Chapter Text
“Y’know, you don’t do much talkin’,” Will remarks offhandedly, squinting over at her beneath the glaring sunlight.
It’s a sweltering hot day in Quantico, Virginia; humidity’s at something like 70%. Sweat beads along the nape of JJ’s neck, plastering flyaway hairs to her overheated skin. She thinks it’d probably be something of a miracle if she didn’t have matching pit stains to show for it right about now.
JJ shrugs before swiftly advancing into a lunge stretch in the grass. Her quads ache at the sudden pull. “Maybe I just don’t find you all that interesting.”
Will chuckles at that, like it’s a joke.
It kind of isn’t.
“So, I was wonderin’, cher—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“JJ,” he corrects himself immediately with an apologetic wince. “Um, I was thinkin’—”
“Hey! Butch Cassidy!” Coach Foyet’s grating sneer filters over from where he stands scowling at them all from the sidelines, a whistle dangling from one corner of his downturned mouth and a hateful look in his beady eyes. “Less flirting with Aurora, more warming up! Or would you like to run two miles instead of one?”
Will flushes pink up to the tips of his ears. “Naw, that’s alright,” he calls back, quickly advancing into another lunge. JJ hears some of the other kids snicker. “Sorry, Coach.”
JJ arches a single brow over at him. “‘Butch Cassidy’?”
“I’ll tell ya, I got no clue who that is,” Will admits with a slight shake of his head.
“Butch Cassidy was one of the most prominent historical figures in the Wild West,” Spencer offers up shyly from her other side.
JJ immediately turns to give him a bemused but attentive look.
The boy’s face flushes pink under her scrutiny, but he nonetheless continues, “H-His real name was Robert LeRoy Parker. He robbed trains, banks, and headed up a gang of criminals who called themselves the Wild Bunch alongside his long-time partner Harry Alonzo Longabaugh, better known as the Sundance Kid. He was particularly notorious in the 1890s—the height of his criminal career.”
JJ’s brows creep towards her hairline even as a fond smile curves her lips. She doesn’t have to glance back to Will to know he’s gaping over at Spencer like he’s from a different planet.
“So, he was a cowboy?” she questions in a casual tone, keen to avoid making the boy uncomfortable.
“Essentially, yes,” Spencer agrees, lips upturned to form a lopsided grin. “A famous one, at that.”
Morgan comes up behind him wearing a blinding smile, clapping him on the back firmly enough to make JJ worry for the boy’s spine. “That’s my Boy Wonder,” he chortles. “Certifiable genius.”
Just then, Garcia scurries over, dragging Kevin in tow. The boy’s nose is still heavily bruised and bandaged, speckled with dried blood. He looks absolutely miserable.
“Coach Foyet can’t make him run the mile, right?” Garcia questions, looking from one person to the next with clear alarm in her eyes. “There’s gotta be a rule against that or something. It’s cruel and unusual punishment!”
“You forget that ‘cruel and unusual’ is Coach Foyet’s specialty,” Emily interjects drolly, sidling up alongside Garcia. JJ can’t help the way her heart stutters in her chest at the sight of her. Somehow, she manages to make the dull standard-issue P.E. uniform look flattering instead of hideous. “All else fails, you can just walk it, right, Kev?”
Garcia visibly blanches. “Aren’t we all forgetting what happened last year?”
Just then, Luke walks up to join their clustered group. “Last year?” he asks.
“Babygirl, they weren’t here last year,” Morgan reminds her.
“Right,” Garcia concedes, shooting the rest of them (sans Spencer and Morgan) a cursory glance. “Lucky stinkers.”
“Okay, so, spill. What happened?” Emily questions.
“Last year, Pretty Boy here,” Morgan nods over at Spencer, “tried to walk the mile. Coach Foyet grabbed his megaphone, a lacrosse stick, and a bucket of ammo.”
JJ frowns. “‘Ammo’?”
“Lacrosse balls,” Spencer supplies quietly. He doesn’t look at any of them, just stares down at his ratty Converse like they’re the most interesting things in the world.
“Lacrosse balls?” Luke repeats, eyes wide. “Those things are, like, 100% rubber. They hurt like a bitch if you throw ‘em fast enough.”
“Yeah.” Morgan clenches his jaw. “Apparently, Foyet played some ball back in the day.”
Garcia nods along with that, distance growing in her eyes. “His aim is no joke.”
“So he… threw lacrosse balls at you?” Emily sounds absolutely horrified. To be completely fair, JJ’s sentiment is much the same.
“I ran in zig-zags for the rest of the mile,” Spencers offers with a shrug. “It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.”
“That can’t be legal!” Luke protests.
“Oh, it’s not,” Spencer agrees placidly.
“Well, did you report it?” JJ asks next, gaze darting from Spencer to Garcia and back again.
“‘Course we did, Jay,” Morgan assures her easily, though his tightly clenched jaw betrays his annoyance. “It was Reid’s word against his. Not to mention, Principal Strauss has never exactly been our #1 fan.”
There’s silence for a beat.
“That’s awful,” Emily says quietly.
Garcia shrugs. “Welcome to our world, Sugar Plum.”
— —
Running the mile has never been a terrible hardship for JJ, in any sense of the word.
Back in East Allegheny, Coach Cruz had them running a two-mile minimum for their weekly conditioning on Wednesdays. Every other week on Fridays, he’d partner everyone up, have them each take a turn timing the other for a mile-long run around the soccer fields. Five and a half laps.
By the end of pre-season, JJ had her mile time down to 6 minutes, 44 seconds.
And sure, it’s been a couple weeks since she’s been to practice, but she hasn’t gained weight (if anything, she’s lost it), and she’s taken the time to exercise here and there, so she’s not terribly out-of-shape.
She can probably make it in 7 minutes flat if she really pushes herself.
Then again, Coach Foyet is giving the circumstance whole new parameters.
It’s five and a half laps around the school’s soccer field, same as back home, but the rest of it couldn’t be more different.
For starters, there’s already a bucket of lacrosse balls at Coach Foyet’s feet and a stick balanced over one shoulder—prepared for the possibility that some of the slower kids will be needing his “encouragement.” Expecting it, even.
The second he blows the whistle, everyone’s jolting off the line. As expected, a handful of athletic-looking kids break away from the rest of the pack quite early on, setting a grueling pace that’ll get them somewhere under 8 minutes, easy.
By the end of the first lap, a solid three-quarters of the group (no more than 60 kids in all) form a thick swarm at a somewhat average clip. By JJ’s estimates, they’ll all manage their miles around 10 or 11 minutes, provided they keep it up.
JJ, meanwhile, heads up the rear at a slow jog alongside Garcia and Spencer and Kevin, letting the three of them set the pace. Morgan and Emily and Luke hang back to trot it with them, too.
It’s slow going, but JJ doesn’t mind. As far as she’s concerned, it’s a welcome respite from grueling Wednesday afternoon conditioning sessions under Coach Cruz’s watchful eye.
Plus, it allows her some time to touch base with Emily as they run.
She’s not as fast or as well-conditioned as JJ is, but she doesn’t need to be at the slow pace they’re keeping.
“God, this sucks,” Emily groans, letting out little pants on every stride. They’re on their second lap, now, and Coach Foyet’s endless litany of imaginative put-downs has faded more to irksome white noise in the background than anything else.
JJ slants a look over at her, letting a slight smirk curve her lips. “What, not a fan of running?”
Emily scoffs, shaking her head. Hard-earned sweat soaks her bangs, plastering them to her forehead. “We can’t all be soccer stars, Jareau.”
JJ rolls her eyes but allows a toothy grin to overtake her features. “Well, I was voted MVP three years running...”
Emily nudges JJ’s shoulder with her own, a teasing shove that barely sways her balance. Her brown eyes twinkle with warmth. “No one likes a braggart.”
JJ gasps, putting a hand to her chest and feigning offense. “And here I thought I’d won you over with my charms,” she says, tone wrought with mock reproach as they skirt the corner flag of the pitch, starting on their third lap.
Emily grins, baring a hint of straight white teeth. “Never said you didn’t, Jayje.”
They fall into a comfortable quiet for the next stretch. JJ tunes in and out to catch snippets of Morgan and Spencer’s murmured chatter, Luke and Garcia’s easy banter, Kevin’s nasally complaints.
It’s comfortable, she realizes, even if Coach Foyet’s shouted discouragements are anything but.
It’s… nice. For the first time since Ros died, she kind of feels like she belongs.
— —
They’re just starting in on lap #5 when lacrosse balls start flying. Spencer, Kevin, and Garcia’s pace had fallen off around lap #4, reducing them all to something of a speed-walk as they continued on.
By the final stretch of the fourth lap, the clip had dwindled to that of a leisurely stroll. JJ, Morgan, Luke, and Emily kept light on their toes, affecting the appearance of a jog even as their momentum remained sluggish.
And, now… well. The other kids have all finished (Will included), most of them sprawled on their backs in the grass past the finish line, chests heaving for air.
Thud! goes the first ball, sailing right by Spencer’s nose and into the nearby lightpost. The second one comes whizzing through the air a beat later, making Luke lurch forward with a muttered curse so as to avoid getting nailed in the neck. It flies into the stands with a series of metallic clangs as it ricochets between the bleachers.
The third is a bullet of a throw headed straight for Morgan, who just manages to twist back in time mid-stride such that it glances off his shoulder before bouncing off into the stands.
“Hey morons!” Coach Foyet’s voice filters over to them through—Oh, wonderful, he’s got a megaphone. Another quick glance over her shoulder clocks Coach Foyet standing in the center circle with the bucket on its side and a mess of white lacrosse balls at his feet. He’s enlisted some poor, sweat-soaked kid to hold up his megaphone as he winds up to take another shot, beady eyes narrowed on JJ and the others. “This ain’t The Breakfast Club, capisce? I’ve seen more speed in a Jazzercise class for senior citizens! Let’s get a move on!”
“Not again,” Garcia bemoans, picking up her pace and elbowing a disgruntled Kevin to do the same.
Luke huffs out a sigh, leaping up into the air just in time to clear a low ball speeding straight for—
Thwack!
“Shit!” JJ hisses, stumbling slightly as a ball whacks her square in the calf. “God—fuck, that hurt!”
“Language, Blondie!” Coach Foyet yells.
Emily rolls her eyes, placing a comforting hand on JJ’s lower back. It’s a little awkward, as they’re still keeping up an erratic jog and dodging flying balls, but it does make her feel better.
“You alright?” she murmurs.
JJ nods, her calf still smarting. “I’ve met 10-year-olds who hit harder.”
“Liar,” Emily retorts.
JJ shrugs, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
Garcia lets loose a high-pitched squeal as a lacrosse ball brushes her pigtails.
“I hate my life,” Kevin groans.
— —