've noticed so far," he deflected with a crooked grin. The long-haired brunette slid off his seat and sauntered down the aisle, heading toward the miniature breakfast nook at the end; a corner sequestered behind the curtains separating the cabin and cockpit. Devon slipped past the curtains, bypassed the jet's unisex bathroom located on the opposite side of the nook, and poured himself a cup of fresh coffee. The amber-eyed agent was a notorious caffeine addict. He scrubbed a hand down his face, ignoring the slight tremor in his fingers. Devon breathed in deeply and exhaled through his nostrils, focusing on the soothing aroma of freshly grounded coffee beans. He ripped open a packet of sugar and sprinkled the confection in his black coffee. As he stirred the sugar with a disposable stirring stick, Devon recalled wavy mahogany hair and piercing andalusite eyes. He wasn't looking forward to interviewing Elizabeth Harris's next of kin.
To be frank, Devon wasn't looking forward to the case period.
Soot
Give Your Heart to a Wild Thing
Lucas liked to think that he knew luxury well — knew it and lived it himself, despite the fact that he wasn’t the richest guy in the Bureau. Compared to most of his colleagues, he was probably somewhere at the bottom, actually, when it came to salaries. Not that he minded. Being paid was already a miracle, considering his background as a law breaker. And also considering the deal he made. The Bureau could’ve just forced him to work for free and he’d agree, no questions asked, but apparently they were better than that.
But, back to luxury. This private jet. The seats felt really good. He was distracted for a good ten minutes when he first sat down and opened the files handed out to him, too busy checking out what kind of leather it was made of. The air inside smelled refreshing. Even the humming of the engine outside was soothing. He didn’t get to travel by air often — there was a long probation period where all his movements were tracked — and so he was currently trying not to act like a clueless fool who was still stuck in the 80s while admiring the aesthetic of the BAU’s finest jet.
The jet took off. Lucas gripped the armrests tighter than necessary as it raced on the runway and ascended. The air pressed on him and his ears popped; he hated this part of flying more than anything else because his body always seemed to freeze up. Slowly, the jet reached the height it needed, and he breathed out a relieved sigh.
He was kind of an outsider in this small elite team. Sure, he’d worked with some of them once or twice before, but he worked with everyone in the Bureau once or twice, and they never seemed to like him much after the second time. It was a shock to find out Gregor had picked him for this case. He knew he was a good agent, and he’d been craving for a chance to get to work with this team, but such opportunities had always passed by him in the past.
He took his time observing the team. Devon and Rory he hadn’t had the chance to work with much, but he remembered solving a rather high-profile serial child kidnapping case with at least one of them. Maybe it was Devon. The guy was sitting near the windows with Rory, appearing so engrossed in his files that Lucas thought it was probably impolite to stare. Light from the dawning sun outside made his hair almost golden instead of brown.
The unit chief he knew — Gregor, kind of an old-school man. He did things in a methodical fashion. People said he should catch up with the times, but no one could force him to do anything because he solved every case thrown his way with his supposedly ‘outdated’ methods. He was speaking to Kenna at the moment, and Lucas listened in for a little.
“ . . . highly likely a serial killer, but we don’t have a full profile yet, so we want to keep it short and professional. Focus on assuring the people, since Westchester rarely had something of this scale.”
“Understood,” Kenna replied curtly, the paragon of professionalism. Lucas gave up reigning in his curiosity and turn to look at Kenna at the back. She was tall and had her hair tied in a bun; her white blouse was simple but definitely high-class. And those were new high heels too, Lucas could tell. It wasn’t just his imagination — she had been dressing up more than usual.
Lucas smiled at her, and she returned the gesture. The chief had left her side and both were heading toward the center of the jet.
As Kenna passed by him, he whispered to her, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
She paused and gave him an unamused glance. “Why don’t you focus on your job, hm?”
“Come on,” Lucas whined. “Don’t be like that. I’m curious!”
“I’ll be whatever I like to be, and you,” she pushed at his cheek so that his head was forced back to staring at the files, “focus on solving this case. Chief’s debriefing.”
Lucas didn’t pout — no, he was much more mature than that — but it was a close thing. His and Kenna’s relationship was one of the more amiable ones in the Bureau he strived to maintain. She was a great source of insider information; she always seemed to know who was having beef with whom and who was having affairs with whom. And she wasn’t too concerned with him constantly buttering up others too, which he appreciated.
He didn’t catch the entirety of Devon and Rory’s conversation, but they were probably exchanging their first impressions of the culprit. Speaking of which — he should look at the files now.
As he flipped through the police and M.E. reports, Veronica’s cheerful voice sounded from a laptop that Gregor had placed down. Lucas listened by didn’t look — the crime scenes pictures had been included in the report anyway — and he nodded at appropriate times. He didn’t know how Gregor ran his team, except that the man kept a tight rein over things, so he thought he might keep his head down a little until he could figure out his standing in this group.
He looked up when Gregor asked if there was something wrong with Peryton. Who was Peryton?
Oh, it was Devon. The man in question blinked out of his daze and said it was nothing to worry about. Lucas accepted his words at face-value, but when Devon stood up and disappeared behind the curtains that separated the main lounge from the breakfast nook in the back, many pairs of eyes were following him.
“Am I missing something?” Lucas asked. He recalled the way Devon had sauntered down the aisle — he didn’t know the man well enough to draw conclusions, but if he stretched his analytical skills, he could say that perhaps Devon was trying to appear confident. Which meant something was wrong.
Gregor shook his head. “No.”
Well, there went that theory.
“What do you think about this case so far, Agent Moon?” the unit chief continued. “I haven’t worked with you before, but I’ve heard good things about your skills.” Rory’s sudden snicker covered up by a cough didn’t go unnoticed. Kenna raised her brows, while Gregor just ignored it.
Lucas thought there was probably an inside joke somewhere here.
“That’s good to know,” Lucas replied. “Just call me Lucas, please. Our unsub is pretty methodical. He sticks to a particular method of murder, which makes me think he might’ve done this before, with animals or otherwise. His supposedly first murder feels too seasoned, and the case was getting cold before the second one popped up.”
“No DNA, all traces lead to dead ends,” Rory added.
“At this point it’s probably too early to conclude precisely why the unsub asphyxiated his victims and then hung them, but I don’t doubt it’s some kind of ritual. Our guy might be into a niche, gothic horror killing style, or he might be obsessed with death.”
“Maybe he respects death,” Gregor said. “The formalwear could indicate that.”
“Have they looked into where those clothes come from?” Rory asked.
Gregor nodded. “They did, for the first two cases. It’s possible to find the brands that made the threads and the fabrics, but that didn’t help because the clothes are all handmade.”
That took Lucas by surprise. “All handmade?”
He shuffled through the pictures again and observed them more closely. The clothes were vintage, with colors a little faded as if they had been worn before or had been made with old fabric. “These cuts and stitches aren’t easy to make,” he said. “And if the lace isn’t bought, that speaks of the unsub’s skills.”
“So we’re looking for a dressmaker, or someone with a fashion design background,” Rory continued the line of reasoning. “But maybe our unsub didn’t make these clothes and someone gifted them to him? He could have commissioned them under the table.”
“That’s a lot of dedication for a dead body,” Lucas murmured.
Lucas thought about the victims again. Jocelyn Wu, Jacob Call, Elizabeth Harris. Westchester residents. High school dances. Formalwear. Hangings. The formalwear was probably connected to the high school dance. Maybe the unsub was someone with strong feelings about high school dances? Something important happened to him at high school dances? The murders appeared premeditated, so the unsub must have known exactly what he was doing.
Revenge? No, he hadn’t seemed too angry, not unusually so. The victims were chased — based on the soil found on the bodies — then they were knocked out, killed, and hung up at the preserve. There wasn’t any mutilation beyond that. Maybe it was a cold-dish kind of revenge.
Maybe he was trying to make a statement? But what statement? To whom?
Lucas thought he might need to dig into Westchester's history after they landed.
But, back to luxury. This private jet. The seats felt really good. He was distracted for a good ten minutes when he first sat down and opened the files handed out to him, too busy checking out what kind of leather it was made of. The air inside smelled refreshing. Even the humming of the engine outside was soothing. He didn’t get to travel by air often — there was a long probation period where all his movements were tracked — and so he was currently trying not to act like a clueless fool who was still stuck in the 80s while admiring the aesthetic of the BAU’s finest jet.
The jet took off. Lucas gripped the armrests tighter than necessary as it raced on the runway and ascended. The air pressed on him and his ears popped; he hated this part of flying more than anything else because his body always seemed to freeze up. Slowly, the jet reached the height it needed, and he breathed out a relieved sigh.
He was kind of an outsider in this small elite team. Sure, he’d worked with some of them once or twice before, but he worked with everyone in the Bureau once or twice, and they never seemed to like him much after the second time. It was a shock to find out Gregor had picked him for this case. He knew he was a good agent, and he’d been craving for a chance to get to work with this team, but such opportunities had always passed by him in the past.
He took his time observing the team. Devon and Rory he hadn’t had the chance to work with much, but he remembered solving a rather high-profile serial child kidnapping case with at least one of them. Maybe it was Devon. The guy was sitting near the windows with Rory, appearing so engrossed in his files that Lucas thought it was probably impolite to stare. Light from the dawning sun outside made his hair almost golden instead of brown.
The unit chief he knew — Gregor, kind of an old-school man. He did things in a methodical fashion. People said he should catch up with the times, but no one could force him to do anything because he solved every case thrown his way with his supposedly ‘outdated’ methods. He was speaking to Kenna at the moment, and Lucas listened in for a little.
“ . . . highly likely a serial killer, but we don’t have a full profile yet, so we want to keep it short and professional. Focus on assuring the people, since Westchester rarely had something of this scale.”
“Understood,” Kenna replied curtly, the paragon of professionalism. Lucas gave up reigning in his curiosity and turn to look at Kenna at the back. She was tall and had her hair tied in a bun; her white blouse was simple but definitely high-class. And those were new high heels too, Lucas could tell. It wasn’t just his imagination — she had been dressing up more than usual.
Lucas smiled at her, and she returned the gesture. The chief had left her side and both were heading toward the center of the jet.
As Kenna passed by him, he whispered to her, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
She paused and gave him an unamused glance. “Why don’t you focus on your job, hm?”
“Come on,” Lucas whined. “Don’t be like that. I’m curious!”
“I’ll be whatever I like to be, and you,” she pushed at his cheek so that his head was forced back to staring at the files, “focus on solving this case. Chief’s debriefing.”
Lucas didn’t pout — no, he was much more mature than that — but it was a close thing. His and Kenna’s relationship was one of the more amiable ones in the Bureau he strived to maintain. She was a great source of insider information; she always seemed to know who was having beef with whom and who was having affairs with whom. And she wasn’t too concerned with him constantly buttering up others too, which he appreciated.
He didn’t catch the entirety of Devon and Rory’s conversation, but they were probably exchanging their first impressions of the culprit. Speaking of which — he should look at the files now.
As he flipped through the police and M.E. reports, Veronica’s cheerful voice sounded from a laptop that Gregor had placed down. Lucas listened by didn’t look — the crime scenes pictures had been included in the report anyway — and he nodded at appropriate times. He didn’t know how Gregor ran his team, except that the man kept a tight rein over things, so he thought he might keep his head down a little until he could figure out his standing in this group.
He looked up when Gregor asked if there was something wrong with Peryton. Who was Peryton?
Oh, it was Devon. The man in question blinked out of his daze and said it was nothing to worry about. Lucas accepted his words at face-value, but when Devon stood up and disappeared behind the curtains that separated the main lounge from the breakfast nook in the back, many pairs of eyes were following him.
“Am I missing something?” Lucas asked. He recalled the way Devon had sauntered down the aisle — he didn’t know the man well enough to draw conclusions, but if he stretched his analytical skills, he could say that perhaps Devon was trying to appear confident. Which meant something was wrong.
Gregor shook his head. “No.”
Well, there went that theory.
“What do you think about this case so far, Agent Moon?” the unit chief continued. “I haven’t worked with you before, but I’ve heard good things about your skills.” Rory’s sudden snicker covered up by a cough didn’t go unnoticed. Kenna raised her brows, while Gregor just ignored it.
Lucas thought there was probably an inside joke somewhere here.
“That’s good to know,” Lucas replied. “Just call me Lucas, please. Our unsub is pretty methodical. He sticks to a particular method of murder, which makes me think he might’ve done this before, with animals or otherwise. His supposedly first murder feels too seasoned, and the case was getting cold before the second one popped up.”
“No DNA, all traces lead to dead ends,” Rory added.
“At this point it’s probably too early to conclude precisely why the unsub asphyxiated his victims and then hung them, but I don’t doubt it’s some kind of ritual. Our guy might be into a niche, gothic horror killing style, or he might be obsessed with death.”
“Maybe he respects death,” Gregor said. “The formalwear could indicate that.”
“Have they looked into where those clothes come from?” Rory asked.
Gregor nodded. “They did, for the first two cases. It’s possible to find the brands that made the threads and the fabrics, but that didn’t help because the clothes are all handmade.”
That took Lucas by surprise. “All handmade?”
He shuffled through the pictures again and observed them more closely. The clothes were vintage, with colors a little faded as if they had been worn before or had been made with old fabric. “These cuts and stitches aren’t easy to make,” he said. “And if the lace isn’t bought, that speaks of the unsub’s skills.”
“So we’re looking for a dressmaker, or someone with a fashion design background,” Rory continued the line of reasoning. “But maybe our unsub didn’t make these clothes and someone gifted them to him? He could have commissioned them under the table.”
“That’s a lot of dedication for a dead body,” Lucas murmured.
Lucas thought about the victims again. Jocelyn Wu, Jacob Call, Elizabeth Harris. Westchester residents. High school dances. Formalwear. Hangings. The formalwear was probably connected to the high school dance. Maybe the unsub was someone with strong feelings about high school dances? Something important happened to him at high school dances? The murders appeared premeditated, so the unsub must have known exactly what he was doing.
Revenge? No, he hadn’t seemed too angry, not unusually so. The victims were chased — based on the soil found on the bodies — then they were knocked out, killed, and hung up at the preserve. There wasn’t any mutilation beyond that. Maybe it was a cold-dish kind of revenge.
Maybe he was trying to make a statement? But what statement? To whom?
Lucas thought he might need to dig into Westchester's history after they landed.
Last edited:
roxybirdie
𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐤𝐢 😸
In.
His fingertips trembled. Devon sipped his coffee, momentarily savoring the fresh brew. Since the police station would without a doubt serve subpar caffeine — the brunette refused to refer the monstrosity as coffee — he took his sweet time and thoroughly enjoyed his first sip. Devon wouldn't consider himself a coffee connoisseur, but he appreciated a good brew. After relentless needling, he convinced Gregor to install a coffee pot in the breakfast nook; fully equipped with coffee beans, a coffee grinder, and a coffee scale. Something about weighing the beans and grinding them to a fine powder undoubtedly soothed him.
Devon clawed his way to the top — he worked hard to prove he was more than a baby face and doe-like eyes — and earned his spot on the most successful team in the BAU; the elite. While Devon loved his career, the long-haired man wasn't above milking the rewards. Case in point, a luxurious private jet and fresh coffee.
Out.
A few seconds later, the tremors in his fingers ceased. Devon swallowed another mouthful, pivoted, and slipped through the curtains. He returned to his seat and placed his disposable to-go cup on the table. As he picked up his case file, the amber-eyed agent pointedly ignored his colleague's penetrating gaze; Rory was unmistakably concerned. Devon knew everyone without question saw through his disarming grin and confident swagger. However, he was grateful for Gregor's unspoken (and most important) regulation: privacy was paramount. Profiling was second nature and honestly, Devon couldn't stop even if he tried. Fortunately, his teammates respected his solitude and unless his life was endangered, they wouldn't pry. Despite his meddlesome nature — Devon's curiosity was simultaneously a blessing and a curse — the brunette returned the favor.
Cognac brown eyes glimpsed at the newest addition. Although, he pondered. Devon deliberately ignored the crime scene photo featuring the latest victim. Did he get the memo? he thought. One of his biggest pet peeves was being profiled; Devon knew it was inevitable, but it didn't mean he had to like it. When you're surrounded by federal agents who can identify the slightest details, privacy was nigh impossible and Devon valued his solitude immensely. He may be a notorious social creature, but he treasured his secrets, thank you very much.
"You're staring," Rory smirked.
He didn't bother to suppress an eye roll. "Enough sass, Morrigan," Devon countered.
"Have you even said hello?"
The long-haired agent directed his attention to his file. While Devon appreciated the tablets Veronica outfitted for the team, he preferred a hard copy; something about papers helped him focus. Perhaps, Gregor's old school nature was rubbing off him. "I said welcome to the team, didn't I?" he replied dryly.
Rory snorted. "Do I need to remind you what really happened?" he drawled wickedly, amusement evident in his emerald gaze.
Admittedly, it wasn't his finest moment. After Leo's retirement and Molly's maternity leave, the team was currently short-staffed. Since the team dealt with higher profile cases frequently, the BAU Section Chief — Minerva Hall was a strict, no-nonsense woman and without a doubt the scariest agent on the planet — ordered Gregor to find a replacement. When Gregor requested his input, Devon mentioned the first name that appeared in his mind: Lucas Moon. He interacted with Moon on a few cases, but otherwise, Devon didn't know the man beyond the outlandish rumors. However, despite his limited experience, Devon recognized Moon's capabilities; the reformed criminal was an outstanding profiler. Unbeknownst to Devon, Gregor approved his instinctive assessment — the unit chief respected his gut decisions — and chose Lucas.
Once Devon arrived this morning — before his team boarded the private jet — he wasn't prepared for the sudden addition. All he could do was stare in absolute bewilderment and stammer like an unintelligible simpleton. Rory's unrepentant commentary — Devon wasn't a thirteen-year-old girl with a schoolyard crush, thank you very much — furthered his embarrassment. He managed a cringeworthy welcome to the team before Gregor (thank Merlin) ushered them onto the private jet. Despite his disastrous performance, Devon ignored the bizarre rumors surrounding Moon; he understood (and respected) Gregor's decision. On the other hand, whatthefucksincewhendidGregorlistentohisrambling—
"Laugh it up, Le Fey," Devon huffed.
His smirk widened. "I'm not the one with a cru—" Devon cut him off,
"Watch it, Morrigan. I'll boot your ass off this jet, consequences be damned."
The aforementioned man raised his hands in surrender. "Sounds like you need more coffee," Rory chuckled.
"Sounds like you need to pay attention to the case, Tinman," Devon countered.
He huffed. "Touché." As the dynamic duo focused on their individual case files, silence washed over the booth.
His fingertips trembled. Devon sipped his coffee, momentarily savoring the fresh brew. Since the police station would without a doubt serve subpar caffeine — the brunette refused to refer the monstrosity as coffee — he took his sweet time and thoroughly enjoyed his first sip. Devon wouldn't consider himself a coffee connoisseur, but he appreciated a good brew. After relentless needling, he convinced Gregor to install a coffee pot in the breakfast nook; fully equipped with coffee beans, a coffee grinder, and a coffee scale. Something about weighing the beans and grinding them to a fine powder undoubtedly soothed him.
Devon clawed his way to the top — he worked hard to prove he was more than a baby face and doe-like eyes — and earned his spot on the most successful team in the BAU; the elite. While Devon loved his career, the long-haired man wasn't above milking the rewards. Case in point, a luxurious private jet and fresh coffee.
Out.
A few seconds later, the tremors in his fingers ceased. Devon swallowed another mouthful, pivoted, and slipped through the curtains. He returned to his seat and placed his disposable to-go cup on the table. As he picked up his case file, the amber-eyed agent pointedly ignored his colleague's penetrating gaze; Rory was unmistakably concerned. Devon knew everyone without question saw through his disarming grin and confident swagger. However, he was grateful for Gregor's unspoken (and most important) regulation: privacy was paramount. Profiling was second nature and honestly, Devon couldn't stop even if he tried. Fortunately, his teammates respected his solitude and unless his life was endangered, they wouldn't pry. Despite his meddlesome nature — Devon's curiosity was simultaneously a blessing and a curse — the brunette returned the favor.
Cognac brown eyes glimpsed at the newest addition. Although, he pondered. Devon deliberately ignored the crime scene photo featuring the latest victim. Did he get the memo? he thought. One of his biggest pet peeves was being profiled; Devon knew it was inevitable, but it didn't mean he had to like it. When you're surrounded by federal agents who can identify the slightest details, privacy was nigh impossible and Devon valued his solitude immensely. He may be a notorious social creature, but he treasured his secrets, thank you very much.
"You're staring," Rory smirked.
He didn't bother to suppress an eye roll. "Enough sass, Morrigan," Devon countered.
"Have you even said hello?"
The long-haired agent directed his attention to his file. While Devon appreciated the tablets Veronica outfitted for the team, he preferred a hard copy; something about papers helped him focus. Perhaps, Gregor's old school nature was rubbing off him. "I said welcome to the team, didn't I?" he replied dryly.
Rory snorted. "Do I need to remind you what really happened?" he drawled wickedly, amusement evident in his emerald gaze.
Admittedly, it wasn't his finest moment. After Leo's retirement and Molly's maternity leave, the team was currently short-staffed. Since the team dealt with higher profile cases frequently, the BAU Section Chief — Minerva Hall was a strict, no-nonsense woman and without a doubt the scariest agent on the planet — ordered Gregor to find a replacement. When Gregor requested his input, Devon mentioned the first name that appeared in his mind: Lucas Moon. He interacted with Moon on a few cases, but otherwise, Devon didn't know the man beyond the outlandish rumors. However, despite his limited experience, Devon recognized Moon's capabilities; the reformed criminal was an outstanding profiler. Unbeknownst to Devon, Gregor approved his instinctive assessment — the unit chief respected his gut decisions — and chose Lucas.
Once Devon arrived this morning — before his team boarded the private jet — he wasn't prepared for the sudden addition. All he could do was stare in absolute bewilderment and stammer like an unintelligible simpleton. Rory's unrepentant commentary — Devon wasn't a thirteen-year-old girl with a schoolyard crush, thank you very much — furthered his embarrassment. He managed a cringeworthy welcome to the team before Gregor (thank Merlin) ushered them onto the private jet. Despite his disastrous performance, Devon ignored the bizarre rumors surrounding Moon; he understood (and respected) Gregor's decision. On the other hand, whatthefucksincewhendidGregorlistentohisrambling—
"Laugh it up, Le Fey," Devon huffed.
His smirk widened. "I'm not the one with a cru—" Devon cut him off,
"Watch it, Morrigan. I'll boot your ass off this jet, consequences be damned."
The aforementioned man raised his hands in surrender. "Sounds like you need more coffee," Rory chuckled.
"Sounds like you need to pay attention to the case, Tinman," Devon countered.
He huffed. "Touché." As the dynamic duo focused on their individual case files, silence washed over the booth.
Soot
Give Your Heart to a Wild Thing
Lucas was still deep in thoughts when Devon slipped back out again with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. The smell told Lucas that it was more than just some random instant powder brand; this was good coffee, the luxury, freshly-brewed kind, and briefly Lucas felt jealous that this team got to have such equipment but not his team. Although, to be fair, his team had been cycling members in and out rather frequently; it was difficult to make any sort of permanent requests when the big boss didn’t think such additions should be prioritized over training new team members.
Once Devon made his presence known again, the air shifted — slightly, but noticeably. Whereas everyone had been focused on Lucas and his deductions earlier, now it seemed like they were pushing him aside to welcome back a crucial member. Lucas didn’t mind — rather, he was curious and felt fascinated at how Devon handled the subtle attention with ease. This team was undoubtedly close-knitted, he thought. They were more like a family. Considering that the team’s composition had barely changed since its formation, perhaps this was to be expected.
It should be obvious, then, that Lucas was only intruding.
He flickered his eyes downward, focusing on the files again. But his mind was wandering. At this point, there was only so much he could assume about the case; any more and he would stray to conjectures, which he despised doing so early in the investigation. He thought about other things. He crossed one leg over the other loosely, so that his ankle was on top of his knee. Unconsciously, his fingers drifted to his lips and picked at them lightly.
Definitely the child trafficking case, he thought. That was when he first met Devon. The second case was serial theft that turned into arson, but they didn’t work as closely then. He remembered Devon as being efficient but rude — although, to be fair, the whole Bureau had been rather strung up about the case, since it was highly time-sensitive. He also remembered that Devon had been one of the few who didn’t look at him as if he should’ve known where the girls would’ve been taken. Oh please — Lucas stole things, not sold girls to willing buyers.
So that meant they’d parted with a cordial handshake. But Lucas’s attempts to follow-up and take advantage of Devon’s warmth didn’t go through, so he assumed that someone had talked to Devon and the man had changed his mind about Lucas.
That had been a year or two ago. Lucas wondered if things were still the same. Devon certainly didn’t seem to have changed; he still wore the same sort of semi-casual clothes and walked in the same sort of half-rushing, half-dawdling manner that made him appear competent and trustworthy — a good quality to have for a Bureau agent. A single change Lucas noticed was that he was much more comfortable and relaxed around his team. That didn’t tell Lucas more than what he’d already known.
But the problem — yes, there was a problem. With Devon. Devon had done something uncharacteristic and that made the team worry over him — what could be the source? Lucas cast his mind back to the recent past. Devon had been reading the files. Perhaps he’d seen something odd? Ah, but he would’ve brought it up, and it wouldn’t make the team worry, of all things. Perhaps there was something personal about the case? What could it have reminded him of?
Lucas flipped through the files, watching the faces of the victims again. Kenna had decided to take a nap, while the unit chief was scribbling something intensely in his battered leather notebook. But suddenly Lucas felt that his attention was interrupted; when he tried to determine why, he realized that Rory and Devon were talking about him.
“I’m not the one with a cru—”
“Watch it, Morrigan. I’ll boot your ass off this jet, consequences be damned.”
Oh? Now that made Lucas curious. He recalled that when they first met this morning, Devon had acted a little, well, off. He had stared. And then he’d stared some more before stuttering out a welcoming statement so awkward that it reminded Lucas, oddly, of a third-grade who had to present for the first time in front of his debate team with a thick stack of cue cards. Not that Lucas cared, of course. He’d met his fair share of shy and anxious people. He just hadn’t expected Devon to be one — which was atypical of him, according to Rory.
With a mischievous grin, Lucas closed the files and pretended to stretch. He made slightly exaggerated motions as he sat up and walked closer to the chatting duo.
“Well, there’s only so much we can guess about the case,” he said, leaning on the chair that Devon was sitting in. “I want to say though, it’s a great pleasure to be able to work with you guys. I, Lucas Mooney, personally feel very welcomed to the team, despite not being an official member,” he said, winking to Devon. He didn’t know if Devon truly had a crush on him or not, but he wasn’t going to pass by this chance to tease the brunette. Rory caught Lucas’s playful glance and didn’t even try to hide his snicker. Rory hadn’t been there when Lucas and Devon met earlier in the morning, but with Devon’s tendency to call people by nicknames, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what might have happened.
“Can’t have anyone feel left behind, can we?” Rory said to Devon. “You should’ve made two cups of coffee, you know? For your new good friend Mooney over here.”
Somewhere in the background, the click of Gregor’s fountain pen’s cap sounded, and he closed his leather notebook with a rustling snap.
Once Devon made his presence known again, the air shifted — slightly, but noticeably. Whereas everyone had been focused on Lucas and his deductions earlier, now it seemed like they were pushing him aside to welcome back a crucial member. Lucas didn’t mind — rather, he was curious and felt fascinated at how Devon handled the subtle attention with ease. This team was undoubtedly close-knitted, he thought. They were more like a family. Considering that the team’s composition had barely changed since its formation, perhaps this was to be expected.
It should be obvious, then, that Lucas was only intruding.
He flickered his eyes downward, focusing on the files again. But his mind was wandering. At this point, there was only so much he could assume about the case; any more and he would stray to conjectures, which he despised doing so early in the investigation. He thought about other things. He crossed one leg over the other loosely, so that his ankle was on top of his knee. Unconsciously, his fingers drifted to his lips and picked at them lightly.
Definitely the child trafficking case, he thought. That was when he first met Devon. The second case was serial theft that turned into arson, but they didn’t work as closely then. He remembered Devon as being efficient but rude — although, to be fair, the whole Bureau had been rather strung up about the case, since it was highly time-sensitive. He also remembered that Devon had been one of the few who didn’t look at him as if he should’ve known where the girls would’ve been taken. Oh please — Lucas stole things, not sold girls to willing buyers.
So that meant they’d parted with a cordial handshake. But Lucas’s attempts to follow-up and take advantage of Devon’s warmth didn’t go through, so he assumed that someone had talked to Devon and the man had changed his mind about Lucas.
That had been a year or two ago. Lucas wondered if things were still the same. Devon certainly didn’t seem to have changed; he still wore the same sort of semi-casual clothes and walked in the same sort of half-rushing, half-dawdling manner that made him appear competent and trustworthy — a good quality to have for a Bureau agent. A single change Lucas noticed was that he was much more comfortable and relaxed around his team. That didn’t tell Lucas more than what he’d already known.
But the problem — yes, there was a problem. With Devon. Devon had done something uncharacteristic and that made the team worry over him — what could be the source? Lucas cast his mind back to the recent past. Devon had been reading the files. Perhaps he’d seen something odd? Ah, but he would’ve brought it up, and it wouldn’t make the team worry, of all things. Perhaps there was something personal about the case? What could it have reminded him of?
Lucas flipped through the files, watching the faces of the victims again. Kenna had decided to take a nap, while the unit chief was scribbling something intensely in his battered leather notebook. But suddenly Lucas felt that his attention was interrupted; when he tried to determine why, he realized that Rory and Devon were talking about him.
“I’m not the one with a cru—”
“Watch it, Morrigan. I’ll boot your ass off this jet, consequences be damned.”
Oh? Now that made Lucas curious. He recalled that when they first met this morning, Devon had acted a little, well, off. He had stared. And then he’d stared some more before stuttering out a welcoming statement so awkward that it reminded Lucas, oddly, of a third-grade who had to present for the first time in front of his debate team with a thick stack of cue cards. Not that Lucas cared, of course. He’d met his fair share of shy and anxious people. He just hadn’t expected Devon to be one — which was atypical of him, according to Rory.
With a mischievous grin, Lucas closed the files and pretended to stretch. He made slightly exaggerated motions as he sat up and walked closer to the chatting duo.
“Well, there’s only so much we can guess about the case,” he said, leaning on the chair that Devon was sitting in. “I want to say though, it’s a great pleasure to be able to work with you guys. I, Lucas Mooney, personally feel very welcomed to the team, despite not being an official member,” he said, winking to Devon. He didn’t know if Devon truly had a crush on him or not, but he wasn’t going to pass by this chance to tease the brunette. Rory caught Lucas’s playful glance and didn’t even try to hide his snicker. Rory hadn’t been there when Lucas and Devon met earlier in the morning, but with Devon’s tendency to call people by nicknames, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what might have happened.
“Can’t have anyone feel left behind, can we?” Rory said to Devon. “You should’ve made two cups of coffee, you know? For your new good friend Mooney over here.”
Somewhere in the background, the click of Gregor’s fountain pen’s cap sounded, and he closed his leather notebook with a rustling snap.
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