Masters

"We all have people in our lives. Some of them are good, some of them are bad. But they shape us."

~Erica Messer (writing as Derek Morgan, Our Darkest Hour).

Constance Connelly's House. Killrea, Northern Ireland.

Everything and nothing was exactly the same, Clyde Easter mused, tucking his hands into his pockets as an uncomfortable wave of nostalgia and regret broiled in his chest like acid reflux. The idyllic little house, with its pavestone pathway and its worn cobalt blue gate, looked just as he remembered it. But the feeling it once inspired was long gone.

He stood outside the gate, suddenly aware of how foolhardy this was—it was barely past 8 o'clock in the morning, and he wasn't even sure that Constance lived here anymore. Was he really just going to stroll up the walk and knock on the door?

"Can I help you?" A low, warm voice broke into his thoughts. He turned to see its owner: a woman with honey colored hair and an expression of earnest concern. Her wide mouth was set in a small, friendly smile, but the uneasiness in her large eyes was unmistakable. At her side, a shaggy collie chuffed and skittered on its lead. Given her worn trainers and loose clothing, Clyde surmised she was out on a nice morning hike.

"Just…stopping by to see an old friend," Clyde motioned towards the cottage.

"And who might that be?" The stranger stepped forward, cocking her head to the side.

Her interest was unsettling. Clyde hedged, "Just a friend."

The stranger gave a slight hum. Her dog whined, twitching its plumed tail, and she leaned down, unhooking its lead. The dog bolted past Clyde, easily leapt over the low gate, and raced up the paved walkway, to Constance's front door.

Clyde looked back at the stranger in surprise. Now she was smiling.

"You sure your friend still lives here?"

"Well…she did. Years ago. Five years ago, to be exact," Clyde felt a slight wash of panic. He knew Constance too well—if she'd moved on, then she was forever in the wind. She'd lived as a sleeper agent for years, completely off the grid. If she wanted to disappear, then there wasn't a soul alive who could ever find her again—and certainly not within the timeframe that Emily needed. "It's actually quite important that I find her. Do you have any contact information for the previous owner—perhaps a way to reach her?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you there," the stranger gave a slight shake of her head.

Clyde heard the front door opening, and he turned back around.

Constance Connelly was at the doorstep, crouching down to cuddle and coo with the dog. Once she noticed Clyde, her smile fell away and she rose to her feet again.

"Lottie, it's alright," she called out.

Clyde turned back to the stranger. The dog lead was wrapped tightly around both fists now, as if she'd contemplated strangling him with it.

The stranger—Lottie, apparently—simply smirked. I'd do it, in a heartbeat, mister.

It was then that Clyde noticed her height—at least two inches above his own, which put her over six feet—and her legs, which had enough muscle to easily pin him down, if she put her mind to it.

Despite this looming physical threat, he had to laugh. Constance Connelly never failed to surprise.

"Really," Constance took a few steps forward, the dog still circling around her legs in adoration. "It's fine. He's safe."

Lottie gave a small hum that belied her disbelief on that point. Apparently, she'd sized Clyde up as well. However, she unwrapped the lead from her right hand, motioning towards the gate.

Clyde, never one to pass up a chance to be an ass, commented dryly, "So, no idea how to contact my old friend, eh?"

"No. I said I couldn't help you. There's a difference." Lottie's tone was flat, unaffected. She still stayed behind him—keeping him in her sights, and not turning her back on him. Clyde Easter would bet every penny he had that her background was something similar to his and Constance's.

Just like the little cottage and its little blue gate, Constance Connelly hadn't changed since he'd seen her last. Same auburn hair, same sea-colored eyes, same whip-thin frame and smoke-husky voice. She took another step towards him, cautious eyes and timid hands.

"You're here." She announced, simply, as if his appearance had made her dumb.

"I'm here." He nodded, unsure of what else to say. Hating himself for the warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I honestly thought I'd never see you again." There was a crack in her voice, barely perceptible, but there nonetheless.

"So did I."

Behind him, Lottie cleared her throat.

"Oh," Constance blinked, as if snapped out of a spell. She motioned towards Clyde, "Lottie, this is Clyde Easter."

"Ah," Lottie said softly, and Clyde understood that Lottie was well aware of their mutual history.

"Clyde, this is Charlotte Tessamond."

"Her girlfriend," Lottie stepped forward, the protective note in her voice unmistakable as she offered him a firm handshake.

Lethal and a figure that would put Marilyn Monroe to shame. Constance Connelly truly did land cream side up.

"What's happened?" Constance has returned her attention to him, setting her hands on her thin hips uneasily.

Of course, she understood that he had to be here under some kind of duress. Once again, Clyde keenly felt the sting of knowing that she'd always been able to read him, while he'd had no clue who she really was.

"There is a situation," he confirmed. No sense in hedging, so he ploughed on, "Have you been watching the news lately?"

"No TV," Lottie informed him.

"We do get the papers," Constance added, with a swift, indecipherable look at her girlfriend. Probably begging her to behave.

"Are you aware of the attack on the FBI in America?"

Constance became very still. Behind him, Clyde could feel Lottie's tenseness, too.

His former partner gave a slight nod to the door, "Perhaps you'd better come in."

Half an hour later, the trio were installed around the kitchen table, tea in hand and a dog at their feet, and Clyde had given them a detailed account of the situation at Quantico, Maura Morrow's disappearing act, and her re-appearance in London.

"So…how does any of that bring you to our doorstep?" Lottie cocked her head to the side—a common tic, Clyde was learning. With her long neck and thin nose, it lent her an avian appearance. She still hadn't warmed up to Clyde, which gave him the distinct impression that she truly knew everything about his past with Constance—including that extremely brief fling in Moldova.

"Well, Emily Prentiss reached out to me," Clyde held his hand open in a gesture of helplessness, and in a way, it was true. One of the most irritating things about Emily Prentiss was the fact that he could hardly ever refuse her. This time, Constance didn't flinch at the mention of her name, but she'd paled the first time, obviously still ashamed of how things had ended between them. That case in Nairobi had been nothing but a big ball of regret for them both. "You see, the process of getting an extradition warrant for someone who hasn't been charged with a crime—much less even officially named as a prime suspect—is a bit hairy. If someone goes to question Morrow, she could just as easily fly the coop, to somewhere that doesn't have an extradition pact with America."

"So the Americans want to pull an extraordinary rendition," Lottie did nothing to hide the disapproval in her voice. "Typical."

"And what would you do, if the situation were reversed?" Clyde shot back, just barely keeping his tone civil. While he didn't exactly approve of the plan either, he understood its necessity—and more importantly, he wasn't going to let anyone criticize his Interpol Chief, even if it was indirectly.

Constance cleared her throat, as if gently reminding them both to back down. Lottie merely turned her gaze to the bay window, where Constance's rose garden beckoned in the mid-morning sun.

Clyde remembered sitting in the garden, trading quips with Constance as he asked her to rejoin Interpol. Had that been planned? Had she somehow known that he would ask her to join him, giving her access to the very criminals she'd promised to assassinate for Ha-Mossad?

He pushed the usual litany of doubtful queries to the back of his mind and continued, refocusing his attention on the cause of those questions, "She contacted me, because she knew that I could find the people needed for such a task."

Constance gave a small, slow nod, as if she'd been waiting for this request since he'd first shown up on her doorstep. In a way, he knew that she had.

"And by that, you mean people who aren't connected to a government agency, people with the skills to kidnap a possibly innocent civilian and cart them across international waters without a warrant," Lottie intoned flatly, still keeping her gaze on the roses.

"Yes." Clyde took in every detail of Constance's face, watched her weigh the pros and cons, and saw the flicker of guilt, the moment in which she realized that he'd come to her, knowing that she couldn't refuse because she owed him so much. After Nairobi, he should have had her charged with treason, or at least with hampering an Interpol investigation. Instead, he'd let his emotions win, and he'd simply let her retire without a peep about what had really happened. He'd given her freedom, a second (third?) chance at life, and now part of that belonged to him, in her mind's odd sense of morality.

He couldn't deny it. Yes, Constance Connelly had the skill set for the job. Yes, she was a free agent, able to do what the rest of them couldn't. But he'd also calculated in her sense of duty, her obligation to repay the old debt, in some way. He'd known that she wouldn't refuse his request, no matter how dangerous it might be.

Now Lottie had turned back to the table, her green eyes boring into Clyde with anger. Apparently, she knew, too, that Constance would take the job.

"What do you think?" Constance gently broke the silence, ducking her head as she peered up at Lottie with questioning eyes. Her lover's stern expression muted into something softer.

"I think you know exactly what I think about a job like this," Lottie returned quietly.

"You sure?"

"I don't see any other way around it." Lottie gave a heavy sigh. She shifted in her seat, turning her attention back to Clyde Easter as she announced, "We're going to see the Whites."

Derek & Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.

The house was silent, except for the sound of Savannah's breathing. She was deep in sleep, had been for hours. Derek, on the other hand, was still wide awake. Staring at the ceiling, like it could somehow produce the answers to all his problems.

He needed to talk to his mother, he decided. Or Desiree. He needed someone impartial, someone who could and would call him on his bullshit—if there was any bullshit to be found, that is.

He didn't want to call Savannah unreasonable (at least not outright, and certainly not to her face), although he felt nothing but confusion about her behavior. Had she always felt this way about Penelope? Had she just been too afraid to say something? Or had something happened recently, something that made her feel threatened?

Ever the analyst, Derek picked apart every memory from the past few weeks. Had Savannah said something, even in passing, that had forewarned this? Had he said something? Had Penelope—

Oh. Penelope. She'd done something in the past few days—something that would have made her more dangerous, in Savannah's eyes. She'd dumped Sam. She was single again, was that the source of Savannah's worry? That Penelope would try to make some kind of move?

Derek Morgan wanted to laugh at the thought. Obviously, Savannah didn't know Penelope at all, if she'd really thought that Penelope being single would somehow change their relationship. There had been times in the past, when they were both single, and that had never escalated things between them. Life had carried on as usual, just like their odd but wonderful friendship.

Then there was the fact that Derek had just saved Penelope, the day of the bombing. Of course, he'd told Savannah about it, about his gut-wrenching fear for every second that he couldn't find his friend, about his relief when he did find her, his continuing concern for her health afterwards. Of course he'd shared that with his girlfriend—because he had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of.

In the darkness, Penelope's tear-streaked and pain-filled face appeared before him, and his chest tightened at the memory.

She'd never ask him to choose between herself and another person. Even this weirdness between them, her sudden desire for distance—it wasn't a ploy to force his hand. It was an act of (misguided, in his opinion) love.

Love. Yes, Penelope loved him. He knew that. And he loved her, too. Pure and deep and without demands.

So what did that say about Savannah, and their relationship?

A sick, sinking feeling slithered in his gut. He didn't want that answer, he decided.

Too late, his mind retorted.

Within minutes, he was fully dressed and slipping out of the house, zipping up his windbreaker as he broke out into a light jog. He spent hours, trying to outrun his mind and its quiet truths.

The Hotchner House. Suburbs outside Washington, D.C.

Emily wasn't in bed when Aaron awoke. For a brief moment, he thought maybe she'd left, but he knew that she would stick to her promise and stay until morning. He reached out, feeling the place where she'd fallen asleep hours earlier. It was cold, and he felt a prickle of worry on the back of his neck.

He found her downstairs, at the kitchen table. She was busy writing in a journal as if her life depended on it, thick black hair sweeping down to obscure her face. It was obvious that she hadn't heard him, too engrossed in her writing, so Aaron gently cleared his throat to warn her.

She still jumped like a scared rabbit, eyes wide with surprise. "Hotch, jesus!"

"Not a lot of similarities between the two," he retorted drolly. This earned him an eye roll.

Emily's hands were moving smoothly now, closing the journal with the pen tucked between the pages to save her place, slipping it back into the bag which was on the table as well.

"You cutting into Rossi's terf now?" He nodded towards the bag.

She gave a soft laugh. "I prefer to know the ending before I write anything about this case."

He hummed in agreement. Tamping down the desire to ask her more questions, he moved forward, lightly placing a kiss on the top of her head. "Y'okay?"

"Yeah. Just…couldn't sleep."

"I have some pills," he offered, nodding his head towards the upstairs bedroom. God knows, he'd had to take them for years, after losing Haley, after surviving Foyet and all the near-deaths beyond that.

Now Emily's smile turned wicked as she reached out, pulling him closer to her seat. "Well, since we're both awake, maybe we could find something a little more fun than pills."

"I dunno, those things can make you feel pretty high," Hotch feigned ignorance to her suggestion, which only made her laugh more.

She rose to her feet, gently taking his hand and leading him towards the stairs. "C'mon. Let's go back to bed."

Hotch glanced at the bag one last time. When did Emily start keeping a journal? That seemed more like something Spencer Reid would do—back when she'd been with the BAU, she'd always been timely with her after-action reports, but she'd always grumbled about them (I'm too busy living my life to recap it, she'd once quipped to Morgan). When had that changed? What other parts of her personality had changed, what else had he missed?

And why was she eager to distract him, to pull him away from it?

Be here, now, he reminded himself. Whatever parts of Emily's life he may have missed, he was here with her now, in this moment, witnessing this part. And this was a show he certainly didn't want to miss.

David Rossi's House. Rural Virginia.

The sun hadn't quite risen yet, but that didn't stop David Rossi's brain from immediately clicking wide awake. His head felt fuzzy and vaguely painful—definitely shouldn't have had that last scotch…or the one before that, either, to be honest. He'd stayed up late, with Callahan and Blake, combing through Fuller's journals, trying to glean something useful.

The useful part was still up for debate. What he did get from those journals was a sense that Benjamin Fuller was as delusional as one could be while still holding full control of his mental faculties. Callahan had pitied him—she saw the young man as a pawn in a greater game, obviously manipulated by someone who fed and created a hatred of the Bureau within him, although they hadn't figured out why. Easy money was on that confidential Bureau file, and whatever it had to say about the deaths of Morrow's family.

The stairs creaked with reassuring familiarity as Rossi made his way to the kitchen. However, he was surprised to find a pot of coffee already brewed and going cold.

Alex Blake was already awake, and in his study again. She was seated in one of the leather wingback chairs, staring up at all the photos that adorned the walls. In her lap sat another journal, opened and waiting for her to continue.

Rossi wondered if she'd already spotted it—the small frame, hidden in the mosaic of awards and book covers and photos of the team at various events. It was a simple photo, but it was his favorite. Taken on Erin's last birthday, with David and her three children. Her son—their son—standing behind them, smiling and oblivious. Their only family photo.

Another secret he'd take to his grave. Another chance at fatherhood, stolen from him. Another twist in the story of Dave and Erin, full of love and loathing, too much and not enough. She would be the great love story of his life, he realized, and there was something both wonderful and tragic in that reality. Wonderful, to know he'd completed that journey, to know he'd found that great love and had been a part of it, no matter how short its time. Tragic, to know it was over, to know that no matter who else came into his life, the peak had already been achieved and would never be reached again.

Sweet Jesus in shortpants, he really had to stop with the drinking and no sleep. It was turning him into a melancholic twat.

"I was really hoping that at least one of us would get a good night's sleep," Blake's wry voice broke the silence, although she never turned towards him.

"You always were a bit of a Pollyanna," he returned, just as dryly. He sat in the wingback across from her, motioning towards the journal. "Find anything?"

"Anything? Yes. Anything we can actually use to nail Maura to the wall? Nope." Blake shook her head with a sigh, glancing down at the pages filled with handwritten script. She looked up at him again, her face contorted in a mixture of concern and confusion, "Am I that bad at profiling, David? I mean, first Curtis, now Maura—and I never—"

"You're on the inside," he held up his hand to stop her. "Seeing the full picture, seeing the behavior from a place of objectivity—it's harder to do, from so close up. You know that. Whenever we catch someone, whenever we start interviewing friends and family, what is the usual response?"

"I can't believe they did it," Alex answered quietly.

"Exactly. Serial killers' own wives don't know they're living with a monster. That's how they survive. They're masters—"

"And aren't we supposed to be masters, too?" She held out her hands in a helpless gesture. "Aren't we supposed to be the ones who spot them, who find them before anyone else? I know my scorecard, Rossi, and I've been responsible for putting away some real nasty pieces of work, but…something like this happens, and I wonder who else I missed, who I let slip through my grasp, who I didn't see and who they went on to hurt. And…and I wonder why I didn't retire sooner. Why I didn't leave this to the ones who can do it better."

"Jesus, Blake, it's too damn early for hysterics."

She laughed, an unexpected burst of noise and nerves. Rossi smiled, too, knowing that his quip had hit its intended mark. She shook her head, still smiling at his snark and her own melodrama.

"Hey," his voice was gentle this time. He waited for her to look up, to meet his gaze. "We will get Maura. We will know why she did this. And when we do, you'll know that there wasn't anything you could have done to change this. We are masters—you are a master at what you do, Alex Blake—but we aren't superheroes. We're still human."

She glanced down at the journal again, and he knew what she was thinking—still human, just like Benjamin Fuller and Maura Morrow. And John Curtis, and every other twisted soul they'd caught.

"I'm finding it harder and harder to live with the choices I've made," she admitted quietly. "I know I'm not responsible for Curtis' actions, but my joining the BAU is what sent him over the edge—"

Rossi made a noise of protest, but Blake held up her hand to stop him as she continued, "I know that wasn't my fault, I really do. But…I can't help but think, who else's place did I take? How long did I waste time, when there was someone else out there who could have done the job better—who could have caught more criminals and saved more lives?"

"You done with your little pity party?" He slowly arched a brow, feigning boredom. She gave him a slight huff of amusement, a roll of her eyes. However, he leaned forward, his dark eyes filled with concern, "Seriously, Alex. You can't play coulda-woulda-shoulda over every case, every single detail. That kind of thinking will drive you insane. You know that—you've seen it happen again and again."

She gave a sage nod, her eyes flickering to the wall of photos again. How many good men and women had she seen devolve after a tough case, how many colleagues slipped into depression or alcoholism or whatever other trap that could suck them in, how many remained obsessed with that one case, that one horrible outcome that they could never alter?

"This case brings up a lot of past feelings about Curtis," Rossi gently continued. "He did a number on all of us—the entire Bureau. But that's what he wanted—for us to blame ourselves, to agonize over every moment and every decision, long after he was gone. You can't let him win, Alex. You cannot let that bastard win."

She nodded again, this time with a curt forcefulness that signaled her internal resolve. Rossi sat back. Yet another soul talked off the cliff's edge. And he hadn't even had coffee yet.

Alex's phone burbled, and she pulled it out of her sweater pocket, "Text from Hotch."

Rossi was immediately on alert. Blake's face filled with portent as she quietly informed him, "O'Donnell's gotten them to release the confidential files on Morrow's family. Full details at the morning briefing."

He checked his watch, surprised that the brass were even awake at this hour, much less granting requests.

"Must be some pretty damning evidence, if they let it go without a fight," he spoke up. Usually, the higher-ups were loath to release confidential files—but to let these go with relatively little protest, well, it showed how determined they were to catch Maura Morrow. And that they knew exactly why she'd attacked in the first place.

Blake hummed in agreement, "Whatever's in that file, it can't be good."

"No," he gave a weary sigh. "It can't be."

Scott O'Donnell's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

With a deep breath to steel himself for whatever lay ahead, Scott O'Donnell clicked on the file. Although he'd always trusted the team's hunch that Morrow's file would hold the key to the case, it had been his conversation with the Director that had sealed the feeling.

First, the Director himself calling to preface the security clearance was an anomaly itself. Then it came with stipulations (to be expected), and some kind of half-hearted attempt at justification (unexpected).

You have to remember, O'Donnell—we weighed all our options. There was a young man with a bright career ahead of him, which was on the line, and we did what was right, at the time.

Scott didn't ask who he was. He knew that he'd figure it out soon.

We did what was right, at the time. That part chafed him. If the Director had said we did what we thought was right, well, he could be more forgiving. But with dozens of agents dead or seriously injured, a nation's trust in the institution rocked, and a vengeful killer on the loose, the higher ups' inability to admit error was both boorish and dangerous.

He shook his head. If this kept up, he'd start siding with Benjamin Fuller. He gave a sardonic smirk at the thought.

He clicked on the link, eager and apprehensive to learn the truth. He'd alerted Dawson about the approval—they were supposed to meet at Quantico in half an hour with Sura Roza, but Scott couldn't wait that long. Every second was imperative.

It didn't take him long to sit back, shell-shocked.

"Well, shit," he announced to the empty room. "There's our motive."

February 2005. Our Lady of the Lake Hospital. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

They told her that she was lucky. They had the audacity to say that she was lucky. That being left behind to survive after her husband and her son had died in terrible, tragic ways was fortunate. That having to endure treatments for her burned skin and the painful removal of glass and other shrapnel embedded in her body, the multiple surgeries to repair tears in her intestines, the ringing in her ears that would last for weeks—that all of that was a blessing, simply because her body hadn't been smart enough to die when it had the chance, before these incessantly helpful people had shown up and decided that they needed to keep her alive.

Damn them all to hell for their idiocy, for their hubristic need to save her, as if this was a prize, as if they were doing something good by elongating her suffering.

It was over a week before Maura was coherent enough to have visitors. She was still in ICU, but the surgeries were all over, except for two more that were postponed until her other injuries had time to heal, and while her ears still whined with painful feedback, she could at least hear what other people were saying whenever they spoke to her.

The first visitor was a man she'd never met before, but one look informed her that he was FBI. He introduced himself as Carlos Munyez.

"Mrs. Morrow, I want to offer my deepest condolences—"

"Don't," she croaked, her bandaged and broken hand making a flicking gesture, as if shooing away a fly. He didn't mean his words, and worse, they only further injured her heart.

Munyez ducked his head, looking like a chastised school boy. With a quick clearing of his throat to indicate a change in subject, he looked up again, "We need to discuss what happened that day, and what you saw."

He didn't have to clarify which day that day was. And for the rest of her life, Maura Morrow wouldn't have to either. It was always there, always in living, vivid color in her mind, always ready to replay the reel with frightful precision at the slightest provocation.

Maura told him all that she could remember. The first explosion, followed by the second.

"We've concluded that the secondary blast was the hot water heater," he informed her. "Apparently some debris from the car struck it, and the impact caused a rapid buildup of pressure which—"

"I am very well-aware of exactly what that buildup of pressure did," she cut in. She didn't even have to gesture to her own torn and battered body to make her point—his eyes automatically assessed the damage, and he gave a queasy expression that confirmed her belief that she must look as bad as she felt. It took her a moment to regather her thoughts (it must have been the blow to the head that made her slow, she seemed to always be swimming, pushing against her own mind to form thoughts, her mind didn't work as quickly or as easily as it used to) and ask, "And what about the first explosion?"

Munyez's expression told her everything she needed to know.

She had been right, and they hadn't listened to her. They'd left her and her family to die—because protecting them had become an inconvenience.

It took three nurses to hold her down while another administered the sedative. She screeched curses and invectives against Munyez and every other bastard responsible until the drugs kicked in, snatching her back to a land of dark dreams and muted pain.

"Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head."

~William Shakespeare.

*Author's Note: The backstory of Clyde and Constance's reunion/past can be found in "Out of Africa". The backstory of the photo in Rossi's study (and his whole relationship and child with Erin Strauss) can be found in "Pay the Piper".*