Flash
"I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory."―Julian Barnes
*Author's Note: The agreement between Erin and David mentioned in this first section can be found in further detail in "Mulligan" and "Aftermath", two other one-shots by yours truly. In fact, I would recommend reading them, since they are the prequels that really led me to write this.*
March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.
He loved the office in the early morning, when the world was still quiet and sleepy and he could be left alone with his thoughts. The bullpen was empty, the agents' desks all neatly cleared and organized, the coffee hadn't been made yet, and the phones wouldn't start their incessant ringing for another hour. It was heavenly.
David Rossi's dark eyes darted to Hotch's office, and he was surprised to see that the light wasn't on—it wasn't often that he beat his supervisor to work. He quickly climbed the stairs and opened his own office, settling into his chair as he picked up the unmarked folder that never left his desk. The director had officially called them off the Replicator case, but that hadn't stopped the BAU team from working it between other cases.
He smiled softly as he thought about how Erin had gone to bat for them, defending them against the director's order to abandon the case. Part of him wondered if it was because she truly cared or if it was simply part of her semi-masochistic new journey into the amending process of step nine of twelve. Maybe it was a combination of both.
He supposed that he shouldn't know what step she was on, that he shouldn't be tracking her process through her first full year of sobriety, but his mind went back to that warm almost-summer day ten months ago. She'd stood before him, falling apart as she told him that she couldn't be anything more than his friend, because the program didn't look favorably upon relationships, and she needed this, she needed to be sober and to follow the program more than she'd needed anything else. In that moment, he'd known that it was physically hurting her to say such words, and he'd acquiesced (he always did, he always capitulated when it came to Erin Strauss' demands on his heart, always bent his neck for her heel), because he'd seen the fear and the sadness in her eyes and he would do anything to take that away, even if it meant tearing his own heart out.
She'd told him not to wait for her, and he'd promised that he wouldn't, and part of him had truly meant the promise, because he had known that they'd find their way back to one another, regardless of what happened (that was how they'd always been, how they would always be, two magnets that eventually clicked back together, two homing pigeons that always returned to each other to roost).
Now that first year was coming to a close, and as each day brought him closer to its arrival, he waited and prayed for some sign, some clue as to whether or not she had made a decision about their relationship—he would have to wait for her to initiate the conversation, because that was part of his promise, too. But suddenly it was as if he'd forgotten how to read her, as if he'd lost his ability to comprehend and predict her actions. David wondered if she'd truly changed that much or if he could still read the signs, but just refused to acknowledge them because they were telling him things that he didn't want to hear.
He shook his head, trying to cast out all thought of the blonde section chief as he submerged his attention in the folder's contents. The next time he resurfaced, the bullpen was buzzing with activity and the clock informed him that there would be a briefing in ten minutes.
As if on cue, Hotch appeared in his doorway, dark eyes immediately zeroing in on the folder, "Strauss was asking if there were any new developments last night. I think she's truly worried about us."
"Wonders never cease," David responded dryly, closing the folder.
"She's obviously reached step nine." It was the first time that Hotch had ever mentioned Strauss' recovery.
"With the way she's been acting since Blake arrived, I think she's been at that step for quite some time now," David agreed. He didn't ask how Hotch knew that he was aware of Erin's battle for sobriety; they'd never discussed it, not even during her conspicuous fourteen week leave of absence after the Somerville Military Academy case. But Aaron Hotchner didn't get where he was by being a slow or unobservant man, so Rossi was certain that Hotch had simply picked up enough to guess that David was in the loop.
Hotch gave a curt nod of agreement. So Dave was fully aware of Erin's situation. He'd suspected as much, but the older man's words had just confirmed it.
"Conference room in ten," Hotch reminded him, turning and moving down the stairs to JJ, who had just arrived in the bullpen with a stack of potential new cases.
David's dark eyes traveled to the other members of the team, silently trying to figure out who else knew Erin's secret. Garcia, probably. She had access to all employee records. Hotch, obviously. Morgan, probably, since he'd been partnered with her during the Somerville case. Reid, probably not. JJ, equally unlikely. Blake, probably. If Erin had approached her and used the word "amends", it would have been a clear signal, and Blake wasn't exactly dull.
He didn't know why it bothered him, knowing that other people knew about her alcoholism. Perhaps because it had the potential to tarnish the sterling reputation that Erin had spent the last three decades perfecting, perhaps because not all of the people on his team saw her as a friend or even an ally, and he feared how they might use it to harm her, perhaps because it was something personal, something private, and he didn't like the idea that other people were a part of it.
Of course, other people were part of it. Her ex-husband, her three kids, her other family members and close friends and random people in Alcoholics Anonymous, and the higher-ups who had quietly gotten her into a treatment facility and who occasionally brought her in for meetings to make sure that she was still "on-track" (he shouldn't know that last part, but he did, he could even guess which days those meetings took place, because she always seemed more tired, more resigned, more like the condemned waiting for the guillotine). Although he knew that she'd done this to herself, he hated the price she'd paid for trying to recover.
"Let's get briefing, Mio Amore," Penelope Garcia called to him as she sashayed past his door, fuzzy pink pen in hand. He couldn't help but grin at her pink marabou shoes and 1950s print dress, complete with a light pink fascinator. There was a reason that they called her the Mad Hatter of Quantico, and she wore the title almost as well as she rocked the fluffy pink pumps.
Rockland, Maine.
They were disembarking the plane at Knox County Regional Airport when Hotch's phone tumbled out of his hands, down the steps and onto the concrete with a sickening crack.
"Oh, that's not good," Reid, aka Dr. Obvious, commented.
Hotch swore under his breath as he reached the bottom of the ramp, gingerly picking up the shattered remains. Morgan simply snickered at his boss' smooth moves, shaking his head as he followed with his usual easy gait.
Officer Guest, a thin man with an understandably worried expression, came out on the tarmac to greet them. The relief in his eyes was unmistakable, and Alex Blake felt a pang of compassion for him—it was always the same, that look of 'oh, here come the good guys, here comes someone who can save us', and it never failed to ratchet up the tension that always pooled in her stomach at the realization that the BAU was last line of defense when it came to capturing these types of monsters. If they didn't get this UNSUB, then who would? And how many more lives would this demon devour before they did stop him?
Hotch made the introductions, quickly dropping his frustration and slipping back into his role as team leader. Then he turned back to the others. "Reid and Rossi, head to the latest crime scene. Blake, you're going to police headquarters with me. Morgan and JJ, find the nearest cell phone provider and get me a replacement."
"Why am I stuck on cell phone duty?" Morgan dutifully took the pieces of Hotch's former phone, but he obviously wasn't happy about it.
"Because you laughed."
"Wait...then why do I have to go?" JJ's eyes were wide with innocence. "I didn't laugh."
"Because someone has to keep an eye on him," Hotch turned on his heel and headed towards the black SUVs that were patiently waiting along the tarmac.
JJ and Morgan exchanged exasperated looks, but they both knew better than to push it any further.
Quantico, Virginia.
Though her eyes were focused on the paperwork in front of her, at the edge of her peripheral vision Erin could see a pair of legs standing outside her door.
"What is it, Carrington?" She didn't look up.
"You remember how you told me that if anything comes in for the BAU team, you wanted to be informed?" The petite brunette stepped timidly into the room, her hands still playing nervously with a manila envelope.
"I do." Erin suddenly became interested, her grey-green eyes immediately latching onto the package in the receptionist's hands.
"I had Taylor reroute all incoming mail and packages to me," Carrington admitted, stepping forward again to lay the envelope on Erin's desk. "This just came in. It passed all the scans, so it's safe…I guess."
"You guess?" Erin drawled, staring over the top of her reading glasses at the younger woman.
"Well, you could still get a paper cut from it," Carrington replied, her face schooled into a blank expression. Obviously, she wasn't frightened by Erin's demeanor. This snarky retort earned her a light smirk from her boss, who gingerly picked up the envelope as she searched for her letter opener.
She glanced at the postmark. No return address, but a stamp from Cleveland, Ohio. It was addressed simply to The Behavioral Analysis Unit, no team member in particular. Taking a breath, she pulled the blade of the letter opener quickly across the envelope's tab. Cautiously, she opened the envelope, peering inside to inspect the contents without actually touching them.
"What is it?" Carrington leaned forward in curiosity.
"A blank sheet of paper." The blonde frowned. "At least that's what it seems at first glance."
Her eyes flicked back to the receptionist, who realized that it was her cue to leave.
"Oh, yeah, I have…copies to make," Carrington motioned to her desk, back-pedaling out of the room.
Erin set the envelope down again, reaching for the phone as she bit her bottom lip with worry. She knew that the team was out in the field, and she shouldn't distract them by telling them that they'd just received another potential communiqué from their stalker, but she suddenly had an overwhelming need to simply know that they were alright.
She dialed Aaron's cell number by memory. Surprisingly, he didn't answer. With a slight frown of confusion, she fished her own cell out of her purse, scrolling through her contacts until she found D. Rossi. Glancing down at the number on the screen, she punched in the digits on her desk phone.
As soon as it rang, she realized that she should have called someone else.
Rockland, Maine.
David felt the familiar buzz in his coat pocket, holding up a finger to excuse himself from the conversation as he glanced at the caller ID. It was a Quantico line, but it wasn't one that was programmed into his phone, which meant it wasn't Garcia's direct line. He stepped into the hallway of the latest victim's house, making a quick gesture to Reid, who simply nodded and went back to the crime scene walk-through with the local detectives.
"Rossi."
"David, it's Erin." Her usually cool tone was wobbly and uncertain, as if she was nervous or had been crying. Either option wasn't good.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I—I don't think anything's wrong. I just—Agent Hotchner isn't answering his cell, and I just wanted to check in."
"You just wanted to check in?" He was incredulous. "What are we, a bunch of probies?"
"No, I didn't mean to imply—I know you can handle yourself just fine in the field," she apologized quickly, and he could imagine her blushing (she always blushed profusely whenever she was flustered, from the tip of her ears to the valley between her breasts).
"What's wrong, Erin?" He asked again.
"Why isn't Aaron answering his phone?"
"You didn't answer my question."
"Neither did you." Her tone had become less uncertain. She was slowly slipping back into her usual bullish demeanor.
"He broke his phone."
"He broke his phone?"
"That's what I said."
"You're quite the man for details, aren't you, Agent Rossi?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"You haven't answered my question, Chief," he somehow made the title sound like an insult. "Why are you calling? What's happened?"
"As your Chief," she mimicked his emphasis on the word. "I have every right to check your progress in the field; in fact, it's part of our protocol—not that I would expect you to remember such a thing, since you seem to have a particular disdain for following the rules—"
"I wrote most of 'em," he retorted. He couldn't help but add, "And if memory serves, I am not the only one in this conversation guilty of breaking protocol."
She cleared her throat, and he was certain that she was blushing again. "Yes, thank you for that reminder, Agent Rossi."
He let out a frustrated sigh, glancing around to make sure no one was nearby to overhear him. This wasn't how he'd wanted this conversation to go, especially since this was one of the few times they'd actually spoken in the past year.
"I'm sorry, Erin, that was a low blow." His tone was quiet, gentle.
He heard her exhale. "No, no. I started it, you just followed along. I shouldn't have said that."
Twenty years ago (hell, even five years ago), neither would have apologized, and they both would have devolved into a screaming match, most likely one of epic proportions (back in the day, their battles had been the stuff of office legend). David gave a soft chuckle, My, how much we've grown.
"Seriously, is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine." Her voice was softer, almost a whisper. "I just…with all this stuff going on, I worry about you. About all of you."
"Everyone's fine, Erin." He assured her. Reid was leaning out of the doorway, obviously waiting on him. "I've gotta go. Hotch should have a new phone in about an hour."
"You'll let me know if something happens?"
He realized that she wasn't talking about the current case—she wanted to know if something from the Replicator appeared.
"I will, Erin." He said her name again, this time like a caress.
"Good." Her tone resumed its business-like air. "Good luck, Agent Rossi."
Quantico, Virginia.
Erin hung up with another sigh, rubbing her forehead in frustration. Of course, it only took twenty seconds on the phone with David Rossi for her to devolve into a squabbling, petulant child. That was a great idea, Erin. Definitely one of your finer moments of diplomacy and professionalism.
She glanced out into the reception area, where Carrington was mastering the art of hovering without actually being in the same room, pretending to be hard at work at her desk. Erin stood quickly, snatching up the envelope and brushing past the reception desk.
"Um, Erin?" Carrington didn't move, but her porcelain blue eyes followed her boss across the room.
"I'm taking it down to the lab."
"You do realize that someone else can take it down for you, don't you?" Carrington pointed out. Her cadence was low and slow, as if she were speaking to someone who'd suffered a brain injury. "There are people here who are employed to take things from one department to the next. People who don't have other, more important things to be doing."
Her boss shot her a dark look which informed Carrington that her snark was not appreciated at this particular moment.
"I'd prefer to take it myself," Erin said evenly, and the hard line of her mouth told her receptionist that she would brook no rebuttals on the matter. She turned pertly on her plum Jimmy Choos, tossing over her shoulder, "I'll be back soon."
She moved easily through the maze of hallways and elevators with the reassurance of one who is in their natural habitat. This building had been explored and conquered by her for almost thirty years now, a realization that made her feel as if her life had passed by in a flash.
September 1986. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Special Agent Erin Strauss clutched her stack of thick folders with a white-knuckle grip, pressing them into her chest in a subconscious effort to steel herself as she clipped quickly through the cool corridors of the William J. Green Federal Building. Her eyes flicked from door to door, looking for the appropriate room number. She was thankful that this floor was laid out just like the third floor—her usual haunt, which housed the White Collar Crime Division. She'd been working at the Philadelphia Field Office for almost a year now, but she really only knew how to get from the parking garage to her own desk.
She found her lucky number frosted across a glass door at the end of the hallway, along with the words Organized Crime Division. Taking one last deep breath, she opened the door and plunged into the office bull pen. No one even gave her a second glance as she skirted around the maze of desks and she was glad for the lack of attention—she always hated walking into a room full of strangers, especially here, where being a woman made her a minority and being a blonde, attractive woman made her even rarer. Most of the agents who were around her age treated her with respect, but there were still a few older men, the old suits who came from a different era, with their pinstripes and cigars and sexist jokes, who gave her strange looks as if she were some mythical beast or acted as if she was somehow incapable of understanding complex sentences. And though those instances had been few and far between, it was something for which she braced herself every time she entered a new division.
She quickly found another door marked Ralph Richardson. She gave a quick knock and entered when she heard the voice within.
The man standing in the middle of the office was not Ralph Richardson. In fact, he was Ralph's polar opposite: Ralph was a red-headed, freckle-faced, gangly, slightly uncoordinated man who looked like he was still about twelve years old; the man staring back at Erin was tanned, with thick black hair and dark eyes to match, average height with well-built shoulders and a relaxed air that made him seem almost cat-like.
Erin stepped back, slightly disconcerted. Her eyes darted back to the name on the door, double-checking to make sure she had the right office.
"Ralph stepped out for a moment," the man replied. She recognized the face as someone she'd met or seen before, perhaps someone she'd spotted occasionally in the elevator or parking garage, but she couldn't remember his name.
As if on cue, Ralph barreled in behind her, "Hullo, Erin. Watcha got for me?"
"Oh, I, um, here's what we've collected over the last three years for the Sturon case." She gave him the stack of folders, her eyes flickering back to the man in the corner. Ralph suddenly remembered his manners.
"Forgive me. Erin Strauss, White Collar, this is David Rossi, HRT," Ralph held the files in one hand, motioning between the two with his other. "Dave, this is Erin."
"We've met before, briefly," David said smoothly, reaching out to shake Erin's hand. "But it is nice to see you again, Agent Strauss."
She gave a curt nod, thankful that Ralph had supplied Rossi's name and spared her the embarrassment of admitting that she'd forgotten it. Of course, as soon as she heard the name, the light went off in her brain—yes, this was David Rossi, the hot-shot hostage negotiator and behavioral analyst, the one she'd met at last year's Christmas after-party (though, in defense of her shoddy memory, she'd been very drunk and most of that night remained a hazy blur). She'd recognized his name that night when he'd introduced himself at the bar, because even though his face wasn't familiar, his name had been a by-word during her time at the Academy. Funny, today he looked so much more placid, standing in Ralph's office with his hands tucked into his pants pockets—her fuzzy memory had painted him as much more exotic and intoxicating. Of course, the copious amounts of alcohol she'd consumed could have turned anyone into Clark Gable.
Ralph happily installed himself back in his well-worn chair, feet propped up on the edge of his desk as he thumbed through the files. Giving him a moment to look over the materials, Erin turned her attention to Agent Rossi.
"What is Hostage Rescue's interest in Chaz Sturon?" She nodded towards the stack of folders, which contained every scrap of data that they'd collected on the mogul, who was being secretly investigated for fraud by the White Collar Division and was suspected of having ties to the Mafia by the Organized Crime Division.
"Nothing yet," Rossi replied easily. Noting Erin's confusion, he clarified, "I'm just in Philly for the weekend, and I thought I'd stop in and take an old friend out to lunch."
"Oh, I see." She cocked her head to the side, trying to remember the snippets she'd heard about him over the years. "So, you're still at Quantico?"
"Yes," he gave a small smile, one that didn't reach his eyes.
Ralph tossed one thick folder onto his desk, opening another one with a slight whistle of appreciation, "Geez, Erin, what parts of this man's life did you leave out?"
"Well, I haven't gotten my hands on his last prostate exam," she deadpanned. "But don't worry, I'm working on it."
This earned her a grin and wry shake of the head from Ralph and a slightly shocked chuckle from Agent Rossi.
"Erin's a legend in the making when it comes to research," Ralph informed David. "I've been trying to steal her away from White Collar ever since she got here."
"I wish you'd try harder," Erin admitted with a light sigh.
"Goodwin can be quite a cross to bear," Rossi's tone was filled with amusement as he referred to Strauss' supervisor. She merely rolled her eyes heavenward in agreement.
"I'll have someone make copies of all the important stuff and get all the originals back to you ASAP," Ralph promised, setting the rest of the stack onto his desk as he stood, grabbing his wallet and his keys from his top desk drawer. "But as Dave pointed out, we've got a lunch date."
With one last curt nod to Ralph and a quick smile to David, the blonde analyst turned smartly on her heel and exited. Ralph was still rearranging items on his desk, giving David a chance to observe the woman briskly walking away.
Like Erin, he didn't have a crystal-clear memory of the Christmas party, though he'd been closer to sobriety than she was, but he did remember meeting the spitfire woman and making a mental note that he'd have to get to know her better later on. Obviously, that memo had been forgotten—he hadn't even realized that she had been transferred to the Philadelphia branch.
He remembered how much younger she'd looked a few months ago, how much more vivacious and outgoing she'd seemed. Still, she was a good looking woman, although she tried to down-play her physical features by wearing very little makeup and keeping her hair in a no-nonsense bun. Obviously, she had something to prove—her slacks were loose, barely touching her legs, her button-down blouse and blazer hid her curves, she wore no jewelry except for a thin gold band on her left hand, and her shoes were masculine, blockish. She wanted to be taken seriously, and with a face like that, it probably wasn't something that happened very often. From what David could remember from his brief interactions with her current supervisor, Goodwin, he recalled that the man seemed to believe that beauty and brains simply couldn't coexist, and most of the female agents begged to be transferred after only a few weeks under his command.
"How long has she been here?" David asked casually, his eyes never leaving her retreating form.
"Since January, I think," Ralph replied, still focused on the contents of his desk.
So she'd survived Goodwin longer than most of the others. Either Special Agent Strauss was a raging masochist, or she felt like she had something to prove. David guessed it was a little of both.
If her clothes hadn't provided enough insight, her body language had. She was nervous, always looking for approval, still unsure of her own abilities. But she also had a good sense of humor that came out to play when she felt comfortable, and that was a critical skill for anyone who wanted to make a career of this stressful and unpredictable line of work. And Rossi recalled something else that another agent had said about her at the Christmas party—she was a career agent. He hadn't seen it then, but he could now. She had that look about her.
"She's already off the market, Dave." Ralph had noticed the dark-haired man's gaze.
"I wasn't scoping her out like that," Rossi replied.
"Of course you weren't," a smile quirked at the corner of his friend's mouth. Sometimes David Rossi was so predictable. He added affably, "Even if she was available, she's not someone you'd wanna mess with. Do you know what her maiden name is?"
David gave him a blank look that said he obviously didn't, so Ralph continued, "Breyer."
"Breyer?" The dark-haired man tried to figure out the connection.
"As in a certain judge in the D.C. Circuit Court of Appeals." Ralph finished for him. He smiled when he saw his friend's face suddenly light up in recognition.
"Bleeding Heart Breyer's daughter works for us?" David looked back at the bullpen, although Erin was long gone by now.
Ralph's grin deepened. "That whole clan's all about civil servitude. One of her brothers is a D.A. down in Virginia, and the other one's some kind of politician, I think."
"Boy, I bet she gets the short end of the stick at family gatherings," David shook his head with a wry smile. Jameson E. Breyer was so liberal that he made the Warren Court look like conservative Southern Baptists. He also had not been a fan of the Bureau's tactics regarding paid informants, public corruption, and pretty much anything else that even hinted at invasion of privacy—and he'd been quite vocal in his disapproval. He surely hadn't been happy at the thought of his offspring working for the FBI.
Ralph chuckled in agreement as they made their way out of his office and to the elevators. David couldn't resist the urge to crane his neck, looking to see if he could spot Erin Breyer Strauss walking down the hall. Ralph's words had meant to discourage his interest, and yet, they'd served to only increase his curiosity. Justice Breyer was a man of conviction, a strong man with the personality of a steamroller—anyone with the will to oppose him was certainly a force in their own right. A possible raging masochist with a rebellious streak and a backbone of steel, with killer wit to match. Oh, now he was really going to have to get to know her better. He'd met her twice, for a total of less than ten minutes, and she was already proving to be quite a fascinating creature.