GETTING PERSONAL
By AussieHottieMjM

DISCLAIMER
I don't own Profiler or its characters. I do, however, own this story. So please: Don't steal.

RATING
This fic is rated T for language, violence, and adult situations.

SYNOPSIS
Five long years after the unfortunate demise of the VCTF, a murder hits too close to home and the VCTF reconstitutes.

SETTING
This fic is set around five years after the final Profiler episode.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is my first Profiler fic, but it certainly will not be my last. I really do enjoy writing these characters.

x x x

Ring. Ring. Ring. John Grant groaned. He rolled over to the other side of his bed and answered the phone. "John," he said groggily.

"It's me."

John sat up. He couldn't believe it. He hadn't heard from this guy in years.

It had been five years since the Violent Crimes Task Force located in Atlanta had disbanded. And now, his former boss Bailey Malone was calling him. 'Why?'

John cleared his throat. "Bailey... ho... how are you?" John closed his eyes firmly, and opened them again, slowly taking in the sunlight just beginning to peep inside his room and the alarm clock that blinked 6:27 A.M.

Bailey ignored John's question. "How would you feel about restarting the VCTF?"

"As great as that would be," John said, "we don't have a profiler. Thanks, but call back when you do..." He was about to hang up the phone when:

"She's out, John." John froze.

"When did she get out?"

"Two weeks ago. She only had to serve five years, which by God, were we lucky only five."

John breathed hard. 'Rachel's out,' he praised in his head. "Why didn't you tell me this two weeks ago?"

"I'm sorry John – I should've – but I was helping her set up her things. You know, get reacquainted."

'Well, I wanted to help,' he complained to himself in his head. "So... when do I start?"

"Monday. I've already gotten clearance to start it back up. It was hard convincing them, but then I showed them every case we solved front to cover (which took awhile). They caved. Told me that if I had that much persistence, then I'd pick a good group of people. I've got their trust now."

John sighed. He didn't know if he was relieved or not, but he was glad that Rachel was out, and that he didn't have to work with the Atlanta PD anymore. It's just not nearly the same as being an FBI agent. John told the man a good thanks and hung up the phone.

'Monday is two days away.'

x x x

"Damn it," John hissed as he picked up the soap bar he had dropped in the shower for the third time in a row.

He placed the bar of soap back on the small soap shelf and turned off the water. 'It's gonna be a long day,' John predicted. He opened the curtain and wrapped a white towel around his waist as he stepped out.

Monday morning had come so quickly and yet utterly slow. All John wanted to do was see Rachel again. He didn't exactly understand why; but at the same time, he did. It was confusing for John. He hadn't felt this way about anyone... ever.

John put on a pair of black pants over the boxers he had lazily placed on. Then he absentmindedly put on a beater and over that, a white, oxford, buttoned-down shirt. He exited the bathroom and headed for his bedroom, where he put on a pair of socks and fitted his feet into his shoes. He inserted his wallet in his back, right pocket and his keys into his front, left. He put on his watch as he grabbed a tie and headed straight toward the front door of his apartment. He got second thoughts about the tie and tossed it upon the hall tree before exiting his apartment, his nerves starting to get the best of him.

He entered the room of a very familiar building. John never realized how much he missed this place, especially the command center. All of his old friends were seated at their usual spots around the table while other busy little workers scurried around the rest of the building.

x x x

"Late as usual, John," Bailey stated.

"Just felt like keeping that tradition," John quipped. This got a small response from his old friend.

"You guys remember John Grant, don't you?" he asked the other members of the team.

"Oh, you mean the guy that never answered the phone when we called and never came to the little get-togethers we had?" George replied sarcastically. "A little."

The others chuckled. It was then that John noticed that someone wasn't there. There wasn't that annoying yet beautiful little laugh that John loved so much. 'Where is Rachel?' It bothered him so much, he, then, had to ask. "Where's Rachel?"

"Right behind you," a feminine voice replied. John whirled around to see that gorgeous, red-headed girl he had missed so much. "Hey, John. Long time, no see."

John breathed deep, quickly regaining the composure he had lost when she first spoke.

"Are you jumpy, John?" Rachel asked.

"No," he stated coolly, pretending that she had no effect on him or any power over him.

"Okay," Rachel replied, then walked over and took her usual seat at the right side of Bailey. John followed, sitting next to her.

"So, Bailey, what do we got?" George asked absentmindedly, as if the VCTF had never closed in the first place.

"A murder," he replied.

"Obviously," John scoffed.

"Hal Willis, fifty-four, Caucasian... Math teacher," Bailey continued. "He was on his way home from work when some psycho decapitated him." The team grimaced.

"When and where?"

"Walking home from work yesterday afternoon around three thirty-ish. He lived two blocks from the school."

"I'm never going jogging again," Grace replied, "seriously."

"Dallas, Texas. We'll fly out after lunch. In the meantime, George, I want you to look through all you can on previous murders where the victims were beheaded. The search will change as we get new information." George began searching on his little black laptop. "Grace, help him. Rachel, think up any kind of profile you can off our information. I know it's not much, but at least it's something. John, see me in my office." Bailey got up and left the table, and headed for his office.

"First day and he's already on my case. And did you notice he didn't let us catch up first?" He was talking to no one in particular.

"Actually, he did," Grace said. "But remember? – You were late."

A half-smile formed on John's lips.

x x x

"Sit down, John." He looked at the leather chair in front of him and slowly made his way from the doorway. "What's going on, John?"

"Nothing... Bailey..."

"Come on, and don't get smart with me, John."

"Do you have to say 'John' at the end of everything? I'm the only other person in this room. I think I know who you're talking to."

"Just answer the question."

"I did."

"You abandoned us. We had so many get-togethers and you were never there. Not once. You always let the answering machine take our calls. You never answered your apartment door when we actually came by to see you. You completely ignored us, and never tried to return our attempts to meet."

"Look, I just didn't want to, okay? I was... busy..."

"Busy? Oh please. We'd try to at least get in touch with you every other day. There wasn't much catching up this morning, either, even with Rachel. They were all placing bets on how many days it would be before you showed up, if you would. So don't tell me you were 'busy'."

"I was busy, Bailey! Every day I slaved inside all those books about laws – some of them completely pointless – but I read them anyways."

"Why in the world would you do something like that?"

"For Rachel, damn it!" John lowered the volume in his voice. "For Rachel. I was trying to find a way to get her out. I was looking for any shred of evidence that could've helped, or any loophole I could find and take."

Bailey looked down at his desk. "Well she got out."

"How?"

"Her sentence was only five years."

John sighed. "She shouldn't have served it."

"Yeah and she had a rough time."

"How rough?"

"Well I'm sure it'd help you both if she told you herself. Plus, if she didn't want you to know, I wouldn't get in trouble."

"We done yet?"

"No."

John sighed. "Now what?"

"How've you been, kid?"

John smiled. "Other than the enslavement thing, I'm pretty good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah... a lot of nothing happened. And I never really did anything fun. I pretty much just... read... and read... and... read..."

A small laugh escaped from Bailey's mouth. "Great. I'm glad at least nothing bad happened."

x x x

John walked over to where Rachel was sitting on the plane. "This seat taken?" Rachel opened her eyes.

"No. Go ahead; sit down."

"Thanks." John sat, and turned his body slightly to the right to half-face the woman sharing the pale tan-yellow couch. "So... are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Do you wanna talk?"

"About what?"

"Oh I don't know..." he trailed. "How about... prison?"

"Oh," she breathed.

"Bailey said you had a rough time. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to talk about it."

"It just... brought back a lot of memories is all."

"Oh... right... don't wanna talk about it. Alright," John began to stand.

"John... I just... don't think now's the time."

"Later then?" John asked, his spirits suddenly uplifted.

"Later..."

x x x

Bright yellow police tape surrounded a fifty foot radius of where the victim was murdered. As Grace looked around for any physical evidence, the other three discussed possibilities.

Rachel began filling them in on her profile. "He's killing men by cutting off their heads. That kind of violence expresses that the murderer hates something about their face. It reminds them of something... something that they hate. It could be their hair, their eyes, their jaw line. Hal Willis was a man of fifty-four, but he looks like he was literally in his seventies. The killer must have known his age, because the file we have says his other three victims were thirty-two, forty-three, and forty-nine. He's staying within about a twenty-year range. He wouldn't have gone from forty-nine to seventy-something. This means the killer knows the victims. And considering how clean he leaves the scene, he's probably done this before."

"Rachel," John began, "how'd you get so damn insightful?"

"There's-"

A call from Bailey's phone interrupted her. "Malone. What? Yeah, I'll be sending two there right away." He looked up at the two and led them back to Grace. "There's been another murder at International and Hebron. That's about a mile up the road. John and Rachel, you'll leave now. Since it's fresh, there could be more of a chance at finding clues. I'll stay here with Grace."

"Thanks for not abandoning me, Bailey," Grace replied.

"You guys with the VCTF?" a man in a black police uniform asked.

"Yes. I'm Agent Grant; this is Agent Burke."

"Officer Sam Henry. 'Bout time you guys got here. The whole town's in a panic."

"Isn't Dallas a city?"

"These murders have been isolated to this specific county of Dallas."

"Carrollton," Rachel said.

"Yes, and it's scaring the bajeebers out of everyone."

"Bajeebers?" John whispered in Rachel's ear. This one got a small laugh from her.

"So what do we have?" Rachel asked.

"African American male – we haven't had enough time to ID him yet. He didn't have his wallet. They never have their wallets. The killer likes making things hard for us. And from what we can tell, I'd say the victim's somewhere in his very late thirties or early forties."

They reached the place where the body laid, a long white sheet covering its entirety.

"Can we take a look?" John asked.

"Knock yourself out," Officer Henry replied.

John reached down and slowly pulled the sheet below the victim's neck. "Oh God..." he trailed. "Oh God," he repeated.

"John, what is it?"

"Nathan..."