Gauntlets and Battle Scars

"Battle is the most magnificent competition in which a human being can indulge. It brings out all that is best; it removes all that is base." ~George S. Patton

March 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

David Rossi decidedly had a pep in his step.

Derek Morgan sat back, taking a moment to observe his team member as he practically skipped (or at least was as close to skipping as Rossi could ever be) past the bullpen. The younger agent set his pen down on his desk, looking around at his coworkers to see if anyone else had witnessed what was surely a sign of the impending Apocalypse. As usual, Blake was too far buried in her own work to notice the world was spinning; Reid was muttering to himself as he rummaged through the drawers of his desk; Hotch was safely ensconced in his own office, still deep in conversation with the NYPD, consulting on a case of serial rapes that had occurred over the last seven months.

Surely he had imagined it. Either that or someone had slipped a little something extra into Dave's coffee this morning. Both were equally plausible theories.

Several hours later, when the team reconvened in the conference room, Derek was certain that he'd simply made the whole thing up, because the older man was back in usual humor.

His foul mood was further darkened when Chief Strauss appeared in the doorway, pushing into the room with her usual air of authority (which Morgan now knew was mainly bravado, masking a deep-set fear of failure).

"What have we got so far?" She moved smoothly around the table, standing at the head, where Penelope was seated with her laptop.

"So glad that you could grace us with your presence," Rossi commented with barely-concealed distaste.

Her steely gaze probably would have killed a lesser man. Don't mess with me. Not today.

She turned her attention to Hotch, who, as usual, wore an expression of cool detachment. He answered her question, "The lab is testing the ink for blood type. Reid thinks it's made of blood serum. Garcia."

"Right," the brightly-arrayed technical analyst began pulling up photos on her laptop, which appeared on the projection screen behind her. "Here are the former cases handled by the BAU involving piquerists and vampirists, plus every case that has a connection to Cleveland, and I've gotta say, it's a creepily long list."

"And when will we get the results back from the lab?" The section chief looked at Dr. Reid.

"They've already confirmed that it's definitely a bodily fluid; they have a few more tests to run to see if it's plasma and to determine blood type, if there's enough to provide a sample—we should know within the next few hours," he replied.

Erin's expression became worried, "These tests, they won't damage the paper or the message, will they?"

"Probably not. But even if they do, we have the photo and I looked at the paper under UV light before testing began." Reid tapped his temple, silently referencing his eidetic memory.

"Oh, of course," Erin nodded.

"We still have no idea what the numbers mean," Blake admitted, casting a regretful glance at Morgan, who'd spent the better part of the day scrolling old cases with her, looking for numeric clues.

"It isn't some kind of code?" Erin asked.

"If it were, then the UNSUB would have included a key," Reid informed her.

"It's a set of numbers that he thinks we should already know," Aaron added.

"Except we don't," his supervisor clarified.

"Not yet," Blake sat up a little straighter, her posture suggesting that she was becoming defensive over Strauss' inferred lack of faith.

"We could send a copy to the cyber division," Erin suggested, looking around the table to see if anyone else agreed. "They have software specifically designed to crack numeric codes; they might be able to help us."

Hotch seemed to be considering her idea, so she didn't push it any further, choosing instead to switch gears, "Your at-home surveillance teams have been informed that there has been a new development, and they will be increasingly vigilant."

This earned her a groan from Rossi.

"It is for your own protection," she said slowly, each word weighted with a silent command that would brook no refusals. Straightening her shoulders, she added quickly, "I've also put in a request to the director that you be assigned protective details whenever you are not in the building or in the field."

"So not only do we have black unmarked SUVs parked outside our houses, now we'll be shadowed everywhere we go?" Rossi's brows shot up in disbelief.

"If the director approves my request, then yes," Strauss clarified in her usual bureaucratic way. With a deft tug at the cuffs of her shirt, she continued, "Which brings me to my next order of business—Agent Rossi, would you join me in your office?"

She didn't even bother to see if he had agreed to her request as she brushed past the other agents, who all exchanged worried looks.

Penelope's large Bambi eyes followed the two out the door, "Oh, he's in the soup."

Aaron Hotchner turned back to the team—he'd seen the dark look in Strauss' eye, one that he'd witnessed many times, especially when it came to Dave Rossi. "We'd best continue. Dave won't be back for quite some time."

Erin closed the door to David's office with a sharp crack, not a full slam but still loud enough to make a point. She waited a full beat before turning to face him.

"You have been dismissing your surveillance detail."

"I see we aren't wasting time with pleasantries." He commented dryly, leaning back on the edge of his desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

"They are being paid to protect you." She wasn't deterred by his snarky tone.

"Well, apparently they aren't being paid enough if I can talk them into leaving me alone."

"It has nothing to do with money," she practically spat. "You've been bullying them, David."

"I have not—"

"You are a highly-decorated, well-connected agent, almost a living legend to these—"

"I'm pleased to hear you think so highly of me," he grinned mischievously.

She ignored the comment, "You are their hero, and you're using that against them. And when they don't fall at your feet in adoration, then you resort to threatening to have them fired! They're just young agents—"

"That's the problem, Erin," his voice rose, his earlier amusement suddenly evaporated. "They're a bunch of kids! We are an elite team of seasoned agents, and you have us being babysat by a bunch of fucking high-schoolers!"

"They are qualified and more than capable of doing their jobs, Agent Rossi—"

"I don't need a babysitter!" He shot back.

Despite her anger, she managed an amused smirk, "You realize that when you say that, you actually do sound like a child?"

This remark, of course, made him want to throttle her. Then he realized what was going on.

Less than four hours ago, he'd admitted to her that he missed their fights. And here she was, screaming with him in his office, goading him into a temper—it was her gift to him, a strange peace offering, a chance to regain what had been lost these past few months.

She saw the moment of recognition in his eyes, and he watched her swallow nervously, her fingernails biting into the flesh of her upper arm as she steeled herself for his reaction, her eyes silently hopeful, pleading with him to continue.

She'd offered this to him, and now it was up to him to accept or deny her gift.

So, of course, he took it with both hands.

He stepped up to her, rising to his full height, his broad shoulders almost hemming her against the bookcase, "I don't want the protective detail."

He saw the sudden flush across the skin at the opening of her blouse, felt the slight shift in her body as she further prepared for battle.

"It isn't about what you want, David," her voice was low. "You will refrain from threatening, flattering, or otherwise coercing your details into abandoning their posts. That is an order."

"And if I don't comply?"

Her mouth set into a firm line.

"That's what I thought," he grinned. He leaned further in, his tone now taunting, "There's nothing you can do about it, Erin. Your orders have no effect on me."

He couldn't resist moving closer, his chest almost touching hers as he continued, his eyes lingering on the exposed skin just above her breasts, which he didn't dare touch (not here, not in the office), which was now an enchanting blush of dark pink, "Although I dare say, my words have had an effect on you. You look a bit…piqued."

The word rolled off his tongue so sensually that Erin actually felt her chest tighten. Her eyelids fluttered and she suddenly realized that she was in no shape to battle this man, not so soon after he'd caressed her so tenderly in her office, not after he'd calmed her fears and awakened the stirrings of emotion within her.

Judging from the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his handsome face, he also knew that she was hopelessly drowning in another fiery emotion besides anger. Bastard.

"So you've missed our fights, too," he mused aloud, his eyes becoming darker as he looked into hers. His voice became softer, though it held a patronizing tone that made Erin's jaw tighten with anger. "I think it's sweet that you found an excuse to play with me."

"It wasn't an excuse," she finally found her tongue again—he'd pushed her back from the edge with the last comment, and she gathered her wits as she calmly stated, "You really do need to stop dismissing your security detail."

"Erin," he gave a growl of irritation. He didn't finish the sentence, but she got the message, loud and clear.

She slipped past him, moving towards the door once more.

"Don't fight this, David," she warned. Then she gave him a reprimanding shake of her head as she sighed, "Threatening to have them fired? That's a low blow."

Opening the door, the she threw her last volley over her shoulder, "Even for you."

His mind immediately jumped to a hundred retorts that he could make about low blows—professional and otherwise—but of course, she was already gone, and he certainly wasn't going to bellow after her (there was a time when he would have, but they both knew that he was long past that now). She'd known this, had known that her exit would cut him off at the knees, denying him the satisfaction of having the last word.

She's back. He suddenly grinned at the realization. She'd sought him out, thrown down her gauntlet, established that she was back in the game. That morning they'd shared a sweet moment in her office, and though it was lovely and tender, it was nothing compared to the blonde hurricane that had blown through his door that afternoon, all flashing eyes and fiery tongue—that was the woman who'd slipped under his skin and stolen his soul so many years ago, the one he'd happily spend his life fighting. His heart soared at the implications of her actions, and he prayed to every saint that he could think of, Please, please let it be so.

By the time Erin had reached her office, her pulse and her breathing were back in check. She had to agree with David—she did miss their fights, the adrenaline rush, the revving of her fight-or-flight reflex (she always chose fight, always with him), the rapid-fire retorts, the push to be on her feet and quick with her wit. Of course, she also couldn't deny the warmth deep in the pit of her stomach, crawling up the caverns of her chest, bleeding all the way up to her cheeks—intensified by the supreme knowledge of exactly what her anger did to him, knowing what feelings, what desires she stirred within him, simply by yelling at him.

Oh, it was unhealthy. Psychotic, even. Masochistic, sadistic, twisted, bad—pure and simple. But as he had pointed out that morning, it was part of who they were (to each other, for each other, with each other). It was surely a bad thing, but then again, life with Paul would have been classified as a "good thing", and look how that had turned out—she'd felt dead and damaged and flat, none of which she felt in the presence of David Rossi. Regardless of what emotion he inspired in her, Erin always felt vividly, voraciously alive when she was near him.

Still, it couldn't be good. Nothing this full of fire and fangs and blood could be good.

And yet, the same thought from earlier that day popped into her head again: perhaps this is what love is. She could push him away and he'd always pop back up, and vice versa; they could be their horribly imperfect true selves around one another without fear of judgment or losing the love of the other. In fact, if she was truly honest, she would say that it was the darker, truer side of each other that they loved the most—it was the flame for their respective moths, drawing them in like a siren song, a heart's cry, a strange pull of predestination.

She was certain that they were both very sick. Secretly, she hoped they were never cured.

Another voice in her head whispered the inevitable: it can't always be like this. Sadly, she knew this was true—eventually, she was going to have to open up old scars and hidden truths, and she felt a quiver of fear as she realized that David's devotion might not stand the test. Sure, he'd stuck beside her alcoholism and her months of silence, had fought and loved her through the bloody battles for years, but this was different. This was unforgiveable.

She only hoped that he would be able to pardon the unpardonable, but her hope did not dispel the unease rising within. She gave her head a curt shake, physically tossing those dark thoughts out of her mind. She didn't want to think about it, not yet, not when they were just coming back together again. The truth had lain dormant for almost two decades. There wasn't any need to rush it now. Of course, deep down, she knew that this made her a coward of the worst kind, but that was something she'd known for many years.

The next day, the request had been approved and a protective detail was established for each member of the team. Exactly one week later, Strauss was barreling through the bullpen, the ends of her dark byzantium wrap cardigan billowing behind her like an ominous thunderhead, leaving terror and trepidation in her wake.

Spencer Reid subconsciously pushed his chair further back, further away from the blonde face of death and destruction, pulling his notepad closer to his chest like a shield. Blake's large eyes followed the blonde, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she recognized the expression on her superior's face. It had been many years since she'd seen that hellish look in Erin Strauss' eyes, but gods, she certainly hadn't missed it.

Derek Morgan slowly moved his chair closer to the other two agents, his voice low, his eyes still locked on Strauss' back, "This does not look good."

Hotch and Rossi were in Hotch's office, going over some files for a consult in Albuquerque when Strauss blew into the room without any warning, her voice barely registering above a growl as she tried (and failed) to contain the anger seeping from every pore of her being.

"What. The. Fuck."

"Erin," Hotch rose to his feet, shocked by the sight that met his eyes. Ages ago, when he was still just a young agent, he'd had the misfortune of seeing what Rossi called Really Angry Erin, and he feared what horrific event had unleashed this side of her after so many years of lying dormant.

"Agent Hotchner," her tone was a warning, but David didn't seem to be getting the message, because he was still reclined nonchalantly in his chair, observing her as if she was nothing more than a sparrow hopping along on the sidewalk as he enjoyed a day in the park. She finished her earlier thought, "What the fuck were you thinking, David?"

"Erin—"

"Don't worry, I can answer that one for you—you weren't thinking! Because if you were, you would know what complete idiocy—"

"Perhaps you should continue this conversation elsewhere. In private." Aaron Hotchner interjected quickly.

David cast a languorous glance down into the bullpen, where he could see the others huddled. "I think it's a bit too late for that, Aaron. I'm sure our esteemed section chief made quite a production on her way over."

Erin's eyes remained locked on David's, although she spoke to Aaron, "Agent Hotchner, please stay. I believe I'm going to need a witness—"

"I guess that means you're not going to murder me," David quipped, and it really didn't help the situation, because when Erin stepped forward, her fingers taunt and curved like talons, Hotch truly believed that she might kill David then and there.

"A witness for what?" Aaron tried to save his friend.

It worked, because Erin released the breath she'd been holding and looked at him for the first time since she'd barged into his office. "Agent Rossi has repeatedly refused the security detail at his home, going so far as to bribe and threaten the agents charged with his safety—actions which I warned him last week could have serious repercussions—and this morning, I have received reports that he has been intentionally ditching his protection detail."

"Look, I'm just an old man," he held up his hands, "Is it my fault that they assigned me cadets that couldn't keep up in a super market?"

"They are all highly trained agents with over five years' field experience each," Erin shot back vehemently. "And I do not like the implication that I or the director would choose anything less than the best to protect our most valuable team—"

"I can't help what you infer, Erin," David retorted haughtily. "Though I must add, it really wasn't that hard to lose them—"

"This cavalier attitude towards your own personal safety—"

"May I point out that using both 'own' and 'personal' is a bit redundant, Erin. You're an English lit major, you should know better—"

"American lit!" Erin's voice reached an octave that Hotch had never heard before. She leaned forward, dangerously close to David's still-calm face, her voice becoming low and deadly again, "And don't you dare try to change the subject, Agent Rossi. You aren't just jeopardizing your own well-being, but also the safety and sanity of your fellow team members—"

"She's right," Hotchner agreed, crossing his arms over his chest as he moved around his desk to stand behind her, figuratively and literally. His tone was softer, more uncertain, "Why would you do something like that, Dave?"

Erin answered before he could, "Because he is a selfish, petulant, narcissistic—"

"Oh, here we go again," David rolled his eyes, for the first time showing some form of irritation.

Down the in the bullpen, Jennifer Jareau entered with a fresh cup of coffee, her ears immediately picking up the muffled sounds of dispute as she rounded the corner to find Blake, Reid, and Morgan staring at the now-closed door of Hotch's office.

"What's going on?" She asked, slightly awed as she realized that David Rossi was, in fact, yelling like she'd never seen him yell before. There was a movement, and she saw Erin Strauss step forward, her voice equally explosive. Hotch was behind her, but by now, he'd backed up and was practically plastered across the interior window.

"Apparently Rossi has been shirking his security detail," Spencer answered, his eyes still trained on the drama unfolding.

"The way those two carry on, you'd think Strauss wouldn't mind letting him get killed." JJ commented.

"Except it would be a mark on her picture-perfect record," Blake pointed out, and the others were kind enough to ignore the venom seeping into her tone.

The door opened, and the voices seemed to amplify as Aaron slipped out, closing the door behind him. He gave a weary look to the others as he joined them.

"Do you think they even notice that you're gone?" Derek asked dryly.

Hotch shook his head, "I doubt it. Those two could go on for days."

"They are evenly matched," Blake agreed. She remembered her early days in the Bureau, "Their fights were the stuff of legend back in the day."

Hotch nodded. Everyone, even the people in the little godforsaken field offices in Eastjesusnowhere, had heard about their battles during the late 80s and early 90s, and common phrases had been "to pull a Rossi", which meant to incur and goad the wrath of a fellow agent, and "to go Strauss on your ass", which meant blowing up on a fellow agent in epic proportions. Of course, the two had finally simmered down by the mid-90s and the phrases and water-cooler stories had died out as well, which meant the younger agents had never heard the tales.

"How long did the longest one last?" Reid asked curiously, still focusing on the body language of the two individuals, who were currently unaware that they were being observed by the rest of the BAU and everyone else within a 200 foot radius who'd overheard the ruckus, like two beta fish battling it out in a fishbowl, oblivious to their audience.

Blake was thoughtful for a moment before answering decisively, "New York. Two full days of yelling, then a few weeks of freezing each other out."

"Jesus," Morgan whispered. "I bet that was one for the books."

The corner of Blake's mouth curled into a humorless smirk, "Oh trust me, it was."

"That wasn't the worst," Hotch spoke quietly, and everyone turned to him in surprise—it wasn't usually his style to repeat office gossip. His dark eyes remained focused on the two figures in his office (if it came to blows, he'd have to get Morgan to help him break it up).

"Then what was the worst?" JJ asked slowly, still shocked that Hotch was even allowing this conversation to continue, much less contributing to it.

"The day Strauss got promoted to Section Chief."

August 1998. Quantico, Virginia.

David Rossi scrubbed his face with his hand, pacing around his small cramped office, "So you're going to take it?"

"Of course I'm going to take it," Erin whirled around, growling in frustration. "I'd be a damn fool not to."

She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the door with a petulant expression. Of course, it had been too much to expect that David would actually be happy for her (despite the fact that she'd busted her ass for years, clawing her way to the top), but she hadn't expected to see him so angry.

"I can't believe it," he muttered, shaking his head as he continued his pacing. He'd always seemed cat-like to Erin, and right now, he reminded her of a caged tiger.

"Is it so hard to believe that I've worked long enough and hard enough to deserve this promotion?" Her voice was neutral, though he knew her well enough to know that it took every ounce of self-control she had to keep the emotion from her tone.

"There are others who have worked longer and harder," he shot back, not even looking at her (that was what hurt the most, the fact that he couldn't even stand the sight of her right now).

"You mean yourself," she stated flatly.

"I do," he admitted. He threw his hand out towards the rest of the basement office that housed the BAU, "And there are plenty of others, too—Jason Gideon, Mark Smith, Alan Arkaday—"

"My, I didn't realize so many people were so much better qualified than I am," she cut him off, her posture becoming even more rigid. She'd never been good at accepting criticism, but being called out as completely inadequate hit all kinds of emotional triggers. She had the sinking feeling that this was going to be their ugliest brawl yet. Still, that didn't stop her from pushing his buttons (because it was justified, because it was retaliation for his own egregious button-pushing against her), "Perhaps I should mention those names to the people who spent months vetting candidates for the position. I'm sure they just accidentally missed all the qualified individuals and went straight to me. Because, you know, I'm such fun at parties and a real Gal Friday, and that's what you really need in a section chief."

She'd come here, to his office, to tell him about the promotion in-person, before he read it in some email or overheard it at the water-cooler. He'd only been back at Quantico for a few months, and they hadn't really spoken (in fact, she'd studiously avoided him, because she feared the truth of what happened five years ago in Seattle was still plainly written on her face), but he deserved to be told about this quietly, to be given the chance to process the information without having to do so in a public setting.

"You should've declined, Erin. You know you should have."

His tone sent anger boiling through every fiber of her being. "Why? So you could accept the position?"

He stopped and looked at her, his face filled with absolute contempt.

"Would you have turned it down?" She continued.

"Of course not," he shot back, returning to his pacing as he waved away the question. "But then again, I'm actually qualified."

"No one's saying you're not, David," she stepped forward, her hands moving to her hips. "But that doesn't mean you're suited to the position."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He growled.

She motioned to him, "Well, I would say this is a prime example of why you aren't exactly management material. You have a temper that would put a two-year-old to shame, you're hot-headed and you jump to conclusions, you have a history of breaking protocol and I'm sure all those rules you broke on fraternization aren't helping—"

"Spare me the laundry list of sins, Erin," he spat her name, as if it were a loathsome epithet.

"This wasn't my decision to make, David," she suddenly sounded very tired. "I had nothing to do with this. You know that."

"Are you sure about that?" He stopped pacing again, turning to her. She couldn't read his expression, but she certainly didn't like the sudden clamoring in her veins that his dark eyes inspired in her.

"What is that supposed to mean?" She kept her voice low.

"Did your daddy pull a few strings with the director?" He demanded, stepping forward angrily. "Or did you pull someone else's?"

There it was—the insidious tone behind the word pull, implying something else, something that required more push than pull. Erin's arm automatically wound up, throwing all of her force towards that hatefully smug face. However, she checked herself mid-swing and whirled to the side, slamming her open palm into the metal filing cabinet standing next to them.

The nerve endings in her hand registered the pain immediately, and she was grateful that she'd at least been cognizant enough not to hit the metal object with a closed fist—broken knuckles were not on her wish list.

All of these thoughts happened in mere milliseconds, and her pain did not compare to the overwhelming anger that filled her entire being.

"How. Dare. You." Her voice was low, threatening and dangerous, like the ominous rumble of distant thunder. She took a step forward, her back and shoulders ramrod-straight to keep herself from shaking in rage.

Ah, so here was Really Angry Erin. Normally, this was the point at which David would retreat, because he was smart enough to recognize the violence that was absolutely radiating off the woman in waves. But this was not one of their normal fights.

"You haven't answered the question, kitten," he leaned in, his face just inches from hers, taunting her to take another swing at him.

It was the use of that old nickname that shattered her heart (he'd called her that years ago, on their first case together, and it had infuriated her, but even then, it was a jest, and now it was something darker, something hateful, something vile, said in such a tone that held all his disgust and disdain for her). He'd taken a moment from their private history and turned it into a weapon against her, and like all weapons made of emotion and memory, it hit its mark. Her eyelids fluttered, her lip quivered and he suddenly realized that she was fighting back tears. She blinked, swallowed, took a deep breath before answering, her tone filled with hatred.

"You are one low son of a bitch, David Rossi."

Despite the prick in his heart at the sight of her tears, he chose anger, pushing his own voice a notch higher as he repeated, "Answer the question."

"I will not," she retorted stolidly. Her own anger was rebuilding itself as well, "How can you even think—"

"Because I know from personal experience—"

"You bastard!" She was using the full force of her lungs now, her words ripping from her throat with a vehemence that bespoke death and destruction. She slammed the metal cabinet again, with both hands, giving out a cry of frustration, "That was different and you know it!"

"I don't think I know anything when it comes to you," he shot back. "For one, I would have thought that you'd have to good sense to decline a job that you couldn't handle—"

"Couldn't handle? What do you mean 'a job that I couldn't handle'?"

"I mean just that, Erin. You aren't the type—"

"You are worse that Goodwin!" She bellowed, and that arrow hit its mark. David's nostrils flared and his eyes darkened even more.

"Don't you dare play that card with me, Erin Strauss—"

"You have always been, and will always be an egotistical, self-centered, self-righteous, pompous ass—"

"That's quite rich, coming from the privileged Daddy's girl with a persecution complex that makes—"

"A Daddy's girl?!"

"Oh, c'mon, how else do you think you got here in the first place? The brass knew it'd piss your father off to have his little pride and joy heading up the FBI—it's a political move—"

"First you accuse my father of pulling strings to get me this position; now you're saying they promoted me to piss him off—pick one conspiracy theory and stick with it, David. I know that might be hard to do, seeing as you've never stuck with anything—"

"I wasn't the one who always left first!"

It was that statement, trumpeted from David's angry lips, which stopped Erin in her tracks.

"We don't talk about that," she said breathlessly, stunned by his words. She stepped back, holding her hands up, as if to ward him off, "We never talk about that."

"That's right, Erin, just run away—it's what you do best," he spat, taking another step towards her. She moved away quickly, stumbling against the door. Her hands were trembling and David was certain that if she didn't have her knees locked right now, she'd melt onto the floor. He felt disgusted with himself, knowing that his words and actions were the reason this woman looked at him with fear—looked at him the way a victim would look at an UNSUB, the way innocent people looked at monsters. He also hated himself for how petty, how weak, how needy he sounded, bringing up something from what seemed like another lifetime—emotions from flings that had never supposedly happened, things that he'd promised never to speak of. He'd broken his promise to Erin, and he'd broken a rule of battle between them. Worse than any of those things, he also had the sneaking suspicion that he'd broken her heart with his harsh words, and that filled him with a self-loathing beyond compare.

The room became very quiet, and very sorrowful.

He turned away from her. She looked down at the floor, squeezing her eyes shut as she steadied her breathing. She didn't look at him as she softly whispered, "I didn't choose this, David."

His voice was equally soft, but it still held a sour anger, "But you didn't refuse it, either, Erin."

They weren't talking about the job anymore. The realization felt like a stone in Erin's stomach. She gingerly reached up, smoothed her blonde locks, straightened her skirt and adjusted her blouse. Then she quietly opened the door and walked away.

She was leaving, and he knew that whatever had happened between them in this tiny claustrophobic office would forever change them. The realization hit him like a two-ton truck, and he suddenly wanted to scream, to rush after her, to do something, anything to make her turn back around. He turned, quickly grabbing the edge of the filing cabinet and throwing it forward in one fluid motion. The crash echoed through the office, causing Erin to jump at the sound. But she didn't stop walking, and she didn't look back. David stood there, his chest heaving with anger and exertion and something else (something he didn't quite want to describe or understand). He watched her walk out of the office and to the elevators. She never looked back.

The next day, SSA David Rossi submitted his application for early retirement from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Erin Strauss overheard someone talking about it at the water-cooler. Her heart ached at the realization that she no longer warranted the courtesy of being told in-person.

Four weeks later, she unpacked the last box in her new office as Section Chief, gingerly removing the photo frames and setting them on her desk. There was one that made her pause, a snapshot from the retirement party for their mutual friend and colleague Rutherford "Ruthie" Golden, with her and David and Ruthie and a few other friends smiling happily (and perhaps slightly drunkenly) at the camera. It was one of the few times in which she'd truly felt like she belonged with that group of people, and the photo always made her smile. But today, it only brought tears as she realized that dark-haired man standing next to her in the picture had left her life for the last time—and like so many times before, he'd never even said goodbye.

It was better this way. There was too much history between them, too many secrets, too much baggage. She'd made her bed (literally and figuratively), and now she had to spend the rest of her life in it. She accepted her penance, like the good masochist that she was. Maybe this was finally over. Maybe she had finally purged the last ounce of whatever drug David Rossi was from her system. Maybe now she could truly commit to loving Paul and taking care of the family and the life that they'd built together, despite her many faults and failings. Every cloud had a silver lining, and she'd take this one—she'd take it and she'd make it work, because that was what she did. That was what she did, because there wasn't anything else she could do. The web was spun, the truth caught and wrapped up in a neat little package, cleverly disguised from prying eyes, and now she simply had to play along.

She had brought this on herself, she knew that. When he'd returned to Quantico, she'd avoided him—he didn't understand and she certainly couldn't tell him why. There were several times that she almost broke down and told him the truth, but the fear of his reaction overwhelmed her. Now she realized that her instincts had been protecting her, because after all the ugliness that occurred over her promotion, they had reached a new chasm that couldn't be crossed. With a decisive nod of her head, Erin dropped the photo frame in the waste bin, effectively tossing away the last piece of photographic evidence from their time together. Everything between them was dead and gone, and so Erin did exactly what she did the last time she saw David Rossi—she kept moving forward, and she never looked back.

*Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has left reviews so far—it's been so surprisingly wonderful to see such warm reactions to this take on Straussi.*