Set during the events of the Season Seven Finale "Hit/Run".
"The Past cannot be cured." ~Elizabeth I
She gets up first. She's always up first.
He wakes to the sound of the shower, hears her moving around, drying her hair, bare feet padding on the cold bathroom tile. He sits up, looks at the clock, takes in the room. He didn't really take much time to observe his surroundings last night. There were other sights to see.
The bathroom door whips open and she walks out, hair perfectly coiffed, face devoid of makeup, body covered in a stark white hotel towel. The skin on her upper chest is red and damp.
"Good water pressure?" He guesses, noticing the pink hue on her neck and back as well.
She hums in affirmation. "Impressive."
She finds her pantyhose, tosses them in her purse as she fishes a tube of mascara and a compact of powder from the bag's brown leather depths. She goes back to the bathroom. This time she doesn't close the door. He sits up, leaning back against the headboard as he contents himself with watching her whisk the powder brush over her face with skilled hands. He smiles as she applies her mascara, mouth open and leaning forward on her tip-toes, calf muscles becoming more defined with the strain. She's always done that—rolling forward on the balls of her feet when she puts on her makeup. She doesn't realize she does it, and that makes it both intriguing and adorable.
She gives a slight grimace at her reflection—it's not the pristinely flawless makeup she usually dons before facing the world, but it's all she had in her purse (for touch ups, because she certainly hadn't planned on spending the night here, especially not like this, not with him) and it's better than nothing. She feels his eyes on her, feels all the things he's thinking but not saying (he never says them, not in the morning, not during the daylight hours, because it isn't what she wants and even if it was, he's not sure he could stand the pain of saying them aloud).
With a light sigh, she puts the makeup back in her purse, dropping her towel carelessly as she finds her panties and bra. She doesn't turn away from him—they're far past that, far past hiding themselves from one another, they've charted their bodies over almost three decades of these strange and infrequent clashes of body and spirit. He'd marveled at the differences last night, had tenderly kissed the flaws that had been for years but were new to him, and she had wondered at how foreign and how utterly familiar his body had become after a decade of not being seen by her eyes.
He makes a small noise of appreciation for the sight, and her grey eyes flick up at him with a slight reprimand. Not today, buddy.
He chuckles at her stern expression. She can pretend not to like his attentions all she wants; he knows that it sends a thrill straight through her.
She's slipping into her skirt now, zipping it up the back as she glances around for her cardigan and silk top. She finds them near the door and her heart gives a secret smile—she hadn't even closed the door before he'd begun pulling her clothes off. It has been years since someone has found her that desirable, since she's had the power to turn a man into a reckless flurry of hands and teeth and tongue.
He's still in bed, still watching her, taking the time to observe every little nuance that makes up the formidable Erin Strauss. He commits them to memory, knowing it will probably be a long time before he gets to see these little secret parts of her again—how she moves without her heels on, how her skin looks in the morning light, the fresh natural look of her face without her usual makeup, the beautiful cut of her classical features as she leans over her purse, rummaging around for her cell phone. These are the little things he shouldn't know, the things he can't notice at work, the things he isn't supposed to remember and yet he could never forget.
She sits in the chair next to the table, leaning forward to slip on a high heel, assuming that air of nonchalance and authority that she wears so well, and he knows what's coming next.
"This was a one-time thing."
"That's what you said last time." He smiles warmly as he thinks back. "In a lovely hotel in Seattle, where the rain lightly drizzled down the windows..."
"That never happened, remember?" She gives him a pointed look.
"Ah. Yes." He sits back, sinking against the headboard.
"You can't talk about something that never happened," she adds, standing and glancing around the room, eyes searching for her other shoe. "You can't remember something that never happened."
She swivels, glances under the table, stoops to grab her other shoe from underneath. He gives a low growl of appreciation at the view.
"It would be so much easier if you weren't so damn unforgettable."
She smiles but quickly stamps it back down into a thin line of disapproval. But he saw it and she knows that he saw it.
She scoops up his clothes, tosses them next to him on the bed, "Check-out is in twenty minutes."
"If I am not allowed to remember any of this, at least give me something else to forget," he teases, motioning for her to come closer.
She smiles, acquiesces, crawls across the muddled bed, her pencil skirt limiting her movement, causing her to wriggle her hips more (perhaps that is intentional, she's wonderfully wicked that way). He can see straight down the line of her shirt, to those lovely breasts topped with a light sun-kissed gold, becoming paler the deeper the curve goes (he loves the paleness, the part he knows even the sun hasn't touched, the inches of flesh that remain unknown to the rest of the world, the part that is something secret, something he knows, something that she has shared with him).
Her hands are planted on either side of his hips now, she leans forward, nuzzling his face, feeling the prick deep inside at the rough pull of his goatee against her cheek. His hands are gently traveling up her arms, resting on her neck, pulling her mouth to his with a surprising sweetness, his lips telegraphing all the words that can never leave them. She receives these messages, sends them back with her tongue, the electric spark shooting back and forth between the two like a pin ball, hitting new marks, lighting new corners, sending new alarms off in each body.
She feels the warmth radiating off his bare skin, knows how delicious it would feel against hers, smells the remnants of his cologne and the scent of sex and her mind travels further down, but it's morning now and they don't do that during the day, they never do because that's what lovers and spouses and everyone else does, and they are not those people, those things. They are something darker, some strange hybrid creature of the night, with teeth and fangs and hard edges and hungry stomachs, born of blood and want and fire. They can't be anything else.
She pulls back (she's always the one who pulls back). She smiles, bites her bottom lip like a shy, breathless schoolgirl after her first kiss. He strokes the side of her face, she leans into it, capturing his hand between her cheek and her shoulder and turning her head to plant a kiss in his warm palm. Then she takes a deep breath and moves further away, her eyes avoiding his. It's too much, more than he should have asked for, more than she should have given, because those things are only acceptable before, not after, at night, not during the day. And even then, it can be passionate, but not affectionate. They aren't those people. They cannot be those people. This is another mulligan she'll ask for, another errant shot, another thing to be forgotten, another moment that cannot exist.
He gets up, gets dressed quickly and quietly. She waits on the edge of the bed, purse in her lap, patiently watching him wash his face, brush his teeth with the flimsy little toothbrush provided by the hotel, slip his flashy watch back over his wrist. She loves these little things that she doesn't get to see, the little stolen moments that she'll carry with her for days and weeks and months and years, occasionally taking them out like little treasures, little bits of him to tide her over until the need and the want and the darker something else (love? could it be love?) override her sense of propriety and pull her back into frantic tangles of hotel bed sheets and hurried whispers and strange, sterile mornings just like this.
He turns out the light in the bathroom, taking a moment to watch her watching him, "What's up, kitten?"
He's always called her that, ever since they first met, straight out of the Academy. She hated it then and she hates it now—kittens are cute and cuddly and naive and innocent, all fluff and no fangs, all the things that Erin Strauss has spent her whole life trying not to be. He knows this, has always known this, takes a certain naughty delight in watching those eyes light up in anger at the moniker. But she is a kitten—drawing you in with those wide eyes and that soft voice and that shy smile and those fluttering gestures, so seemingly innocuous and playful, only to produce razor-sharp claws that scratch and slice and separate with painfully cold calculation. The first time he'd called her that, it had been a patronizing thing, a jab at her carefully constructed armor, a moment of pent-up frustration at this blonde thing that crawled underneath his skin without really trying, without even knowing. Her temper had immediately responded, flaring and billowing into something he'd never seen before, and he had been utterly transfixed. Of course, then they were younger, their blood ran hotter and their insecurities lay much closer to the surface. Now they are older and better schooled at controlling their emotions—she doesn't clinch her fists in rage anymore, she simply holds her breath for a moment, and he knows she is pushing down whatever irritation is rising in her chest.
She knows he only calls her that to get a rise out of her; she's well aware of his strange fascination with seeing her angry. The nickname isn't quite so odious any more—the distaste is still there, but the familiarity of it produces a softer feeling—but she still pretends to be affected by it, because she knows what it does for him and part of her always wants to be able to do that to him, to cause that spark, to be the reason behind the little light in his dark eyes. Of course, he knows this (he always knows, even when he thinks he doesn't), but it is part of their game, part of some unwritten law of the land in their strange relationship, and they accept it, accept their roles and play them well.
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she gives him a dark look as she moves to the door. He follows with a smile. He places an arm in front of her, blocking the door, leaning in with such easy familiarity. "Why the face, kitten? Didn't you have fun, kitten?"
He's drawing the word out now, baiting her like an annoying little boy taunting his first crush, and this time, the flash in her eyes is real, darker now. She opens her mouth to respond but he covers it with his own, muffling her protests by pushing his tongue inside her mouth. She melts against the wall, wanting him to push further, to feel his weight against her once more, but he doesn't.
"Until next time." He whispers, his breath hot against her neck, giving her ass a quick pinch. He grins devilishly when she gives a slight yip of surprise, walking out the door with one last glance. That look holds it all—the desire, the adoration, the passion, the want, the need, the every-little-thing-in-between—and Erin feels another wave of warmth pass through her, climbing up the walls of her hips, through the caverns of her chest, spreading across her skin like wildfire. She leans back against the wall again, regaining her breath, stamping down the faint flutter of irritation at this man for leaving her like this, leaving her wanting and angry and hopelessly enamored. All of that was supposed to be taken care of last night, it was supposed to be unleashed, drained, completely obliterated, so they could start back at square one, clean slates, allowing these things to build up again until they needed to be washed away through touch and taste many moons from now. That is how it is supposed to be. That is how it has always been, and it has worked well for them. Now he has broken a rule, changed the game, and that is unfair and unwelcome.
Still, these resentments and irritations cannot overpower the smile on her lips. He is infuriating. And she loves him all the more for it. Of course, she can never tell him such things. They are not those people.
David Rossi moves quietly through the carpeted halls, fingers lightly playing with the key cards as his mind travels back to the creature with the lovely eyes and wanting mouth that he left behind. She is his grey-eyed Athene, with her perfectly carved features and blonde hair, all fire and wisdom and wit and war. He isn't a particularly spiritual man, but she is his goddess—he worships her, pays homage on the altar of her body, will drift away and then return to the holy site of his faith with sudden clarity and fervor, will always have some belief in her, no matter how angry or how lost or how far from her that he might feel. He waits for her divine favor, prays for it even, accepts whatever she gives, knowing it comes at some sacrifice.
He loves her, loves her in a way that he's never loved another. He knows this; she knows this. He thinks maybe she loves him, too, (knows she does, even when he thinks he doesn't) in the same inexplicably deep and abiding way that transcends the little petty things, that overlooks the slights and the silences and the long years of separation, that takes no jealousy in the other relationships, that accepts this for what it is, whatever it may be. That is the only explanation he can give (the only explanation he can accept) for this strange thing that grows between them, this dark and thorny unknown tree with its unnamed fruit, with its deep twisting roots and etchings of sins past deep within its bark.
A smile dances at the corner of his lips as his mind replays his last look at her—those eyes, so deep and dark and wanting, that mouth, still open, still searching, those blonde tresses slightly pushed out of place. It was a spiteful move on his part, a cruel thing, something she would never have done to him, no matter how angry he made her. He doesn't regret it.
She wanted to pretend it never happened again, wanted to push it under the rug, like every other time before. And before, he'd always done as she asked—because she had a husband, she had children, she had a quiet life that suited her, and he had never wanted to take that away from her, not when he wasn't sure that he could even commit to having her as a mistress, much less the sole love of his life. He couldn't take everything from her and offer her so little in return. But that was before.
Now her husband is gone, that slender finger seems so new and strange without the little band that solidly kept David from wanting or needing more of her. Her children are no longer children; the youngest left for college this year. Their careers are set and decided, there is no chance of losing everything. The landscape has changed, the stakes are altered, the hue and tone of their world has muted and transformed.
Before, he had given her these mulligans (though you're only supposed to have one, only one, he'd granted her so many more), had quietly smiled as she dismissed the passionate embraces of the night before with a toss of her blonde curls, because he knew this was the only way she could deal with it, the only way she could keep sane and balanced and moving along in her American dream, because those were her terms and he'd accepted them long ago, because these little stolen moments were better than nothing, because she understood him and touched him in ways that no one else has, because she was a heady drug and he was a needy addict.
But that was then. This is now.
Now, he is changing the rules of their game, and now, there will be no more forgotten moments, no more erasing of touches, no more pretending as if they were less than what they truly were. He doesn't know if she'll play by these new rules. Briefly, he wonders if she'll pull back and refuse, and the thought scares him. He can't imagine not having the promise of her in his life, and yet he can't continue with just the breath of hope and no substance. They have danced this waltz for ages now, for more than half their lives, and he's finally reached the point where he doesn't want to go back to square one and relearn the old steps, pretending he doesn't know the tune. He wants to move forward, to change the music, to learn new steps. He wants to do all of these things with one woman—one exasperating, adorable, passionate, infuriating whirlwind of a woman. He only prays that she wants the same. He prays to her, for her, because she is his only hope of salvation from this new onslaught of emotion. The irony of it is not wasted on him.
He sees her again much sooner than he expected, in the tactical van parked in front of the bank. Her grey eyes show nothing, give nothing away as she gives a curt nod and turns her attention to the matter at hand. Apparently she has decided to continue down the usual path, to ignore everything that happened that morning, to overlook his egregious breaking of the rules. He doesn't know if he's relieved or upset. He doesn't have time to sort through it all, and neither does she, so they set aside thoughts and emotions and power struggles and focus on the case, like the dependable workhorses they are. They move apart, still within eyesight, still in-tandem, still in slow orbit around one another.
The day is a roller-coaster of fear and adrenaline. There are spats and bad decisions and good calls and surprise twists. But the first act ends with the explosion, and suddenly it is time to switch gears. The tidal wave of fear and adrenaline passes, and they are all standing in the street, watching as other agents and law enforcement officers begin interviewing hostages, as the press is pushed back and the barricades are opened to let in ambulances. He feels movement in the street behind him, and somehow, despite the scores of people milling about, he senses her.
She is moving across the rubble-strewn asphalt. Her steady, assured pace tells him that Erin Strauss is back in her mental armor, compartmentalizing the events of the day. She is at the munitions van, pulling the Velcro straps off her Kevlar vest and returning it to the agent in back of the vehicle. He goes to her, taking a moment to simply stand next to her.
"Long day," he says quietly. She nods. She's been quiet all day, only speaking to him when it was absolutely necessary—although given the situation, he hadn't expected much else, but he still isn't sure if that means she is cutting off all unnecessary contact with him or simply doing her job. Erin has always been a bit of a sphinx to him, even when he thinks he can read her mind and actions, there's always something undefined dancing at the edges. He understands her, but he can't always predict her. She pulls back when he expects her to push forward, she shuts down when he expects her to explode. Now he gets the sense that she's retreating into herself (away from him, away from this) and he isn't sure what it means. A line was crossed this morning, and they both know it, and they both have to talk about it, even though that isn't what Erin does, she avoids and moves around and dodges past, she doesn't confront things like this (not emotions, not messy, sloppy, beating, bleeding things like hearts and souls, not human things, not things unrestrained by social order or rank or commands or protocol).
"I've been called back to headquarters," she states simply, unnecessarily. She gives a heavy sigh and walks toward her car, parked just inside the barricade, and he follows, not waiting for an invitation. She checks her stride, falls back so that he can walk beside her. Her hand suddenly darts out and takes his, giving it a small, quick squeeze, her pinky hooking onto his for one last second before pulling away entirely. It is a small gesture, a fleeting one, gone unnoticed by the hundreds of people around them, and yet he knows that it took everything for her to do it, knows that it's her way of telegraphing the relief and the fatigue of this day, of telling him that she hasn't forgotten, not yet, not this time.
She doesn't look at him, doesn't change pace, doesn't act as if anything just happened. He simply smiles. They've never held hands before (not like this, not simple and comforting and tired, like lovers and spouses and everyone else does) and he feels it is the start of something new. This morning, he set new rules with a kiss in the daylight. This afternoon, she accepted them with the gentle touch of her hand while the sun was shining. The creature born of night is becoming a child of the day, and it is both exhilarating and frightening.
"Rossi!" Hotchner's voice rings from his earbud.
"Yeah?"
"A call's just come in—they've got an EMT down, shot in the gut. JJ's heading over there; I want you to go with her."
Erin has already turned in her comm set, but she can read Rossi's expression well enough to know something's happened, "What?"
"Another shooting victim. Looks like our girl."
She understands, simply nods and says, "Go."
She doesn't reach for him again—now too many eyes are watching, now Aaron Hotchner's face is turned towards them and it's too big of a risk—so she gives another quick nod, waving him away with a light flutter of her hand.
He nods, turns and starts back to the tactical van, back to his job and his UNSUBs and the smoke and glass. She goes the opposite direction, back to her job and her desk and the clean defined edges of paper and ink. This is how their paths always part.
"Agent Rossi!" She whips back around, her voice stopping him, forcing him to turn back to her. Her grey-blue eyes seek something in his dark brown ones, trying to connect across the crowds and pieces of glass and metal and send the thoughts she can't say aloud (not now, not yet, but maybe soon).
"Please be careful." (Please come back to me, come back home to me, I love you I love you I love you)
There's something in her eyes that warms his heart, something that finally gives true weight and depth to whatever little thing he hoped was growing between them. He nods, smiles, draws his hand over his heart without even realizing it (but she notices, she always notices).
The game is changing; he knows and she knows and both are a little scared. But he'll play as long as she's in the game, and she'll stay in the game as long as he plays. Except this time, there will be no mulligans. They will simply move forward, holding on to the things they've done (they always have, even when they pretended they hadn't), accepting the ebb and flow without forgetting any of it. It's a brave new world and their hearts quicken at the thought of it, but oh, what is a game if it doesn't keep your attention with change and pace and surprise twists?
~Le Fin.
"The jump is so frightening between where I am and where I want to be...because of all [we] may become, I will close my eyes and leap." ~Mary Anne Radmacher.