RUNAWAY
CHAPTER THIRTEEN...!

❝ CHANGE AND ANGER , SEASON
FIVE ❞

        BEING FORTY CHAPTERS into this story, you can probably tell that Jennie Hotchner is not the most fond on talking about her feelings.

Like— at all.

She never really understood why she was the way she was. Because, really, when other people would vent to her, she never thought any different of them. If anything— she envied them. But when it came to herself? The pity she'd get after expressing herself had made her feel weak.

And Jennie really hated that feeling.

So, when Rossi had come over that morning, before Hotch's first day back at work, wanting to talk with Jennie, she didn't know what to feel.

"Still not talking?" Rossi asked Aaron, as the two stood by the front door, watching Jennie wash dishes in the kitchen. She would occasionally glance at Jack, who was drawing in the dining room.

The father shook his head, "No."

Rossi sighed softly, his eyes still on the girl, before Jack had turned to the two, "Uncle Rossi, look!"

The little boy had pointed to the drawing he made, as the man went over to Jack. Jennie looked up at the interaction, smiling softly.

"Is that me?" Rossi pointed the a person on the paper.

Jack nodded, "And that's daddy. And that's JenJen."

Rossi smiled at the boy, chuckling softly, "Wow, buddy. That's really something."

Jack looked at his drawing once more, before turning back to look at Jennie, who's eyes were occupied on the dishes in front of her. The little boy then turned back to Rossi.

"Is JenJen okay?"

His question had made Jennie to look back at the two, being able to hear it clearly.

"Why do you ask?" Rossi asked the boy.

Jack shrugged, looking back at his drawing. He didn't say anything for a moment, before finally speaking again,  "JenJen takes care of everyone, but no one takes care of her. She doesn't let them."

Aaron's eyes moved from Jack to Jennie, who he could see tense up at the comment. The man looked back at Jack, speaking up, "Hey, buddy? Let's go get ready for the day, okay?"

"Okay, daddy." Jack told his father, getting up from his chair, following his dad into his room. As they left, Jennie sighed, turning off the sink water.

"Don't listen to him. He's just a kid." Jennie told David, who had walked up to her after Jack and Aaron left.

"Could say the same thing about you." He replied, sitting on the stool in front of her.

Jennie sighed, propping her elbows on the counter, with her face in her hands, "My dad has been trying to get me to talk to him. And— it's not that I don't want to, it's just—"

"Just what?" Rossi questioned, after the girl's pause. She stayed silent for a second more, lifting her head from her hands.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Rossi." She told him, a hint of vulnerability in her voice, "And it's— scary. I-I feel like I have no control over my body, and I can't do anything about it."

The man only looked at the teen for a moment, before speaking, "That's because you're trying to skip everything."

"Skip what?"

"The five stages of grief." Rossi answered, "You're trying to skip all the stages and go straight into acceptance. You're impatient and it's biting you right back."

"I—" Jennie let out a slightly longer breath, "I don't want to go through the stages. I don't think I'll be able to make it."

"Well, that's too damn bad." The man told her, bluntly, "Because in order to get better, you have to have something to get better from. You can't just go from point A to point D. It's a process."

With those words, Jennie let out a soft sigh, nodding her head slowly. She looked down at the counter in front of her, tapping in nails lightly.

"What is it?" The Italian man asked her, snapping her out of her daze.

"It's just—" Jennie sighed once more, "I feel bad. I mean, I was honestly a bitch to Derek the other night at the funeral—"

"Language." He cut her off, the authoritative tone causing Jennie to chuckle.

When her smile fell again, she shook her head slowly, "I don't know. I just feel bad knowing that there's people— like you, and the team, that care way more about my feelings than I ever will. And sometimes, I get really upset thinking about that."

"Piccola, you're family. I can think of a million reasons why I care." Rossi told her. When Jennie only let out a small smile, and a slow nod, he got out of his seat, moving to stand in front of her, "Believe me when I say this: You're Jennie Hotchner. You don't quit. Never do. And I'll be damned if I let you."

With that, Jennie's smile widened, genuinely, as the man took her into his embrace.

"You remember what I always tell you, right?"

Jennie nodded, her head still on his chest, "Finché c'è vita c'è speranza. As long as there is life, there is hope."

"Hey, your pronunciation is getting pretty good." The man complimented, causing the girl to let out a laugh. The two remained in the hug for a moment, before Jennie spoke quietly.

"Thank you, Uncle Rossi."

He looked down at her, a soft smile on his lips.

"Happy early birthday, kiddo."

—

THE FOLLOWING DAY, Jennie's father was at work, while Jack was at the mall with their aunt. She had stayed home, currently folding her laundry in the living room. That was before she heard the doorbell ring.

Making her way over to the door, she looked through the peephole to see Spencer waiting outside, rocking on his heels. As she opened the door, she smiled.

"Spencer, hey!"

"Hey." He waved, before bringing up the gift bag in his hands, "Happy 18th."

"Spencer—" She took the bag from him, "Thank you. You really didn't have to get me anything."

"It's nothing." He waved it off, shrugging.

"Come on in." Jennie told him, letting him step inside, as she went back to folding her clothes, "I thought you had work today?"

"Lunch break." He told her, looking around the room, causing her to let out an 'oh' with a nod. He then looked at her for a slightly extended moment, tilting his head, "Did you cut your hair?"

"Oh—" The girl touched the ends of her hair, softly chuckling, "Yeah. I did it, like— last night."

"Oh. I read something that cutting your own hair can often symbolize a rite of passage, and helps us embrace ourselves, while reaching a high point of gratification. People often do it when feeling saddened, because while everything seems to go downhill, it can be the one thing they have to themselves. It's one of the only things they can control."

Jennie stared at Spencer after his ramble, blinking slowly, as she began to wonder if that was his subtle way of telling her that her haircut had looked bad.

"Oh."

The two went into a slightly awkward silence after the ramble, before Spencer tried changing the conversation, "Maybe you should just open your gift."

The girl quickly nodded, as she reached over to grab the bag again, looking into it. As she pulled out the gift, her eyes brightened up, letting out a small gasp.

"I love it." She smiled, holding the notebook Spencer bought her for her birthday. She then flip through the pages, to see the man had written a quote inside.

"More light and light more dark and dark our woes.
— Act three, scene five, line 36. Romeo and Juliet."

"That was the first novel you and I bonded over. We spent hours interpreting the text, and annotating with your nice pens." Spencer recalled, letting out a small laugh at the memory, "I think that was when I realized how much I trusted you."

"Oh my God— please don't make me cry right now. Seriously, I just did my makeup." Jennie had joked, but the man could tell she treasured the memory as well. The girl then hugged the journal to her chest, "Thank you, Spencer. Thank you so much."

"It's no problem."

"No— seriously, thank you." Jennie told him, genuinely, "You're like— the only person to talk to me in the past couple weeks about something that wasn't depressing. You're the only one that's been treating me like I'm still the same person I was before. Like I'm still a person, at that."

Jennie was grateful at that fact. However, when she looked back at Spencer, she had noticed the man look down, slightly guilty.

The girl furrowed her eyebrows for a moment, before looking back at the quote written in her journal.

"More light and light, more dark and dark our woes"

The quote, the ramble about cutting hair as a coping mechanism, the memory that made Spencer realize he could trust her— it all fell into place like a puzzle.

Jennie looked back at the man, now knowing why he was really here.

"Oh." Jennie nodded slowly, "You think I'm a different person now."

"I don't think that— no one thinks that, Jennie. But you can't go through everything you've gone through and not expect change." Spencer told her, "It's inevitable."

"Okay, no— please, don't give me that." Jennie began, "Because we've all gone through stuff. Me, you, the team— we've all changed. The only difference is I'm not the one treating you guys like you're some ticking time bomb about to go off at any second."

"It's not about that, Jennie."

"God— then what is it about, Spencer?!"

Jennie didn't want those words to come out of her mouth. But they just did. And once they started— they couldn't seem to stop.

"What is all of this about then?" Her voice sounded tired, "Is it about Shakespeare? Because if it is, then please, tell me how a hebophilic love story, where the two main characters commit suicide for a person they met four days prior, relates to my situation right now. Please, because I would really like to know."

Jennie knew she was wrong for snapping at him. She was really wrong. And the thought of potentially breaking the two's friendship had her heart sink.

This was exactly what she was afraid of when she told Rossi she didn't want to go through the stages of grief. Because one of them was anger.

And to her, it was the strongest stage.

"You know what, Jennie?" Spencer finally spoke, after a prolonged silence, "You're being selfish."

Those words didn't seem to phase the girl. She knew he would never say this unless he was trying to get something about of it, and she didn't give in.

"You know what? I don't really care anymore. Okay? Because I have spent my entire life trying to stay away from that title. I've spent my entire life trying not be selfish, but now? Now, I'm finally making something about me. Because it is never about me. And if you have a problem with that, I would just ignore it. Honestly, just look past everything for the next couple months until this blows over if it bothers you so much."

"So, what? You have five bottles of unprescribed pills in your bag, and you expect me to ignore that?"

The words that had fallen from Spencer Reid's mouth had made Jennie stop, her eyes widening slightly as she looked at him. Every emotion she had felt three seconds prior had washed away, her heart rate speeding up.

"W-What?"

The girl's eyes stayed on the man, as he looked to the floor, before walking slowly over to her bag, that was placed by the front door.

He took it in his hands, looking down in it, "I saw it when I came in."

Jennie shook her head, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Two Advil bottles, two of Benadryl, one of Tylenol." Spencer identified the medication in the bag. "You know, I'm surprised you don't have straight Fentanyl in here. But, then again, many people who do intake a large amount of these pills do it to not feel guilty. They think since it's supposed to be medicine, the expanded dependency of the pills are justifiable."

"You don't know what you're talking about." She repeated.

"I think I do."

Those words had made Jennie let out a scoff, shaking her head.

"No, no— you really don't, Spencer. Because, I didn't take any pills. I didn't—" Jennie began, feeling herself get immensely defensive. She then sighed, pausing before speaking again, "There was a time when I wanted to. Okay? After Haley died, they were just there— and I could've easily just poisoned myself with them. But I didn't. I talked myself out of the temptation, I helped myself. Which is what I've been doing my whole life. And all of you know that. So, why— why do you guys continue to try and make me feel better when you know I can handle it?"

"Because, Jennie— you think you can handle it when you really can't. You were going to take these pills so you could find some form of relief."

"But I didn't—"

"But you were going to. What if you had indulged a large quantity of those pills? Then what?" Spencer asked her, making Jennie fall silent. She knew he was right, as much as she hated to admit, "You honestly expect me to be satisfied with how you almost killed yourself?"

The room fell into a thick, tension-filled silence, with Spencer now keeping his eyes on the girl, while she kept her's on the floor.

"I have to tell your dad."

Jennie looked back at the man, taking in his words, before shaking her head quickly.

"No, no, no— Are you kidding me right now?" Jennie told him, as the man began to walk to the front door, "Were you not listening to a word I was saying? I didn't take any pills, Spencer."

"You had the temptation to."

Jennie scoffed while shaking her head, as Spencer faced the door, her thoughts leaving her mouth before she could stop it.

"You know what? You're a terrible friend." Jennie told him, causing him to turn to her, "To think I ever thought of you as my brother."

"Jennie—"

"No." She cut him off, "You know, when you were going through your worst, I didn't pry. I didn't use Shakespeare to try to get you to admit you had a problem. I waited for you to come to me. And when you asked me not to tell anyone— I didn't. I kept my mouth shut, despite how much it killed me."

By the end of her statements, Jennie could feel her eyes burn with water. And the more the man didn't give in, the more vulnerable she got.

"That's because you didn't have an obligation to, Jennie. I do. And, deep down, you know that."

She shook her head, tears falling down her cheek, her words full of emotion, "I swear to God, Spencer, if you tell him— I will never forgive you. I will never forgive you until the day I die. You can't say anything. You can't— please."

Spencer could feel his own eyes begin to water, as he looked down at the front door knob.

"I'm sorry, Jennie."

—

       LATER THAT NIGHT, Jennie stood in the kitchen, chopping up vegetables for Jack's dinner. The little boy sat in the living room, coloring.

To say today hadn't been one of her best birthdays would be an understatement. A really big understatement.

And when she could hear her father come through the front door, she knew it would only be getting worse.

"Jack, go to your room." He told his son, throwing his keys onto the table near the front door, causing Jennie to stiffen.

As Jack swiftly moved to his room, Aaron had moved next to his daughter, his burning gaze on her. She had tried to ignore it, her eyes focusing on the vegetables she was chopping.

"Is it true?"

His tone was firm. He could see her shoulders stiffen slightly, but she only kept cutting the carrots in front of her.

The longer her father stared at her, the louder her chopping got, while he could see her lip tremble.

"Jennie, I asked you a question."

She ignored him again, as the sound of the knife coming in contact with the vegetables became heavier. The man's hand had them got a hold of his daughter's arm, in attempts to get the girl to stop using the knife so vigorously.

"Jennie— stop. Put the knife down. Put the knife—"

It all happened so fast. In the midst of her father trying to get her to stop, and her not budging, she had left a mean gash on the palm of her hand.

And that's when she broke.

"God damn it!" She screamed, holding her bleeding hand, as she water flood in her eyes began streaming down her face.

Her father was quick to grab a clean cloth from the counter. However, before he could use it to apply pressure on the cut, Jennie had broken down.

She backed into the counter, slowly sliding down it as uncontrollable sobs escaped her mouth. Every emotion that she had bottled up in the past couple weeks, from the moment she drove her bleeding father to the hospital, to up until this point, had finally come out. Right there. On the kitchen floor.

Aaron was quick to sit at his daughter's side, wrapped the cloth around the wound, and his arms around the trembling girl as she cried.

"I-I can't— I can't breath. Daddy, I can't breath. Make it stop. Please, make it stop."

Yeah, this birthday definitely wasn't the best she's had so far.

—

AUTHORS NOTE |

if it makes you guys feel any better, whilst writing this there was a huge bee right next to my bed so i think that's my karma

word count.
3037.