Contrition and Reconciliation

"The practice of peace and reconciliation is one of the most vital and artistic of human actions." ~Nhat Hanh

March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

The light was on in Hotch's office when the team entered the bullpen; they could see the blonde halo peeking over the back of a chair as Chief Strauss awaited their fearless leader's return—her shoes were discarded next to her chair, and her feet were propped up in the other chair that Hotch kept positioned in front of his desk. Obviously she'd been there for a while.

"This can't be good," Rossi muttered in a low tone, where only Hotch could hear him.

"She isn't exactly known as the bearer of glad tidings," his supervisor agreed dryly, making his way up the stairs and to his office with an air of resignation.

At the sound of his approach on the stairs, Erin sat up, swiveling around to greet him when he opened the door.

"I'm sorry to just surprise you like this, Aaron, but I didn't want to take the chance that I might miss you before you left this evening." The look on her face instantly filled his stomach with dread.

"What's happened?"

She picked up an 8x10 photo that was draped over her lap, handing it to him as she explained, "A blank piece of paper came in the mail yesterday. I took it to the lab; they dusted for prints, but of course, there were none. This is what they found when they placed it under a UV light."

He gingerly took the photo, his expression impassive. It was a picture of a piece of paper, with glowing numbers scrawled across it.

"Invisible ink." He surmised.

Erin continued, "They still have the paper, but I wouldn't let them run any more tests until I'd spoken to you. I thought you might want to take a look at it first, see what you can glean from it, just in case they somehow damage it during analysis."

He nodded, "I'll let Reid examine it first thing in the morning. Right now, I want to let them go home and get some sleep."

"I think that's a wise decision," she agreed as she rose to her feet, slipping back into her heels and pushing the chairs into their original position.

"Thank you, Erin." The softer tone of his voice caused her to look back up at him. His eyes met hers and she could tell that he truly meant the sentiment.

"I wish I could do more," she confessed quietly, as if somehow she was admitting a weakness by realizing that there was, in fact, nothing more for her to do. Straightening her shoulders, she gave him a pointed look. "I think we both know who sent it."

"Yes, I think we do."

"Rockland went well?"

"As well as can be expected. You'll have the full report by tomorrow morning." The response was so typically Aaron that his supervisor couldn't help but smile.

"Well, good night, Agent Hotchner."

"Good night, Chief."

Erin could have used the closest stairway and avoided Rossi's office altogether, but as usual, her logic stood no chance against her heart whenever that man was concerned, and she brushed past his office, glancing through the open door to see him seated at his desk, looking out expectantly, as if he knew that she would come by.

She checked her stride and pulled herself back into his doorway, her hands clasped behind her back as she looked down at the floor.

"I…I lied to you yesterday, when you asked if anything was wrong," she confessed quickly. She looked up at him with a small smile. "Of course, I'm sure you knew that."

"I suspected as much."

She simply waited, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, looking so uncertain, as if she feared his reaction might be something harsher. He felt a pang of pity for her, his warrior queen who'd never seemed this hesitant and fearful (at least not in many years, not since she'd come into her own at the Bureau), and he felt a wave of sadness at the realization that he was the cause of her anxiety. How the hell did they get this way? After all they'd been through, after countless spats and caresses and victories and defeats, all the years of knowing and unknowing and reknowing each other, how had they become these awkward people who no longer understood one another, who held their breaths in fear of the other's response?

But that was a question for another day—a question he couldn't ask until she allowed him to, and it was obvious that it wasn't going to happen tonight.

"So," Rossi sat back, mentally preparing himself for what was to come. "What is wrong?"

She stepped further into his office, glancing over her shoulder as if she didn't want the rest of the team to somehow overhear. "The BAU received a blank piece of paper in the mail yesterday. I'm pretty sure it's from the Replicator. Aaron has it now, and I'm sure he'll brief the team on it in the morning, but I wanted you to know."

He gave a small nod of thanks. She continued, her gaze dropping back to the ground, "That's why I called to make sure that you were all OK. I know, it's a silly thing—"

"Caring about someone isn't silly, Erin," his voice was gentle, and she knew that he wasn't just talking about her concern for the BAU team.

"I didn't want to distract you with the information, so I couldn't tell you." She added, although she was certain that Rossi could understand her reasoning.

He did. "Of course. That was the right thing to do."

"Of course," she agreed quickly, turning to leave. Then she stopped, turned around fully, clasped her hands in front of her, unclasped them, re-arranged the bangles at her wrist.

"I just…I don't like keeping secrets from you, David." She quickly added, "At least not anymore."

Her words pricked his intuition, and he knew there was something in them that held some clue—he just wasn't sure which words and what clues. But there was something hopeful in them, because she'd said anymore, implying that things were changing. He hoped that they were changing for the best, but right now, any kind of change would be welcome, because at least he'd have a clearer idea of where he stood with her.

"It wasn't keeping a secret," he pointed out, his voice still soft. He rose to his feet, but she took a step back, shying away from him, so he didn't move any closer. "It was protecting us from distraction. You know that, and I know that, and the others will understand that as well. Besides, you told us as soon as you could."

She nodded again, forcing her eyes to meet his, "It's just...I don't like how it feels. Not when the stakes are so high."

"I understand." He did but he didn't, not really, because he wasn't sure what they were talking about now, although he was certain that it wasn't about a simple piece of paper in the mail.

She nodded quickly, giving another small smile of relief. She turned to go, giving one last look over her shoulder, "Good night."

"Good night, Erin." He watched her walk away. Then he simply shook his head in wonderment. This wasn't who they used to be—these people with the demure glances and quiet apologies, the forgivenesses couched in caring tones (before, they simply moved on, never discussing, never apologizing, never forgiving)—and yet he took it as a good sign. It was a sign of the times, and the times, they were a'changing.

He smiled gently to himself as he sat back, his mind traveling over the litany of their greatest hits—though his definition of such was probably vastly different than most. Though yesterday's spat over the phone certainly hadn't been worthy of qualifying for the list, it was different in the fact that it had ended with an apology of sorts, and most notably, that Erin had been the penitent one. He was pretty sure that was a first—regardless of who started the fight, he'd usually been the one to make the first steps towards reconciliation.

March 1990. New York City, New York.

"Sweet Jesus in short-pants, Erin, it isn't that difficult to underst—"

"I understand what you're saying, David, but I'm saying that it's wrong."

"Just because you little collection of data doesn't support—"

"That's right; the data doesn't support it. And if the data doesn't support it, then It. Is. Wrong."

Special Agent Sandra Chen simply shook her head, turning to her coworkers with a wry grin. "Place your bets, ladies and gents, it looks like this one's gonna be a doozy."

SSA Mike Mikkelsen chuckled in agreement, sitting back in his chair as he watched Rossi and Strauss in action. David Rossi was a good half-foot taller than his blonde counterpart, but her anger seemed to make her the more physically imposing of the two. Of course, she was also thirty-five weeks pregnant and therefore twice her usual size. Despite having a belly full of her first child, Erin Strauss was still traipsing around the country with them, with more energy than most of the younger agents who didn't have the excuse of thirty extra pounds of unborn babe. Although Mike was certain that Rossi wasn't very appreciative of her stamina at this particular moment.

They'd been fighting over a tactical decision for almost a full twenty-four hours now—everyone else had simply given up, had agreed that they would go with whomever won, just so long as the two would shut up. Diplomacy had failed. Analysis of pros and cons had failed. Offering to flip a coin had failed. Everything had failed. Except screaming. Screaming had proved to be a tireless task for these two.

"Damn the facts, Erin, I've been inside this guy's head—I know what he's up to!" The Italian roared, throwing his hands up in exasperation. A lesser person (or perhaps just a sane one) would have stepped back, but Strauss moved in closer, face upturned angrily into his, fists clenched stiffly at her sides.

"You can't prove it." She didn't yell, but her voice was thick with anger. "You can't prove it because the data—"

"Fuck the data!" David trumpeted, angrily turning to the conference room table and pushing over Erin's meticulously compiled stack of papers in the process, sending them flying around the room.

There was an awful, heart-pounding moment as the entire room stood still, holding their breaths as the two simply stared each other down.

Erin slowly unclenched her fists, placed them on her hips. Her voice was so low that the others could barely hear her. "Feel better, Agent Rossi?"

"Much better," he admitted, his tone matching hers.

With a wry shake of her head and a frustrated rub of her forehead, Erin took a deep breath, turning away from him for a moment. She was tired, and he knew it, but she'd continued to fight just to prove that she could still roll with whatever punches he threw at her, and he knew that, too. She was tired and she was aching and she had the sickening feeling that David Rossi was actually right. Still, it was a point of pride, and capitulation of any form did not come easily to the blonde (this was something else David knew, because he was the same in that respect).

He also knew that he never should have started this argument with her, that he should have remained calm and detached, should have presented his position logically, in a way that fit within the pristinely ordered thought patterns of her brain, but of course that hadn't happened—as usual, he'd taken the defensive route, had shot down Erin's ideas before she'd even fully explained them (though now he could admit that they weren't bad strategies, they just didn't fit this particular UNSUB), had bellowed when he should have whispered, had stomped when he should have simply breathed. But she always had that effect on him, always pushed him in the opposite direction, away from everything that he knew and understood and wanted, which was both unsettling and intriguing.

Her shoulders hitched slightly, and he saw her hand go instintively to her lower back, which had been bothering her even more over the past few days. Normally, she would still be screaming back at him—they could go round and round like this for days, weeks even—but she was drained, she was pale and sickly looking and the last few weeks had been utter hell for her. David knew that she was about to throw in the towel, and for once, he did not feel the slightest satisfaction in knowing that he was going to win.

When she turned back around, her eyes were cautious, "You really think this is how he'll play it?"

"I do," he gave a curt nod.

"If you're wrong, you could compromise this entire investigation," her voice held a darker threat, which he heard loud and clear. It was her final push, her last charge in this particular battle.

"Then it's a good thing I'm not wrong," he retorted, bringing his face just inches from hers. If she was still in the game, then so was he.

Suddenly the corner of her thin lips curled into a smirk, and their fellow agents let out a collective sigh of relief—it was a sure sign that the war was over, for now. There was still a hardness in those grey eyes that informed David that his win would come at a price, though her voice was practically purring, "You're one egotistical bastard, David Rossi."

"That I am," he agreed with a grin that matched hers. "But I'm also right."

She stamped her smile back into a thin line. "Fine. We'll go with your plan."

With that, she whipped around, breezing past the other agents as she threw her last words over her shoulder, "Now pick up the mess your little temper-tantrum made. And make sure they're all stacked back in order."

Agent Chen watched the blonde analyst disappear down the hallway. "Two peas in a pod, they are. Strangest damn thing I ever saw."

"They work," Mikkelsen shrugged, rising to his feet to help Rossi gather all the scattered sheets of paper. "Sometimes ya gotta look past the method and simply appreciate the results."

New York City was experiencing the warmest year in its recorded history, which meant that in March, the weather was pleasant enough for Erin to sit outside without a jacket, which meant that she'd been out of the office as much as possible during their two-week stay, though she never let her excursions interfere with her work (she was much too dependable and task-oriented to allow that). Of course, the fact that staying outside also meant successfully avoiding David Rossi, except when absolutely necessary, was just another welcome perk.

She was being petty and childish, she knew that, but pregnancy had worn down her usually-smooth edges, and she suddenly found that the things she could once bear had now become nearly intolerable. She was uncomfortable and tired and away from home and the soothing softness of Paul, and the 24/7 contact with David Rossi was pushing her to the edge. Of course, matters certainly weren't helped by the fact that there were still some very unresolved feelings between them (had it only been fifteen months ago?) which they had agreed to never speak about, and the fact that right now, her hormones were in overdrive and she was surrounded by the one man who was her only weakness. To quote Rossi's favorite phrase, Sweet Jesus in short-pants.

It was like being involutarily cast in some sadistic comedy, and though Erin could appreciate the utter absurdity of it all, it didn't mean that she had to enjoy it. And since she'd rather have her eyes carved out with very dull spoons instead of confront her feelings, Erin would simply choose the path of least resistance—she wouldn't fight with him anymore (at least not now, not when she was too worn down from the last battle royale), which left only one option. She'd simply avoid him for the next few days, until her maternity leave kicked in and she could return home. It was a childish, completely unprofessional plan, but it was all she had, so she went with it.

The object of her avoidance was winding his way through the maze of cubicles and halls in the Jacob K. Javits Federal Office Building, searching for her, his frown deepening with each failure. She was now thirty-six weeks pregnant, and he didn't like the idea of her wandering off by herself (she'd said he was worse than an old woman, the way he carried on, but that hadn't stopped him from worrying). Regardless of whether or not they'd solved this case, her maternity leave started next week, and he didn't want her to go, at least not like this.

In public, Erin and David had continued working together on the case, acting as if the 24-hour standoff and the little scene in the conference room had never happened, but in private, they were sulky and snippish with one another, in taxi cabs and elevator rides and little asides that the other agents didn't hear. Erin could hold a grudge better than anyone else David knew, and he was learning firsthand just how painful it was to be the target of her contempt.

All because he made an intuitive leap (which proved to be right, and which was probably why she sulked so much over it), because that was how his brain worked, how he understood the world, and it was in direct opposition to Erin and her logic and her ordered rows of data. There was a reason that she held the title crime analyst, not behavioral analyst. She could map out the crime, give seventy-seven details on the how, the what, the when, the where, but she couldn't formulate the why (well, she could, but she preferred not to, because it was a guess, and guesses could be wrong, and Erin Strauss didn't like being wrong, didn't like uncertainty and assumptions when she could have solid, stable facts).

David knew these things about her, knew that she felt her lack of intuition made her feel inadequate and bumbling, like a first year G-man, despite the praise she'd recieved for her work. Of course, she also was barely over thirty (thirty one or thirty two, he couldn't always keep track) and still held the insecurities of being a half-grown adult, still finding her place in the world of the Bureau.

He found her sitting outside the building on an iron-wrought bench (normally, she would be sitting on the curb, but she'd had to give that up around month six of her pregnancy), eyes closed, face turned up to the cloudy sky. Despite her dark suits and her desk job in a world of steel and concrete, Erin was still some strange hippie-earth-mother who liked feeling a connection to nature, and whenever things got too stressful or too hectic, she could be found somewhere outdoors.

Erin heard footsteps approaching, and the electric singing under her skin informed her that it could only be one person—she never understood how she could sense him like that, as if her body held some chemical ESP that always reacted instantaneously to his presence. Still, she didn't look at him, didn't speak, or move, or acknowledge his presence. She waited.

She heard him sigh, felt the warmth of his eyes on her skin, and that was when she realized that he'd come in peace, not to continue their fight (which is what he did so often, even after he'd won, because he knew it angered her and he actually liked seeing her angry). She could tell that he was debating whether or not to sit beside her, could almost physically feel his uncertainty rising as his mind tried to find the words to say.

Her irritation melted at his uncharacteristic bout of hesitation, and she suddenly wanted everything to simply be alright between them again, because while she didn't mind making him angry, she hated making him sad or upset or uncertain. Those were emotions she knew all too well, and she didn't like being responsible for inspiring them in others, no matter how much they might deserve it.

Words never worked for them, except when they used them to hurt one another. But soft things, kind things were never really spoken between them, they were merely felt and understood. She knew this and he knew this, and it was simply part of who they were. She decided to be magnanimous, throwing him a lifeline by simply patting the space next to her.

He sat down, wordlessly offering her a pack of peanut-butter crackers when she finally looked at him. She gave a small smile at the gift (she'd been ill every day of her pregnancy, the promise of only three months of morning sickness broken so cruelly, and crackers had become her dietary staple, especially when they were on the road and she couldn't afford to be sick) and gently took it, opening it and handing him a cracker. It was a peace offering, a silent sign that they were OK.

They ate their crackers in silence, watching the traffic buzz by. There weren't any apologies; there never were. They were both too prideful to capitulate and both too vindictive to refrain from turning the other's apology into a chance to take a few more jabs. They'd tried apologizing after their first few spats, but it always went to hell in a handbasket, and so they'd both realized that it was simply best to keep moving along, moving past the slights and the fights at their own pace. They didn't talk about it, they didn't even use it as leverage in future battles. They'd know when everything was OK again, simply because they'd fall back into sync.

Right now, they were healing, molding back into whatever strange partnership they were. Until then, they enjoyed the quiet moment for whatever it was.

"I really want a cigarette right now." Erin stated, her grey-green eyes still focused on the traffic.

"Have you ever even smoked a day in your life?" Rossi was incredulous.

"Nope." She admitted flatly. She gave a slight grimace. "But I've suddenly had the urge to smoke."

"Pretty sure that's the weirdest pregnancy craving ever," he commented. She hummed in agreement.

"Probably the unhealthiest, too."

"Probably."

"Typical, though," Erin mused. "I always crave exactly what I don't need."

He took a moment to study the blonde's profile. There were dark circles under her eyes, a new line at the corner of her mouth, and David had noticed that she'd been rubbing her forehead in irritation more often over the past few weeks. The pregnancy was beginning to wear on her, and he felt a wave of concern (because of course he cared, he cared because she was his coworker, because she was a human being, because she was his ally and sometimes even his friend, not because of anything else, at least that's what he told himself).

"You should go back to the hotel and get some rest," he suggested quietly.

She nodded, and that's when he knew that she must really be tired—she hardly ever took his advice when it came to rest; she always that said she'd sleep when the case was wrapped.

"I just need to go up and grab my things," she started to pull herself onto her feet, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"I'll get it. Just wait here." He moved across the pavement quickly (much more quickly than she was capable of moving these days, she thought enviously), disappearing behind the dark tinted glass doors.

Her lips curled into a wry smile. He really could be a sweetheart, when he wanted to be. Of course, it helped that he was still trying to get back in her good graces. Guilt was a helluva motivator.

March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

"The lab only dusted for prints?" Spencer Reid held the piece of paper gently at its edges, holding it up to the light. He was standing at the edge of the table, at which Rossi, Blake, Hotch, Morgan, and JJ were seated.

"That's all Strauss allowed them to do," Hotch clarified. "She was afraid they might accidentally destroy it."

"Her faith in their abilities was much appreciated, I'm sure," Morgan commented, leaning back in his chair so that he, too, could peer at the paper under the light.

Hotch gave a small smile, but didn't respond.

"The paper itself is the message," Reid scrunched his face as inspected the sheet from a different angle. "It's heavy, almost as thick as cardstock, very expensive, like calligraphy paper."

"The numbers obviously have some meaning, but the real clue is the invisible ink, right?" Morgan continued, looking up at Reid for confirmation. "I mean, that's pretty specific, and our guy doesn't do anything without a reason."

"There are lots of things that can be used as invisible ink," Blake pointed out. "The problem is, if we test for one type of compound or substance, then whatever we use to detect it, could actually destroy whatever substance that the ink is actually made of."

"Our main problem is figuring out which kind of substance was used to create the message," the doctor agreed, his eyes still scanning every inch of the paper for some kind of hint. "It depends on whether the ink is developed by heat or by chemical reaction, and whether or not the ink can withstand water. You know, in World War II, the British developed a list of ten properties of what made the ideal form of invisible ink, although several of the items on the list were in direct conflict with one another. For example, one property is that it should be unreactive to iodine, and yet another property states—"

"Reid, if you could, spare us the history lesson and simply come to a conclusion," Hotch interrupted, and everyone else let out a small sigh of relief, except for Blake, who happened to be completely engrossed in Spencer's musings.

The younger man seemed unfazed by his supervisor's abrupt tone. He gave a slight shrug of his shoulder, and then sniffed the paper, "Well, I'm fairly certain we can rule out lemon juice."

"Garcia," Hotch directed his voice at the speakerphone at the center of the conference table.

"Already on it, sir," The technical analyst's voice rang out loud and clear. They could hear the rapid-fire tapping of her fingers across the keyboard in the background. "Common and not-so-common sources of invisible ink include: cola, honey, various fruit juices, vinegar, bodily fluids—wow, that's disturbing—various sulfates and chlorides—"

"Bodily fluids?" Hotch's dark eyes flicked over to Reid.

"Seriously, that's what you got out of that whole list?" Garcia was incredulous. "So like a man."

"Blood." The doctor suddenly looked at the paper again.

"Blood?" Morgan was confused. Blood wouldn't dry invisible, or else their job would've been a lot harder.

"Blood serum—plasma has a clear, light-yellow tint," Reid was talking quickly now, his hands fluttering as he became excited with his discovery. "The plasma could be purified enough to remove all tint, basically made into a serum, which would write and dry clear, like lemon juice. Heat brings it out as well—if you were to hold this to a high-watt bulb or near an open heat source, or even run a clothes iron over it, the serum would show up, almost like it did with the UV light."

He gently slipped the paper back into the clear plastic evidence bag that the lab had delivered it in. "Plasma doesn't contain DNA, but we can use it to determine blood type. I would be willing to bet good money that our guy used one of the victim's blood to write this message."

"So, we're looking for a highly-skilled piquerist or vampirist," David Rossi surmised, speaking for the first time.

"More than just highly-skilled," JJ corrected. "Someone with the tools and resources to separate plasma from human blood."

"Garcia," Hotch leaned in to the speaker phone again.

"Looking for former cases involving piquerists and/or vampirists," she answered before he could even formulate the question. "Back in a flash, my loves."

The line clicked. By now, Spencer had already dashed off, clutching his paper as if it were a Golden Ticket.

"We still don't know what the numbers mean," Blake pointed out. She reached across the table for the photo that Strauss had given Hotch the night before, the one with the numbers glowing underneath the UV light.

Morgan leaned over, closing the gap between their two chairs, where Spencer had been standing. He frowned, trying to make some sense of the seemingly random rows of numbers. "They could be anything—dates, phone numbers, times…"

At the last word, JJ suddenly looked down at her phone, cursing under her breath, "Speaking of time, I've got a conference call with the chief of police in Tampa in a few minutes."

She stood, gathering up a stack of folders that seemed to be part of her daily costume.

"I've got a consult with NYPD in half an hour," Hotch also rose to his feet, glancing at the other agents. "Let's reconvene at 2pm."

The others nodded in agreement as their unit chief exited the room. Blake and Morgan returned their attention to the photo, but Rossi followed JJ back into the bullpen.

"Oh, shit," the blonde muttered, glancing at one of her folders. "This one is supposed to go back to Strauss before lunch."

"I can take it to her," Rossi offered, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Really?" Her blue eyes locked onto his, the hope unmistakable.

"Sure. I've got the time, and you need to get to your conference call." He gave a slight shrug, holding out his hand for the folder, which she gratefully gave to him.

"Thanks, Rossi," she grinned over her shoulder as she power-walked down the hall. "I owe ya one."

He simply nodded in agreement, his gaze falling to the brown legal folder in his hands. She had no idea that in reality, she was the one doing him a favor.

Erin's back was turned to the door as she perused her email on the computer tucked snugly in the back of her cherry-oak hutch credenza, but she could hear footsteps approaching, halting with hesitation, shifting with uncertainty.

"Dora, I'm your boss, not the King of Persia," Erin pointed out dryly, not even bothering to turn around. "You can enter the room without awaiting my divine permission."

"Who's Dora?"

The sound of a masculine voice took her by surprise. She turned the chair around, slightly confused to see David Rossi standing in her doorway.

"Carrington," Erin motioned towards the reception area, slowly removing her reading glasses and setting them on her desk. "Her first name is Dora."

"Like the painter?"

Erin had forgotten that he was well-versed in the art world. For some reason, it had always been hard for her to reconcile the brash, impetuous, daring, loud-mouthed Italian with the soft, contemplative, cultured man that lurked beneath the surface. David Rossi certainly was a man of many tastes.

She nodded.

"Didn't the original Dora Carrington off herself with a shotgun?" He gave a slight grimace, looking over his shoulder at the brunette, who was completely oblivious to the conversation.

"Her parents didn't seem to be bothered by that little detail," Erin replied. She shook her head—she couldn't even recount the number of jokes she'd heard about Carrington's first name ever since the emergence of a wildly popular cartoon explorer, which was why the young woman preferred to be addressed by her surname. With a wry curl of her lip, she mused, "At least I gave my children sensible names—they'll never hate me for that."

It was her emphasis on the last word that caused a faint flutter of irritation within Rossi—the implication that her children could do anything less than love her, the idea that she'd somehow failed them by having a shining career while raising them, the thought that she'd been seen as anything less than amazing by her own offspring was upsetting, even if she spoke in jest. Of course, he was biased when it came to her (he always had been, in one way or another), but he knew that she'd wanted to be a good mother, though she felt her career had cost her such an accolade. She loved her children; it was evident by the soft look in her eyes every time she saw their pictures, the gentle smile when she spoke of them. He hated to think the adoration wasn't mutual. She didn't deserve that.

"I doubt they could hate you for anything," he replied softly. The flicker of doubt in her grey eyes did not slip past his scrutiny.

"Why are you here?" Inwardly, she cringed at how harsh she sounded.

"JJ was in a rush, so I volunteered as delivery boy," he held up the folder in explanation before tossing it lightly on her desk.

"Working on your scout badges, Agent Rossi?" She raised a questioning eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching into the faintest of smirks.

"If it gives me the chance to exchange witty banner with a beautiful broad," he responded, leaning on the edge of her desk and taking a secret delight in the fact that she actually didn't shift away. "Then I'm all in."

Her eyes flickered past his shoulder, to the open door and the receptionist's desk. Typical Erin, worrying about appearances.

She licked her lips nervously, "David, this really isn't the appropriate time."

"Which makes it the perfect time," he retorted in a low tone.

"You are incorrigible." Her words were lessened by the affection that crept into them, despite her best efforts.

He smiled at the statement before suddenly sobering. "How are you, Erin?"

Her eyes met his, wide and slightly surprised by the change in conversation.

"I-I'm fine," her hand immediately went to her necklace, playing with the ruby bauble that nestled just below the dip in her collarbone.

"We haven't spoken in a while," he reminded her, and she detected the slightest hint of sorrow in his voice.

"We spoke last night," she replied lamely, because she knew that last night was the first time they'd been alone in the same room for months.

"We don't even fight anymore," he shook his head with a wry grin. There was a twinkle in his dark eyes, "Is it sad that I miss fighting with you?"

She smiled softly at the question, a faint blush searing across her cheeks. She understood the meaning behind his words—fighting was their main form of communication, their chance to truly use their teeth and wit and fire against their worthiest adversary, their native ritual in the strange land of their relationship. It was who they were, who they would always be, regardless of the love and laughter and light in-between. The big fights were what broke them apart so that they could mend together again, becoming something new yet somehow familiar, something stronger though equally fragile, something closer to the people they really were and the things they really felt. The smaller spats were what kept them on their toes, kept the blood pulsing and the tension sizzling, somehow increasing their mutual affection.

"That is quite sad, Agent Rossi," her tone belied her words, and he felt that she reciprocated his sadness. She leaned forward (barely, just enough so he'd notice, not enough so that he could interpret it as a definite move), a twinkle in her eye as her voice dipped even lower, "In some circles, people would label you a raging masochist."

Of course, that was a phrase he'd used to describe her many times over the past two decades, and her use of the term made him smile in recollection.

"Besides," she sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "You brought this on yourself, David."

He looked at her in confusion. She continued evenly, her eyes never leaving his, "You were the one who started treating me differently—you started acting like I was some fragile bird with a broken wing, after everything that happened."

She didn't specify what everything that happened was, but he knew, and he also knew that she was right—after that tear-filled day last May, he had treated her differently, had turned her into some delicate creature that suddenly couldn't withstand the severity of their former battles. He hadn't even realized that he'd done it; it was just a natural progression into the new stage of their strange, tangled relationship—now that the emotions were out in the open, the gloves could come off and a truce could begin, because the frustration and deprivation and the denial had ended.

And that's when he saw it—the hurt in her eyes. Hurt that he saw her as something so weak, hurt that he'd stopped treating her as he always did, hurt for being locked out, for being seen as less than, for being denied the comfort of acting as they always had around one another.

A lot had changed in the past year. Perhaps some things shouldn't change, though. Perhaps some aspects of their relationship were imperfectly perfect. After all, it was their fighting spirits that had started them down this twisting, turning path…what if that really was the thing that made it work?

He was very quiet as he considered these things, and his silence sat like a stone in Erin's stomach. She was not good with words, but any words would be better than this. She looked down at her hands, folded neatly atop her desk.

"I thought that—perhaps…maybe it meant—maybe you were treating me differently because—"

"Because I didn't love you anymore?"

Her eyes snapped up at the words, locking onto his. The hurt in those grey-green orbs was replaced by something that stabbed at David's heart—fear.

Because she had really believed that he'd finally given up on her. After all, isn't that what Paul had done? Paul Strauss was a much more dependable and stable man that David Rossi could ever hope to be—what chance could Rossi stand against her drunken, broken, completely damaged self, if Paul hadn't been able to?

Surprisingly, David wasn't hurt by her lack of faith in him. He was too busy hating Paul Strauss for creating such feelings doubt and unworthiness in this woman who was to David seemingly indestructible.

She blinked, swallowed, tried to reign in her hopeless heart, which had skidded and thudded wildly at the word love. Forcing her eyes to remain on his, she whispered, "You…you were suddenly acting differently, so I thought…I thought you were trying to let me down easily. To…disengage."

"I see." He replied softly. Now it was his turn to glance down at Erin's hands, which were perfectly still. He knew that he'd said too much, that he shouldn't have used the fateful L word, but it was true and he no longer felt the need to lie to himself, or to her—he did love her, he had loved her for quite some time now, and he was actually scared at the realization that he'd loved her longer than he'd loved any other woman. He told himself that he would refrain from any more professions of love eternal (at least for now), but she still needed to understand that he wasn't going anywhere.

His hand moved forward, the tip of his index finger lightly brushing over the ridges of her knuckles. "I don't think I could ever give up on you, Erin, even if I wanted to."

He felt the rush of breath that she'd been holding as she'd waited for his reply, watched with soft wonderment as that pale hand slowly rotated, her index finger moving to touch his own, her palm opening and welcoming the warmth of his fingertips. His hand moved forward, his fingers wrapping around her wrist as his thumb gently caressed the pulse point which suddenly seemed warmer. She mimicked his movement, her fingers wrapping around his wrist, caressing whatever skin they could reach.

They both stayed in that moment, eyes transfixed on the mating and melding of their hands, reveling in the simple pleasure of touching each other's skin, feeling that familiar connection rekindle and repair itself, relishing the knowledge that they were somehow resetting and regrouping, infatuated with the realization that they were turning something so mundane into an almost sacred ritual.

Perhaps that was what love was, Erin felt struck with sudden clarity. For so many years, she'd thought that she was incapable of all-consuming passionate love, but maybe it wasn't her capacity that was the problem—maybe it was her definition. In all honestly, most of the time she would not classify her feelings towards David Rossi as anything even remotely resembling love, but she could not deny the fact that he always had the ability to melt her bones with a single touch, to enflame her soul with a single glance, and then meld them all back together with the surprising softness of his words. And though this moment (this beautiful, golden, gentle, haloed moment) was far from passionate, it was all-consuming, entrancing and hypnotic, completely unlike anything she'd ever experienced before, and she wanted nothing more than to capture it, to live inside whatever strange world they were weaving around them, to hide here, safe and content, for the rest of her days.

Happiness blossomed inside her chest like the dawning of the sun as she realized that she wasn't too damaged or incapable of feeling such things. For most of her life, she'd simply assumed that because she didn't feel this way with Paul (who was so kind and sweet and loving and absolutely the type of man about which she should feel this way), that she was somehow emotionally defective, as if her brain couldn't comprehend such feelings. By the time David Rossi had waltzed into her life, she'd convinced herself that she wasn't capable of passion—when her first real interactions to him had been so visceral, she'd assumed that the strange pulsing in her veins was disgust, not attraction.

Now she was beyond mere attraction. Far beyond. You had to be a love-struck idiot to be completely enthralled and content with the simple touch of man's hand on your wrist. Erin just smiled as she silently acknowledged that she must be, in fact, a love-struck idiot.