✓ | sick of losing soulmates [SPENCER REID]

12.4

12.4
( departure. )

☆ ★ ☆

iris

The private jet, the propellers shuttering cacophonously, is just about to take off when a dozen cop cars and SUVs whirl across the runway, pulling up directly in its path. Iris' skin is assaulted by a barrage of icy wind, roaring around her ears, when she steps out of the SUV, pulling her gun from her holster and futilely trying to spit the hair out of her mouth. in her hair loudly

"Laughlin McDermott and Chloe Donaughy," Hotch shouts into his megaphone, "this is the FBI. We know you have Declan. To ensure his safety we would like to trade."

From one of the SUVs parked nearby, Spencer steps out and rounds the vehicle to yank open the back door. He reaches in, grapples for a second or so, and then yanks out a handcuffed Doyle. Iris sucks I'm a breath, glancing uneasily at the plane.

For a plan concocted by Spencer, she feels far too wary about this for her liking. Especially about the part involving Emily, which she'd kicked up a serious fuss about back in the bullpen, ending in serious words with Emily, who'd insisted she'd be fine and that Iris better not 'go all soccer mom on her'.

Safe to say, the attempt at humour had not gone down well with Iris, who'd snapped, "All I'm asking is that nobody dies this time -- that's all I want."

Feeling visibly guiltily, Emily had swallowed, eyes drifting away from Iris' and to the floor.

That had made Iris soften, anger bleeding away into nothing. There would be no staying mad at Emily anymore -- not that there ever really had been in the first place. "Please," she had whispered. "I can't lose you again."

Now, Emily glances at Iris before she moves, then, together, Emily and Spencer pull Ian further from the vehicle, escorting him forward; he doesn't struggle, face blank. Accepting of his grim fate.

"We will give you Ian Doyle," Hotch shouts, "and you send us the boy."

There is a moment of silence, of stillness, of the propellers slowing and of only Spencer and Emily and Doyle moving. Then, up on the plane, the door hisses as it pushes open a crack, and then slowly lowers the rest of the way downward. Stairs extend from the gap, leading to the concrete ground of the runway.

Iris raises her gun, and stares down the sleek slope of the metal as a man wobbles out, stepping hesitantly onto the unsteady flight of stairs. His arm is wrapped around the neck of a smaller figure; in the darkness, only a head of vivid blonde hair is visible, but Iris would recognise those locks of hair anywhere.