Wild Nights, Wild Nights || s.reid

38. I Shall Not Live in Vain

Five Years and Five Months Later

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In the one and a half years that he'd been Director of the FBI, Christopher Preston had realized that he cared about nothing less than the ridiculous politics associated with his title. And it wasn't about his duty to help see to the safety of the citizens of the United States; that was one of the only reasons he'd applied for and accepted the position when the President and the Department of Justice offered it to him in the first place. He wanted to help fix everything Boucher had destroyed.

It was more so that he hated having to exert much of his time and energy in meetings about how to save face after over seventy agents had been found guilty of associating with the French mob over the past five years. That didn't even include the several high profile politicians who were now also sitting in federal prisons for the same reason.

Preston didn't care about saving face; the bureau and the United States government had failed to identify and deal with deep running corruption for years. In his humble opinion, he felt that the media slander and public scrutiny was more than warranted. He made such opinions known during press conferences, which ironically had led to him gaining something in the way of public favor while at the same time pissing off his higher ups.

Yeah, he hated the political part of his job.

But he still woke up every morning at the crack of dawn to do it, because despite his reservations about some of the natures of his position, he couldn't really complain. The title gave him the opportunity to actually do what he cared about.

And Preston just cared about fixing the systems which led to such gross neglect in the first place. He cared about weeding out every single one of Boucher's bastards in whatever position they'd weaseled their way into. He cared about tracking down Alexander Marseille and prosecuting him to the fullest extent of the law.

And on a random Thursday morning, on a disgustingly humid day in June, he could at least say that he aided with that third thing...

Sort of.

It had been two weeks since Alexander had at long last been tracked down by the BAU. When he was still in ViCAP, Preston spent a fair amount of time leading and working the investigation by himself, all while trying to avoid detection by the higher ups. At first, he was irritated at the lack of initiative on the BAU's part, but he supposed he couldn't hold it against them. They were the most polarizing unit in the FBI, and after Boucher's corruption came to light, it had become even more so, especially because you had been a member.

Between that, all the bureaucratic nonsense that they went through, and the vindictive serial killers seeking vengeance on them seemingly every other day of the week...

Well, Preston was just glad that they were able to finally get the bastard.

He hadn't been a part of the take-down. He hadn't even known about the latest and major developments that the case had gone through. Ever since he became Director, the BAU started withholding information about the case from him. And even though he couldn't entirely blame them for that either, not knowing precisely what was going on, especially when it came to that, was especially off-putting.

On the other hand, though, not actually knowing anything about the takedown itself saved him from having to either lie or reveal the fact that he knew much about the case when he was questioned by the Attorney General about it.

But even still, two weeks later, Preston still had a job to do.

He just didn't anticipate having to attend the third meeting in the questioning of someone who had grown to be something of a friend of his.

Dr. Spencer Reid was the last person he'd expected to be under investigation, but Preston would also be lying if he said that he wouldn't have acted the exact same way if given the chance, even at the cost of killing what could have been an excellent source of information for mob activity.

Alexander Marseille deserved every bullet.

Preston just hoped that the BAU's reputation would help speed the process along. Until the Attorney General and Preston cleared him, Spencer wouldn't be able to do the thing all of this had led to.

Frankly, Preston wasn't sure when or if he'd get the opportunity any time soon, either. He knew nothing other than what had been told to him on that day nearly five and a half years ago, and being the Director did not automatically make him privy to all information and confidential databases. He didn't know how long any of them would have to wait, nor did he know if it would actually happen. He'd been restless for the past two weeks, finding himself lying awake at night with his mind racing. He just wanted to know.

God, he hated not knowing everything that went on in the bureau.

But all he could do was hope. That was all he'd been able to do during these past years, after all, even when deadends in the case led him towards the opposite.

So on that random Thursday morning in June, when Preston walked into the air conditioned lobby of the J. Edgar Hoover building (the building in which he spent much of his working hours and which, as Director, he oversaw, only occasionally making trips to the academy in Quantico to meet with the unit chiefs and leaders), the last thing he expected was for it to happen unexpectedly, without any warning whatsoever.

Preston walked past security in the lobby, shouldering his gym bag as he waved "good morning" to them with the friendliest smile he could muster, just as he did every morning. His hair was still damp from his post-workout shower.

He rode the elevator up to the top floor and nodded a greeting towards his assistant before striding down the long hallway to his own office. The soles of his loafers clicked against the floor.

And when he approached at last, he found that his office door was already ajar.

Every alarm in his head went off.

Jonas, his assistant, hadn't indicated that he had a meeting this morning in his office. Spencer's investigation meeting would take place in a few hours in a more formal setting. There wasn't a reason that someone would be in his office this early.

So Preston rested a hand on the top of the gun on his hip as he slowly nudged the old mahogany door open.

And he froze on the spot entirely.

Standing by the window was a woman wearing a red sundress. She was holding a toddler—a little girl, Preston realized quickly—on her hip. The girl had her head resting against the woman's shoulder. Her back was to the door.

And then he heard quiet talking.

The woman pointed at something outside the window as she spoke.

Preston knew that voice. He knew that voice well.

In his state of shock, his gym bag slid from his shoulder and fell to the ground.

You whirled around to find the source of the noise.

The toddler picked her head up from your shoulder and stared at him.

At the sight of his wide eyes and slack-jawed face, you slowly smiled and said, "Hey, sweetheart."

And after several moments of silence during which Preston failed to come up with anything to say, he huffed an incredulous laugh and hoarsely responded, "Hey."

All his hoping hadn't been for naught after all.