*Author's Note: Set between Season Seven and Season Eight. Technically a sequel to "Mulligan", but I think I've provided enough details to allow this story to stand on its own. However, I do suggest reading "Mulligan", simply because it captures so much that can't be rehashed here. Also, because I'm an egoist.*
"Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." ~Kahlil Gibran
She is quite certain that she's going to be sick. Her nerves have turned her stomach into a broiling sea of uncertainty and fear, and her skin shoots sparks back and forth across the surface, causing her to jump at the slightest provocation. It's much too hot, but then it's suddenly very cold. Her hands are clammy and her mouth is dry.
BAU Section Chief Erin Strauss has always prided herself on her ability to go toe-to-toe with some of the most formidable personalities that the Federal Bureau of Investigation has to offer, swallowing her fear, standing her ground, cutting people and situations down to size (so that they fit into the neat little boxes in her mind) without so much as blinking an eye.
But this is different. Oh, ye gods and little fishes, is this different.
She is not in the cool confines of her office, where everything is in its place, neatly arranged, always in order, always under her direct control. She is on the patio of a trendy little bistro, surrounded by children (they're mostly adults, but gods, they're her children's age, so they're still children to her) in faux second-hand clothes and bio-degradable shoes with their unwashed hair and their self-righteous contentment with their own intelligence and individualism. She gives a wry smile at the realization that they aren't too different from herself at that age, and she briefly contemplates telling them that, just to see the shock and horror upon their faces as they take in the straight lines of her skirt and her sleek leather briefcase—all symbols of her servitude to The Man. It's a cruelly humorous idea, but she spares them, allows them to hold onto their golden ideals just a tad longer.
She reaches for her coffee, then pulls back, reconsiders. She should wait until he gets here—the caffeine jolt probably won't be the best thing for her nerves right now. She suddenly regrets suggesting a coffee date. The place is too open, too crowded, it's just too easy for everyone to overhear all the things that she has to stay to him, and the sun is too bright and the kids are too loud and oh, why, oh, why, oh, why did she ever think that this was a good idea?
The same reason you thought opening that old Pandora's Box was a good idea, the mother-voice in her head chides. Because you didn't think, Erin. You never do. You never learn.
She bites her lip, ducks her head, silently agrees with her inner voice. She never learns, not when it comes to David Rossi, because when he comes around, all her good intentions and memories of lessons learned suddenly fly out the window. He's always had the effect on her, even before she realized it.
Recently, his effect on her psyche had intensified, all due to one ill-fated move just two weeks prior to this warm summer morning. She'd been home from her stint in detox for just a few days, staying in a hotel for the night (Paul was still in their house, since his apartment wouldn't be ready for another week, and she suddenly found that she couldn't be around the man with whom she'd spent more than half her life—it was just too painful). David happened to be in the hotel for some cigar aficionado event; they'd run into each other in the lobby and he had insisted on taking her out to dinner. Of course, the night had devolved into their usual crash-course, which always ended in a hotel bed—the same pattern they'd set and followed for over two decades, though it was always years in between each collision.
None of this would have been a problem for Erin. David was her lucky penny, always showing up when she needed him the most, always being found when she wasn't even looking for him. She'd unleashed the hurricane of feelings that had been sweltering inside her chest ever since he'd returned to the BAU, had left behind the strange new edges of her current life for a few hours to lose herself in rediscovering the familiarity of him, had slept deeply and soundly for the first time in months without the aid of alcohol. The next morning had been soft and quiet as they slowly retreated back into their own selves, just like they'd done so many times before.
And then he had changed it all. Their usual M.O. was to pretend that nothing had happened—a rule set forth by Erin the very first time that they'd woken up next to each other, to which David had readily agreed—and it was a decision that had served them well. But suddenly it wasn't enough for him, because as they were leaving the room, he'd teased her, kissed her deeply and passionately (the way he was supposed to kiss her at night, not the morning after, the way he wasn't supposed to kiss her for many more years, the way that left her breathless and wanting, the way that created more problems rather than solving the current one).
She could have pretended that hadn't happened as well. But she didn't.
That morning, she'd returned to her house (mercifully, Paul wasn't there), her mind still swirling with the implications of his actions, although her mouth still smiled at the memory. Then she'd gotten the call—her first call to duty since she'd left the drink tank—and she'd been forced to spend the day at his side, sorting out the catastrophe that was the Lady X case. They didn't talk about the night before; they didn't have the time. But her stomach had tied itself in seventy different knots as she tried to find a way to say that everything was still OK between them, a way to signal that she was stepping out onto this limb with him, that she understood that he needed more, wanted more, and that she was willing to try giving him that. She could no longer hide behind the shield of her marriage, her family, or her career, like she had in the past. It was still a gamble (wasn't love always so?), but the stakes weren't nearly as high, and she felt for the first time in a long time that the cards were in her favor.
As the events at the bank came to a close, he had walked her back to her car, and she'd grabbed his hand, giving it a slight squeeze (it wasn't much, and yet it was enough to show him that she was still there, she wasn't running, she wasn't hiding, she wasn't ignoring him, not now, not this time).
The next evening, at JJ's wedding, they had briefly agreed that they needed to discuss what exactly had happened and what it meant for them. However, over the past two weeks, things had been too hectic and neither had the time to talk. Today was his first day off since then, and she'd only had to go into the office for an early-morning meeting (the rest of her day was free for her to go home and salve her wounds if things went too badly), so they had decided that it was the perfect time to finally unpack the events of that morning.
Which is why Erin Strauss is sitting in this uncomfortable iron-wrought chair, arranging and rearranging the sugar packets first by color, then in alphabetical order (an old habit picked up from childhood, a nervous tic that hasn't manifested itself in so many years but has come back with a vengeance over the past two weeks). She tries to think of anything, anyone but him, and yet that's all her mind can do, flashing little moments with him across the silver screen of her mind, trying to predict his reaction to her words, hoping that he won't be too hurt by what she has to say, praying he'll understand that she's not running from him (not really, not in the way he'll think, not for the reasons he'll imagine).
With a light sigh, she turns back to her briefcase, contemplates taking out some of the action reports stashed within (that's why she brought this cumbersome thing, to get work done while she waits, because she's nothing if not efficient, and those pages of red tape would keep her mind free from worrying over a certain charming Italian).
Speak of the devil. She sees him approaching, sits up a little, gives a small wave of her fingertips when he spots her. He motions to the door, signaling that he's going to order his coffee first, and she nods in understanding.
Oh, gods above, the feeling of absolute terror is worse now that he's here. At this point, if given a choice between this and death, Erin would gladly run into the grim reaper's arms. She silently reminds herself that the anticipation is usually greater than the actual event (though not when it comes to how he touches her, she adds with a slight grin before chiding herself for such thoughts). She'll just push through and sweat it out and survive, the same way she has for the last five decades.
He's at the table now, lightly touching her shoulder as he takes the seat across from her—the touch is enough to evoke another wave of fear and illness, and it takes every ounce of self-control for Erin not to jump at the contact.
"You look like hell," he comments, setting his espresso on the metal table top.
It is his nonchalance that breaks the spell for Erin. She feels a small wave of relief at how calm he seems, how familiar and unchanged by recent events (though deep down, she knows that it is an act, part of the armor that David Rossi constructed years ago, a way to protect his heart, which she knows—perhaps better than most—is a fragile, tender thing).
"Sleep is for the weak," she holds up her own coffee as an explanation. Her expression is deadpan and he is immediately reminded that her wicked sense of humor and killer poker face were two of the reasons that he first came to like her. Now of course, what he feels is something much deeper than like, but he doesn't go there. Not yet. Not until he knows where this is going.
His eyes flick over to the small ceramic sugar packet container, and his fears are further confirmed by the color-coded packs of sugar, Splenda, and various other substitutes. That can't be a good sign, although he tells himself that it's not necessarily a bad sign, either.
"So." He gently traces the handle of his cup with his fingertip.
"So." She takes a deep breath, sets her mug down, pulls her shoulders back into a stronger position (something she learned from yoga classes years ago, he knows).
He can tell that she's not ready to have this conversation (not yet, not quite), so he doesn't push. He knows that simply being here is a big step for her, and he allows her the time to build up her courage. He will not hurt her, will not shy her away by pushing too far, too fast. He looks around at the other clientele.
"How in god's name did you find this place?"
She lets out a short bark of a laugh at his obvious distaste.
"That's quite a moue of disapprobation, Agent Rossi," she sits back, crosses her arms over her chest, watches him with those grey eyes that seem to take in the whole world with their depth. She's teasing him, only lightly, and he finds himself slipping into the familiar sparring that has seen them through many a year. She has wit and fire and that extra little dash of affection that always makes him feel like he's the male lead in a black and white film, opposite a blonde Bette Davis.
"Pretty fancy words, Miss Strauss," he arches his eyebrow, mimicking her stance and adding a haughty air that earns him another grin. "I forgot I was speaking to an English Lit baccalaureate."
"American Lit. And it's Miss Chief Strauss to you."
He holds up his hands, "Forgive my egregious affront to your literary sensibilities, Miss Chief Strauss."
Her smile becomes something different now, still curling one corner of her mouth as she contemplates him with those eyes, those eyes that a man could lose himself in, if he isn't careful. He doesn't ask what she's thinking, mainly because he's certain that she doesn't even realize that she's smiling (not like that, not at him) and he wants to hold on to the image she's creating for him right now. Still, they can't sit here staring at each other forever, so he continues the line of conversation.
"Seriously. This isn't really your scene."
She gives a slight sigh of agreement, taking a moment to survey their surroundings. "I like the coffee. I usually don't stay, though. Just something I grab on the way home from...from my meetings."
He hears the hesitation, understands that her meetings are AA meetings, senses her uncertainty, as if she isn't sure that she should be sharing this part of herself with him, isn't sure that he would even care to know this part.
He isn't sure what to say (so strange, he's always been so smooth with his words, with women, except for her, he's never been able to sweep her away like the others, maybe that's why she's been the one he never gets past), so he simply reaches across the table and takes her hand. She looks down at their two hands, touching for the first time since the Lady X case, not daring to look into his eyes for fear of what she might see—for fear of what he might see in hers.
The sick feeling is back again and her heart is pounding in her head and she thinks that maybe she's forgotten how to breathe. Her thumb gently brushes across his knuckles, rubbing them absentmindedly as she tries to find the words to say.
He doesn't speak, doesn't pull away, doesn't do anything but wait, heart in his throat as he reads the emotions rolling across that beautiful face, and each one fills him with fear. Her nervousness is catching; his head feels like it might explode if he has to endure another second of her silence.
She clears her throat and begins in a low tone, "There...there are things that I—"
The table behind them erupts into raucous laughter, and Erin nearly jumps out of her skin. David tightens his grip on her hand, tethering her, keeping her grounded. Her free hand flutters to her forehead and she gives another sigh. Her eyes are squeezed shut and he thinks that she might be sick—he hasn't seen her this pale, this ill-looking since she was pregnant with her first child (it's been over twenty years ago, he realizes with a sudden shock, and yet he still remembers as if it were yesterday, although it isn't something he should remember, it's a part of her life that wasn't meant to be shared with him).
She's drowning, right before his eyes, and he needs to rescue her. She has never been the brave one; she's always been wide-eyed and cautious and fearful of change in any form. He has always been the one to initiate, to push forward, past the fear and the uncertainty. She's on the edge alone and he wants to stand beside her, to show her that the leap will be scary but he'll leap with her, for her, to her, if only she'll take it.
"You wanna go someplace a little quieter?" He leans forward, the concern evident in his face.
She looks back at him, her eyes filled with relief.
"Yes." Her relief becomes uncertain again. "No...I mean, I'm not sure it's a good idea."
Somewhere quieter means somewhere with less people, somewhere more intimate—Erin isn't sure that she can handle being any closer to him (closer to him, closer to the feeling he always inspires in her, closer to that rush beneath her skin), because that's what she wants more than anything, and she is slowly learning that what she wants usually is the last thing she needs (AA is teaching her that, those horrible throbbing headaches and night sweats and the pounding, hurting need for just one more drink have taught her that).
He seems to understand her hesitation, because his voice is soft, "We can just go for a walk around the block."
She nods, her eyes not meeting his again as she pulls her hand away from the warmth and weight of his, drains the last of her coffee and flings another prayer towards heaven for some kind of deliverance. If Fate chose to send a semi truck rolling through the front of the bistro right now, she'd thank her lucky stars for being spared from the torture of this moment.
He finishes his espresso, gently sets the cup back into its saucer, takes a few bills from his wallet and leaves a tip. She adds a few of her own—typical Erin, she can't even allow him to tip on his own, as if a few dollars will create some strange power imbalance between them. Normally this would make him smile, but right now his mind is swimming in shadows and whispers of his deepest fears.
She's never been this way before. Not with him. Not about them.
But of course, they're in new territory now. And of course, it's his fault that they are in the strange land of uncertain meanings and sideways glances and bated breaths. It's his fault because he dared to break the rules of their engagement, because he pushed her past the point that she'd set so many years ago, because he'd somehow bullied her into moving deeper into the muddied waters, into a place where she was afraid and uncertain.
Before, their arrangement had been simple, or as simple as such a thing could be. They would fight and spat and outwardly hate each other, and then one of them (usually Erin, always Erin) would have a moment of vulnerability and the other (usually David, always David) would have a flash of affectionate compassion. That compassion would then mute into something else, something darker, something hungrier, and that vulnerability would transform into something stronger, something more alive, something equally hungry. The next morning would be clean and void, like the crisp white hotel sheets before they'd fallen into them, and they would go about their merry way, never taking the time to ask questions or understand their motives (at least not aloud, at least not to each other). They would return to work, never changing pace, never acknowledging their past indiscretions, never acting as if they'd held one another's bleeding beating hearts in their hands and touched the face of heaven.
This strategy of studied avoidance could only last so long. In hindsight, both parties could see that this turn of events was as inevitable as the sun rising in the east. Their hubris and their denial had lured them into a false sense of security, and now, like a pair of love-struck Icaruses, they were suddenly confronted with the sickening realization that they were no longer flying, but plummeting in an emotional free-fall.
And all because David Rossi had foolishly wanted more.
You just didn't think, David. You never do. You never learn. His inner voice condemns his actions, and he has to admit that it's true. He also is brave enough to realize that when it comes to Erin, he will never learn. He can't. He won't. She's too much and not enough, she's torture and delight, she is everything he wants and nothing he needs. And yet (and yet and yet and yet) he will never leave her, not fully, not truly, though he may walk away from time to time, his feet always find their way back home to her. She is his true north, his guiding light, his star in the sky. He always finds her, even when he isn't looking for her.
Now he has wrecked it all with one silly little kiss (although even as he thinks it, he cannot bring himself to dismiss it as silly or little). It was a breaking of the rules, a changing of the game, a bold move and a brash mistake, and yet he can't take it back. He meant it, meant every emotion and unspoken thing behind it, meant to make it stir up those feelings inside of her, and he can't regret something that he truly felt with every fiber of his being.
They weave their way through the huddle of tables and hipsters, falling into sync once they reach the sidewalk and it's wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. This is what he misses the most during the in-between times—how easily they match pace, like two well-trained carriage horses, how quickly they attune to each other's movements, how smoothly and how effortlessly they find rhythm in every aspect of their lives, from walking to love-making to breathing to every-little-thing-in-between.
Her head is still down, her eyes focused on her brown alligator pumps, her left hand clutching her matching brown leather briefcase, using it like a shield, a buffer between their two bodies. He walks with his hands in his pockets, affecting an air of nonchalance as he strolls leisurely alongside her, taking a deep breath to ease the clamoring inside his chest.
He can feel her begin to relax a little, knows that this was a better idea than the bistro—Erin Strauss has never been good at dealing with personal feelings, with any form of intimacy that involved words and not touch. The idea of sitting across a table from someone, without any means of escape, had been largely responsible for the nervousness that he'd felt radiating off her in waves as soon as he sat down. Here, the street is open, she can move away if she feels threatened, she is beside him, not in front of him, she doesn't have to make constant eye contact. It is more congenial, less confrontational. He allows her a few more moments to collect her thoughts, prolonging the words that he is certain will come, tries to imagine that this is simply a stroll, nothing more.
As they round the corner, her eyes flick ahead to a church, and he knows that it must be the place where she attends her AA meetings. There's a flash of recognition, followed by a slight wave of fear, and he knows that she's still skittish about sharing her recovery with him.
Finally, he breaks the silence, "So, there are things…"
"There are things," she picks up the train of thought, the original thought that she started back at the bistro. "There are things that I need to say, and I just want you to hear me out. I don't want you to say anything or jump to conclusions or anything like that, until I've said it all."
"OK." He doesn't like where this is going.
"Because that is what you do, David. You always jump to the wrong conclusion—"
"Not every time."
"I know that's just the hot-blooded Italian in you, but you have to not—"
"Erin, just say it." He finds her both frustrating and endearing in this moment, but her nervousness is filling him with fear and he can't take the time to truly appreciate her adorable nature right now.
She nods quickly, looking down at the ground again like a small child being chastised, and he briefly hates himself for scaring her back, for doing exactly what she had just asked him not to do.
Another deep breath, those grey eyes finally rise to meet his dark brown ones.
"I am trying to piece my life back together. For the first time in a very long time, I truly want to make a change, a real change. In order to do that, I have to follow the program. I have to admit my weaknesses, admit my past mistakes, make amends…." Her voice trails off as she approaches the meat of the issue, the thing that has been sitting in her stomach with heavy realization for fourteen days now. She stops walking; he stops and turns back to her and the look in his eyes brings a physical pain to her heart. He still doesn't understand. My poor lamb. My poor darling boy with the twinkling eyes and the tender heart, oh please don't let me bruise you too badly.
She takes a timid step towards him, her right hand lightly reaching for him, as if she may somehow shield the blow. Her voice is soft, low, each word weighted and measured so that he has the time to fully comprehend, "I have to follow the program, David. I have to follow it to the letter, no exceptions. It's the only way for me."
It's starting to dawn on him. She tries to make the cuts quick, simple, painless as possible, "Relationships aren't allowed. No dating, no sex, no nothing at all. I have to…I have to do this, David."
He stands there for a full beat, staring at this woman that he's never seen before, with the pleading eyes and the haggard face and the trembling hand, knowing that her tiredness and her worry have been for him, for his heart and his emotions, and yet feeling as if she has somehow betrayed him. He wants to be angry (it would be justified, she should have said something that night at the hotel, but no, she wanted to have her cake and eat it too, it's only a problem now because it isn't what she wants), but he can't push past the sadness he feels at the loss of something that hasn't even really begun, something that his secret heart has hoped for and wanted for so long.
And there's also the fact that no matter how much she has hurt him, no matter how angry she has made him, when he sees the pain in those grey orbs, he still would move heaven and earth to take it away.
Now she is standing there, hand still outstretched, bottom lip quivering as her left hand grips her briefcase for dear life, the white-knuckle grip of a drowning man holding onto a piece of driftwood, and all she wants is for him to understand.
"Are you finished?" He asks, and he can't keep the bitterness from his voice. The question has a double meaning and it doesn't escape Miss American Lit.
Her open hand slowly closes into a limp fist; her expression disassembles into resigned dismay.
"You said I couldn't speak or react until you've finished," he continues, this time keeping his tone neutral, but his previous question has already done its damage. "So, are you finished?"
She blinks, swallows, drops her hand to her side with a heartbreaking finality. "Yes."
With a heavy shake of his head, he turns back to the street, his hands still in his pockets but now turned to fists. He hears one timid click of her heel on the concrete behind him, knows that she wants desperately to come to him, but he can't allow that right now. Right now, he needs to be as far away from this woman as possible, so that she can't see how badly she has wounded him.
"Please," her voice breaks, but she regains composure. "Please don't shut me out, David. Yell at me, curse at me, cry, stomp, hit me, I don't know—do anything! Just don't shut me out."
"I can't do any of those things, Erin." His voice is small, heartbreakingly so. His shoulders are slumped in defeat and Erin is filled with the terrible knowledge that she is responsible for the broken man standing before her. "I can't."
She is losing him, feels him drifting away, like a sailboat on the water, feels the invisible rope that has always connected them as it stretches further and further out, further and further away from each other, and her body can physically feel the ache of his absence, though he is still just a few feet away. She fights the urge to shriek, to lunge after him and drag him back to her, back to safety, back to the way things were, the way things are meant to be.
He still doesn't understand. She needs him to understand.
"I did this because…because I couldn't do this to you." She knows that she isn't making sense, but she pushes forward anyways. "I couldn't ask you to wait for me, for a year, maybe more, while I pull my head out a bottle and try to remember how to live without it. I couldn't ask you to deal with my withdrawals or to have to be destroyed every time I fall. I couldn't ask you to put everything on hold for me. That's not who we are, David, that's not who we've ever been. You would hate me; you know you would. And I couldn't bear—I couldn't bear the thought—"
Her words are coming quickly now, she's choking on them, choking back sobs as she tries to bravely finish all these tumbling feelings that have inhabited the corner of her heart that he'd quietly taken all those years ago, without her knowledge and certainly without her consent.
He turns back to her now, shocked to hear her crying, even more shocked to see how pitiful she looks, standing there like a little broken doll in a shop window, hoping someone will see past the imperfections and take her home.
Tears are blurring her vision and perhaps it's for the best, because she isn't sure that she could continue if she could truly discern his expression.
"I never want to hurt you. I'm trying—I'm trying to save you, please understand that. Please understand—"
Suddenly he bridges the gap between them, grabbing her arm and pulling her into his chest with a forceful thud as his arms grip her, trying to contain her body as it shakes with her sobs. She doesn't try to fight the tears any more, she cries into his shoulder, loudly, sloppily, completely uninhibited. He holds her, doesn't even look at the people who pass them on the sidewalk, creates a bubble for her, shields her from the strange stares.
There is a thunk as her briefcase hits the sidewalk. She doesn't return his embrace; her arms remain limply by her sides, like the little broken doll that she is. He feels her leaning into him, pressing, seeking out the comfort of his sturdy frame, trying to physically put their broken pieces back together again.
Finally, her sobs have subsided to small hiccups and sniffles, and he finds the words that he needs, that she needs, "I don't need you to save me, Erin."
She looks up at him, her bloodshot eyes filled with confusion.
Now it is his eyes' turn to fill with tears. "You could have asked. You had every right to ask that of me."
"But—"
"It's not who we are," he finishes for her, giving a slight sigh of frustration. Then he softens again, gently reaching up to push a wayward strand of hair back in place, his hand settling into the crook of her neck, "But it's who we could be. That part of us has always been there, Erin, we'd be fools to deny it."
She thinks on his words, gives a small nod of agreement.
"We've always been those people; we just never allowed ourselves to be them." His voice becomes husky as he caresses the side of her face. "We could do it. You and me, kid. Whaddya say?"
There is a moment in which she simply stares at him, those grey eyes taking in every detail, mentally weighing every consequence, both good and bad.
"It won't be easy."
He gives a wry smile, "It never has been, has it, kitten?"
The resurgence of her odious former nickname earns him a slight look of reprimand, but he sees the amusement dancing behind her eyes.
"It can't be anything right now. Not even a semblance of a relationship." She is holding his gaze, trying to make sure that he understands what she is saying. "I need to do this on my own."
He nods, his expression softening. As much as he hates the idea of not being able to support her in the way that he wants, he knows it's what she needs, and he won't deny her that.
"We won't even talk about it until you've reached your one-year mark, and you think you're ready," he agrees. "Until then, I'll just be your friend. Nothing more."
Now it is her turn to nod in agreement. His expression changes again as he adds gently, "You're going to go through a lot of changes, Erin—"
She rolls her eyes, "I'm well aware of that, thank you."
"I know you've already gone through some, but trust me, during the first year of recovery, there's going to be a lot more." He won't let her brush this off, and she sobers at his tone. He continues, "You may decide…you may realize that you don't want whatever this is between us anymore."
She opens her mouth to protest, but he stops her. "Erin, please. Just lemme finish, OK?"
Her lips clamp into a thin line, and he can tell that it's taking all she's got not to reply.
"If this is no longer what you want, don't be afraid to say so," his voice is soft, almost a caress, and her heart melts at his kindness. "I'll be here, but that doesn't mean you're beholden to me. I need you to understand that now, before we even start down this road. I need you to know that I'm here for you, not for what you might be later on."
His eyes are searching hers, searching for some sign that she feels the meaning behind his words.
"Don't wait for me," she warns, and he nods in agreement. He understands the love behind the missive—she's never been jealous of his other affairs and marriages, just as he had never begrudged her husband. Committing to a real relationship will change things, but they haven't done that yet, and right now, it won't change the fact that they both want to put each other's happiness above their own, even if it means potentially losing them to someone else. It's always been that way between them—selfless, like the type of love one finds in fairy tales or old ballads.
A beat passes as they quietly size each other up.
"So?"
"So?"
"I asked you a question that you never really answered, Chief Strauss," his tone holds a hint of playfulness. He is trying to slowly steer them back to some semblance of normalcy again. "You and me, kid, are you in?"
She bites her bottom lip, blinks back more tears, gives a slight hiccup which lessens the austerity of the moment. Then she smiles. She smiles and it is the most glorious thing that David Rossi has ever seen, more breathtaking than a thousand mountaintop views, more precious than gold, more promising than the pale rose of dawn, more beautiful than the finest piece of artwork.
"I'm in, Agent Rossi."
He smiles as well, stooping to pick up her briefcase, handing it back to her as they turn and head back to their cars. This time, she carries the case on the opposite side, keeping the space between their bodies open, connected. She wipes the remnants of her tears off her face, lightly dabs under her eyes to remove some of the mascara that has pooled underneath.
She moves closer, nudging him playfully with her shoulder, an amused smirk dancing at the corner of her mouth.
"Beholden?"
"What?" He looks down at her, slightly confused.
"You said you didn't want me to feel beholden to you. Why the hell do you think I'd ever feel beholden to you?"
"Because I am a pretty nice guy, doing a pretty nice thing."
"Uh-huh."
"I am."
Her smirk softens into a smile, "You are."
"Is the formidable Erin Strauss admitting that I am actually right about something?"
"Perhaps."
"That's as close to an actual admission as I'm gonna get, isn't it?"
"Take it or leave it, Dave-O."
He chuckles at the moniker, shaking his head at this woman, with her snark and her verve. It's been years since she has called him that—it originated as her retaliation for the loathsome epithet of kitten, and he is transported back to various memories from their life together, those stolen moments and public brawls and private whispers and inside jokes and infuriating knowledge of just how to push each other's buttons. Now they are taking the first tentative steps towards adding something more, something deeper, richer, fuller, and despite their cautiousness, despite their fears and their let's-not-make-promises, they are slowly moving towards it with the same inevitable pull that has dictated every other facet of their relationship.
He looks back at her, with her Mona Lisa smile and her sunglasses now firmly in place, hair glowing in the late morning sunshine, pace perfectly matching his, and he doesn't fight the smile that blossoms across his face. He can wait for this. He can quietly sit for a year, if he means that he has even the faintest glimmer of a chance for more moments like this—simply walking side-by-side, enjoying each other's company, silently carrying each other's secrets and scars and fears and failings like precious treasures, like the tender tokens of trust and love that they are meant to be, soaking up the warmth of the sun and holding onto the beauty of the things they have shared, awaiting the promise of all the things they haven't yet.
He turns his face back to the sun.
"I'll take it."
~Le Fin.
"Love seeketh not itself to please, not for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell's despair." ~William Blake
*Author's Note: Technically, relationships are not "forbidden" in AA, but they are highly discouraged, for the obvious emotional toll they can take on a fragile new recovering alcoholic. Just wanted to make that clear.*