Break, Reset, Begin Anew

"I am too weary to listen, too angry to hear."
~Daniel Bell.

*Author's Note: I know. It's been a hot minute, as the saying goes. It's not that I haven't been writing—I just haven't been posting! I am sorry it's taken this long to finally get all my writing ducks in a row, but as a reward—FOUR new chapters! I don't have any good excuses for my absence, so to paraphrase the great Sam Seaborn, let's overlook the fact that I showed up late to the party and rejoice that I showed up at all.*

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

With a frustrated sigh, Jessalyn Keller pushed open the door to the viewing room, quickly and quietly moving out into the hallway.

She felt like an idiot, a complete dupe. Dr. Reid had been so insistent on seeing his team, so convinced that he'd figured out some piece of the puzzle, and Jess had used his enthusiasm to fuel her own, badgering Dawson into allowing the BAU to visit, on the certainty that it would be a worthwhile risk—Reid would surely break open a new lead on the case, and they'd finally have a clearer picture of the person behind the crime and its subsequent frame.

But it had been nearly fifteen minutes since Aaron Hotchner had sat down in front of Reid, and so far, nothing had happened. Sure, Hotchner had confessed that the BAU was conducting their own investigation as well, but that wasn't much of a surprise. Honestly, if one of the Flying Js had been in trouble, the others would have done the same, rallying to prove their team member's innocence. It was part of the bond, the code created between agents who shared so much of their waking hours together, walking side-by-side through the valley of human darkness and witnessing things no human should ever see.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. When you went into battle with someone, you shared a bond of blood—blood spilled, blood spared, wounds both psychic and physical in need of healing. It would take a hell of a lot to break such a bond, and in the grand scheme of things, Spencer Reid's integrity being called into question wasn't anywhere close to severing it.

She'd made such a fuss over this, only for it to be proven as a waste of time and effort, on everyone's part. Reid and Hotchner were rehashing false leads and other avenues of theory, but the doctor's sense of urgency had vanished—it was as if he'd never told Jess that he knew who the UNSUB was at all. He certainly wasn't acting as if he knew, and if he did know, he wasn't sharing it with the rest of them, which seemed illogical and detrimental.

Jess had the distinct feeling that she'd just been taken for a ride—and it wasn't a sensation that she welcomed with open arms.

The door opened again, and Judith Eden's concerned face appeared, quietly closing the door behind her before gently asking, "Y'okay?"

Jess gave a helpless flop of her hands. "Aside from feeling like a total ass, yeah."

"Why? Because you were the one pushing to let Reid speak to his team?" Jude moved closer. "Hon, Jack was going to have to let them see him, sooner or later—"

"Yes, but if we'd waited til later, maybe we would've had something more concrete—and maybe it wouldn't feel like such a risk. A risk that wasn't worth it, in the end." Jess turned away, rubbing her forehead in frustration as she tried to push back her childish feelings of anger and disappointment. Now wasn't the time to have a meltdown, even if it was only in front of Jude.

"You and I both know that if Jack Dawson really felt that letting Dr. Reid see his fellow agents was such a big risk, he wouldn't have let it happen in the first place." Jude moved forward again, her hands resting on Jess' shoulders as she tried to pull her back into a comforting embrace. The younger woman shied away, glancing down the hallway.

"No one was around," Jude informed her. "I wouldn't have done it without checking first—you know that."

For some reason, that wasn't as reassuring as it was meant to be. Jessalyn's mouth slid into a thin line as she thought about how long they'd played these parts—the double-checking before so much as giving each other's hand a reassuring squeeze, the furtive looks and feigned coldness. In the beginning, it had been a necessity. For a while, it had even been a game. Now it felt like a prison. A prison they'd built themselves, but somewhere along the way, they'd lost the keys.

"What?" Judith asked, and the flatness of her tone indicated that she was gearing up for a fight.

"Nothing," Jessalyn gave a frustrated flutter of her hand, sliding further away.

"You are good at very many things, my love, but lying isn't one of them." Jude's tone was bordering on confrontational, but her mouth quirked into an amused smirk. It felt so patronizing that Jess wanted to scream.

"I don't know about that—I've been carrying on this lie with you for years now, and no one's noticed the truth." The words were out of Jessalyn's mouth before she could stop them, quick and flinty.

The Englishwoman blinked hard, shifting back slightly as if she'd been physically hit. Her voice was low and grave as she challenged, "And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?"

Judith Eden wasn't a coward, not by half—and she didn't wear fear well. Jess hated the frightened look in her eyes, and hated herself for putting it there.

But she took her self-loathing and channeled it into frustration, "Jesus, Jude, relax. I wish you weren't so goddamned afraid of us all the time."

"I'm not afraid of us. You know that's not it, not at all."

"Right." The word was laced with sarcasm. Jess pivoted on her heel and headed down the hallway.

"Where are you going?"

"I need some air—I can't breathe in here."

She didn't have to look back to tell the expression on Jude's face. She could feel her lover's hurt from a mile away.

Kate Callahan felt like a fully-wound spring as they trooped their way through the halls of the Academy once more. She tried not to outright stare at Alex Blake, who was quiet throughout the journey. Morgan was walking beside her, the tautness in his shoulders still so visible that he looked like he might need a chiropractor. His hand kept clenching and unclenching into helpless fists, as if he were grasping at imaginary straws and losing them again. He hadn't been happy with Spencer Reid's appearance, and he'd been quite vocal to the rest of the investigative team about his disapproval. Hotch had echoed his sentiments, but with a more dispassionate tone—however his dark expression had clearly translated the anger that was absent from his voice.

Kate waited as long as she could—they were out in the parking lot, standing in a small circle as they contemplated their next move. She turned to Blake and asked, point-blank, "What did Reid tell you?"

Blake blinked in surprise, but she didn't deny anything.

"Wait, what?" Morgan looked at the two women.

"The tapping on the table—it was Morse Code, wasn't it?" Callahan remained focused on the older woman.

Blake nodded. However, her gaze went to Hotch. "It was short—he kept repeating the same message, over and over. I guess he was afraid that I wouldn't pick up on it right away."

"What'd it say?" Morgan set his hand on his hips, physically preparing himself for whatever might come next.

His former team member looked heavenward, as if looking back into her memory as she quoted the message verbatim. "Curtis. Apprentice. Strauss too soon. Other plans."

A bolt of clarity shot through Hotch's brain. As they'd sat at the table, Reid's finger tapping away incessantly, the younger man had mentioned John Curtis again. He'd talked about how Curtis had been caught simply because he'd been too hasty—he'd gone after Erin Strauss in New York, because the set-up had been too appealing and he'd been unable to stop himself. But his impulsiveness had meant that he made mistakes, and he'd been caught because of them—because those actions had thrown everything into a faster spiral than he'd meticulously planned, and he didn't have the time to measure everything out as he'd wanted to.

Apparently, Morgan was remembering the same reference, because he said, "That's why he mentioned Curtis—I mean, I just thought he was being Reid and rambling because he was nervous, but—"

"He was trying to tell us the part of his theory that couldn't be compacted into Morse Code," Hotch finished. Noting Callahan's slightly confused expression, he explained, "We had at least one case where the Replicator used an accomplice—Donnie Bidwell, who copied the murders committed by Bryan Hughes, and whom we briefly considered as the Replicator."

"The name sounded familiar," Kate gave a quick nod in understanding. "What happened to him?"

"He committed suicide—most likely at Curtis' behest," Alex Blake's face slipped into a grave mask that did nothing to hide the contempt she felt for John Curtis, who'd preyed upon a vulnerable and hurting man so that he could have another tool in his twisted game.

"So Reid thinks that Curtis was already grooming another 'apprentice' at the time of his death," Kate surmised. She shook her head in slight confusion, "But Curtis has been dead for almost two years now—why wait so long?"

"The UNSUB probably didn't do anything for a while—he felt adrift without his mentor," Hotch's mouth formed into a thin line. "But at some point, the apprentice realized he could continue on without his master."

Morgan rocked back onto his heels, his voice low with dread, "And now he's had two whole years to study Curtis' approach and learn from his mistakes."

Blake cleared her throat gently. "The more important question is: who is this apprentice?"

October 2012. Washington, D.C.

"To you, Dr. Morrow," Curtis held up his drink in toast. Maura slightly rolled her eyes in self-deprecation, but she still raised her beer glass to his for the customary clink before taking a sip. After the lecture, John had convinced her to come out for a drink, for old times' sake, and she'd agreed—it wasn't as if she had anyone to rush home to, these days.

The conversation had progressed as it normally did—you-look-wells, followed by the weather and jokes about retiring to Florida, then a brief discussion on types of beer and taste preferences. They didn't discuss their current work and life situations, because it would bring up references to the past, and they never discussed the past.

However, this time, John went against the usual formula, casually mentioning, "Have you heard about Alex Blake?"

"No, I haven't," Maura set her drink down as a slight wave of concern washed over her. Had something happened, was she ill? She didn't keep in touch with Alex very regularly, but she always hoped that she was well.

"She got promoted." John gave a facsimile of a smile. "She's at Quantico now, working with one of the most prestigious units in the Bureau."

"Ah. Well, good for her." She could sense John's displeasure, but she wasn't sure of its source. Alex Blake had been one of them, one of the careers sacrificed on the altar of public perception by that bureaucrat with a badge, Erin Strauss.

"Don't you get it?" John practically hissed, and Maura was surprised at the vehemence that had suddenly filled her former colleague's frame. "She betrayed us."

If he hadn't been quite so earnest, Maura would have laughed. And if it had been any other person besides John Curtis, she might have felt a glimmer of fear. Instead, she merely cocked her head to the side, "How so?"

"She's with the BAU—a unit directly under Erin Strauss' purview. By accepting the position, she's accepting that Strauss made the right move. She should have objected, on moral grounds."

Maura's face became an impassive mask as she studied him, "Are you saying that if you had been offered such a position, that you would have actually refused it?"

"That's not the point."

Ah, my good sir, but I think it is. She was smart enough not to voice this thought aloud. John Curtis wasn't a bad egg, but he could be prickly at times—particularly when his pride was concerned. Like all people of great intellect, he was a bit protective of his reputation and didn't take slights lightly.

Maura gave a nonchalant shrug, returning her attention to her beer. "It's been ten years. I'm afraid that battle's long been fought and lost."

"Are you saying that it still doesn't affect your life, on a daily basis?" He leaned forward, his voice low with knowing.

She shot him a single cutting glare that warned him not to tread any further into such dangerous territory.

He merely gave a pointed look at her turtleneck sweater. It was completely appropriate for the current weather, but he knew the truth—she wore it for the same reason that she wore scarves in the summer. His eyes moved upwards, and she knew that he was looking for the faint pock marks on the left side of her face—the tell-tale remnants of the shards that had been removed from her face, afterwards. She knew he wouldn't see them—over the years, she'd become quite adept at hiding them beneath layers of specialty cosmetics. Still, she couldn't stop from turning away slightly, shielding her scars from his view.

He sat back again, and the smugness in his expression showed that her reaction had been answer enough for him—and he knew that he was right. She pressed her lips into a thin line and silently wondered to herself why she'd agreed to come here. After all, Curtis had been a work colleague, nothing more.

"I didn't come to drag up old scars," he made a slight gesture of apology with his hands. His face contorted into an expression of contrition, but she knew it was false—a carefully chosen tool, just like his use of the word scars.

"Then why did you come?" It might have been a decade since they'd actually worked together, but Maura knew he hadn't changed that much—John Curtis was still a man of intent, one who never acted without good reason. Every move was like his beloved chess, weighted and considered. Even when the Amerithrax team had gone out for lunch or drinks, his attendance hadn't been as a man letting off steam with coworkers—he'd gone because he didn't want to miss any possible discussion of the case, or because he felt that nurturing a good working relationship with Strauss would help his future career plans. Maura had never mentioned his obvious calculation, but she'd always noticed it.

"Because I have to tell someone," he opened his hands again in an expansive gesture. "But it had to be someone I trusted—someone I knew would appreciate what I'm doing."

Maura sat up slightly, curiosity and dread warring with the alcohol in her stomach. "What are you on about, John?"

"You're right—that old battle was fought and lost." Now he smiled, a mirthless thing that shone with pride, "But the war isn't over."

"You're not making sense." She was truly becoming concerned now. The way he was speaking, he sounded unwell—why hadn't she noticed this earlier?

He leaned forward, glancing around to make sure they wouldn't be overheard. "Just listen. It'll all make sense soon enough. I've finally found a way to make them pay—to make them pay for everything they did to us, after that case."

She wanted to pull away, but she found herself leaning forward instead. She wanted to tell him that he sounded positively frightening right now, but her tongue remained stuck to the roof of her mouth. Something was happening, she could feel it, and she needed to know exactly what it was before making her next move—the way a rabbit stops and listens for the sound of its approaching predator.

He continued, his words quick and heated, "They didn't believe us—Strauss didn't believe in us, she threw us to the wolves, wrecked our lives without a second's hesitation. The higher-ups, they all thought we were wrong. They made us out to be incompetent fools."

"I know. I was there. My career suffered just as badly as yours," she reminded him flatly.

"In the world's eyes, we became unqualified idiots—after all our hard work and dedication," he continued without missing a beat, the venom seeping into his words with greater bite. However, his smugness returned as he smiled, "But I've decided to beat them at their own game. I'm going to prove to them how wrong they were—how wrong they've always been."

Maura's brain was whirling now (she suddenly realized that she shouldn't have had two beers on an empty stomach). She gave a slight shake of her head, "So, what? What does that mean?"

"If I can't be their greatest asset, then I'm going to be their greatest enemy."

It took a moment for the implications of those words to fully sink it. Her need to listen and wait suddenly disappeared, but the fear-induced caution ramped through her veins like white-water rapids. "John…are you…you're not…suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?"

His eyes narrowed, and she suddenly realized the danger that she was in.

She also realized that John Curtis could kill her, if he felt like it.

Right now, he was too busy being offended by her lack of fanfare. "I thought you'd be so much more supportive, Maura. After all that happened—after all they did to you. I know what they took from you—"

"You know nothing," she shot back, her words hot and sharp with anger and pain. "Don't patronize me by pretending as if you do."

She wanted to slap him, to send her glass shattering onto the floor, to storm out of the dark bar and never look back—but she did none of those things.

Because John had a point. And he knew it. The hardness in his eyes, the unwavering devotion to the truth of his words—he knew. They both knew.

Her head began to pound. She leaned forward, delicately cradling her forehead with her fingertips. Plaintively, she asked, "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because you deserved to know. If anyone deserves justice for those people and their actions, it's you—yes, more so than me."

There was the John Curtis of old—his words were gentle, kind, laced with concern. And more importantly, true.

She looked up, her icy eyes filled with light tears and heavy confusion.

He continued softly, "I'm not asking you to be a part of it, Maura. I just wanted you to know. When it's all said and done, I want you to be able to look at it all and know what really happened, and why—and know that in some small way, justice was done."

She knew that she didn't want to be a part of this, whatever it was. But the thought that John was doing this, finally taking some measure of justice, even if vigilante style—and more importantly, that he was taking the risk of telling her, just so in the end she could feel some measure of peace….well, it was touching, in a way.

She should have left the table five minutes ago. But she'd stayed, and now she knew that she was in too deep to turn back. She may not be actively involved, or ever get actively involved, but she was at least a passive participant at this point, whether she liked it or not.

So she bowed her head and stared at the last remnants in her beer glass as she quietly asked, "Just tell me one thing, John. How will it all end?"

He'd run a huge risk, revealing his master plan to Maura Morrow, but it hadn't been one made without careful consideration and calculation. John Curtis had analyzed every angle of his strategy, and he'd approached the matter of choosing his accomplices with the greatest of wariness. In truth, he would have preferred to work entirely alone, but a plan of this scale and magnitude made it impossible.

Naturally, his mind had turned to where it all began. The Amerithrax case. Every person on that team had been greatly shafted during the fallout, but none so much as their non-Bureau colleague. She'd come to his mind as the best and most viable choice.

Never underestimate the raw primitive power of the need for retribution. And in Maura's case, she operated from one of the deepest, most primal states to ever exist—a mother lashing out to protect her young.

Yes, he'd carefully weighed the chances of Maura ruining his plans or turning him in. He'd decided beforehand that if she'd proven false, if she'd given any signs of betraying him, he would have to kill her at the end of the evening.

It had been less than a month since he'd taken his first life. He'd learned that it wasn't so hard at all. He hadn't felt that stereotypical rush of power and control that murderers were supposed to feel, in all the books and movies, but then again, he hadn't done it for that—no, murder was simply a necessary act, the victims mere tools to use in the building of his grand master plan. It was no different than setting out stakes to pour concrete or laying bricks to build a wall. Necessary, tedious, uninspiring, but not without merit or reason. No need to attach such power and emotion to it.

Although, if he'd been forced to remove Maura, he probably would have felt something more—after all, he liked her. She was intelligent, fiercely so, and though John didn't really have friends, he considered her a useful and loyal ally. It would be a shame if she'd proven otherwise.

But the moment she'd leaned in and asked her final question, he'd known that she was still all those things.

How will it all end?

A pragmatic response, indeed. She'd wanted to know that the reward was worth the risk.

The only way it can, he'd responded with unwavering certainty. With them realizing they were wrong, and we were right.

She'd seemed neither pleased nor displeased by this statement. Instead, she'd simply ordered another beer and quietly waited for him to continue.

He'd told her that she didn't have to get involved, and she'd implied that she had no interest in doing so—but they were both lying, and deep down, they both knew it.

Of course, he wouldn't have to prove those lies quite so early in the game. He was just beginning, and though he hadn't entirely decided what part Maura would play in it, he knew that she was to be reserved for something big, something definitive. She wasn't a petty pawn, to be thrown off at the first chance.

But then again, a pawn in the right position can be more powerful and valuable than a queen.

He just had to find the right place to put her, and the right time to make her move.

"O Lord, deliver me from the man of excellent intention and impure heart: for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked."

~T. S. Eliot.