Rejuvenation

"In quiet moments when you think about it, you recognize what is critically important in life and what isn't." ~Richard G. Scott

April 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

Alex Blake gave a light sigh as she entered the glass door marked Behavioral Analysis Unit, her fingers firmly clasped around the Union Jack travel mug that Garcia had given her the day they met. She loved her job, but some days, she didn't necessarily like it. Yesterday was one of those days, and today was shaping up to be one of those days, too.

The bullpen was empty, although she saw that Spencer's brown leather bag was already at his desk. She looked around quizzically—she noticed the light was already on in the conference room. Setting her purse down at her desk, she made her way up to the set of stairs, and across the landing, drawing herself closer to the source of light.

Spencer had obviously been there for quite some time.

There were two more large boards—one cork, one dry erase—added to the already crowded room. There was a map of the continental United States pinned to the cork board, with various pins dotting the country, and the dry erase board had a list of numbers and names. Blake instantly recognized the numbers from the invisible note left by the Replicator three weeks ago, and the names seemed familiar, too.

The younger agent turned around, not even bothering with pleasantries as he explained, "I couldn't sleep last night, and suddenly, it hit me—the numbers are coordinates. I started plotting them on a map and each set of numbers corresponds to a dump-site used by Thomas Yates."

"And the Replicator thought we would know that because of David Rossi's personal connection to the Womb Raider," Alex surmised.

Spencer gave a slight shrug. "Either that, or he simply knew we'd figure it out eventually. His level of planning suggests that he believes he has plenty of time to reach his end-game. If we're playing chess, then the longer we take to make a move, the more time he has to plan his next one."

"Dave's birthday is in less than two weeks." Alex reminded him. She stepped forward, her gaze following the ominous little trail of pins, "Maybe the Replicator wants to celebrate. And this was our invitation."

"That would explain the cardstock and the writing that seems to be done with a quill or calligraphy pen," Spencer mused. Then he frowned slightly, "We received the letter five weeks in advance of Rossi's birthday. Proper etiquette for weddings and other RSVP events is six to eight weeks. For someone as detail-oriented as the Replicator, that part of the script would have been followed."

Alex took a moment to contemplate his words. "Maybe the event that we're being invited to isn't the same day as Dave's birthday. Maybe it's later on."

"Maybe," Spencer agreed quietly, although Alex could tell that he still had his doubts. He returned his attention to plotting out points on the map.

"I'll go pull all the old files on the Womb Raider case," Alex volunteered, turning on her heel. Her heart gave a quick little flutter at the thought that maybe they'd found a way to nail this guy. It was only three weeks since they'd received the "invitation", which meant they had three to five weeks to figure out what the hell it was for.

Maybe she'd been wrong about today. Maybe it was going to be a good one. As she hurried back down the steps, she glanced down at her travel mug. Regardless of how this day turned out, she was definitely going to need more coffee.

Vienna, Virginia.

Erin was right—Anna was quiet; David barely heard her stirring around the house, getting ready for her day at school. If he hadn't already been awake, he probably wouldn't have heard her at all. But David was an early riser, and he'd been awake for quite some time before he heard her quietly creep down the stairs.

The first thing he'd noticed when he woke up was that Erin was gone. Then he sat up and saw the neatly folded clothes at the edge of the bed. He'd smiled softly at her efficiency, and sadly wished that she'd still been lying next to him so that he could thank her, though he understood why she'd returned to her own bed.

The smell of coffee reached his nostrils, and he decided that it was time to rise. A quick shower and one freshly-laundered set of clothing later, he appeared in the kitchen, looking around expectantly.

Anna was seated at the island in the middle of the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in front of her.

"She's not awake yet," she announced quietly, titling her head in the direction of the master bedroom. "Some mornings, I let her sleep in a little longer, especially when she comes in late the night before."

David couldn't help but smile—Anna spoke of her mother as if she were a small child, not the formidable Ice Queen of Quantico.

"Coffee?" The teen rose to her feet, moving towards the coffee pot.

"Yes, please," David stepped forward, watching the girl move around the room with the ease and certainty that comes from being in one's own home. She set out a mug, filling it with the glorious steaming liquid as she looked quizzically over her shoulder at him.

"How do you take it?"

"Black."

She made a face, "Ick."

He chuckled lightly as she placed the mug before him, taking a moment to savor the smell, "I don't know if I've ever smelled anything this good."

He took a tentative sip, trying to not scald himself, "It tastes amazing, too."

"It's some special blend from Hawai'i," Anna informed him, moving back to her barstool and her cereal. "Mom and Dad discovered it when we went on vacation summer before last. Mom liked it so much that she started special-ordering it."

"I can see why," he took another drink.

"I just don't understand the allure of coffee," she admitted.

"You're too young to need it—you've got plenty of energy without it." He spoke in a conversational tone, and Anna immediately liked the fact that he didn't sound patronizing when he said it. She observed the man for a moment, with his dark hooded eyes and his nice watch and well-trimmed goatee. She wasn't sure what his relationship to her mother was (obviously, they worked together, but Mom never brought home her work friends), but she decided that she approved.

His eyes were traveling the walls, taking in the room that he'd seen only briefly the night before.

"You're welcome to have a look around, if you want," she offered. Noting his hesitancy, she added, "Mom won't mind. The housecleaner's already come this week, so there's not mortifying dust bunnies for you to find."

David laughed at the comment—that sounded like Erin, fretting over the appearance of things.

With another small smile, Anna deposited her dirty dishes in the sink and disappeared upstairs again. David looked around for a moment before deciding to take the teenager's suggestion. After all, he wasn't going to snoop through her things, just look at her house. Nothing invasive or improper about it.

Starting in the kitchen, he found a small hallway that went past the stairs, which led to the laundry room and a small half bathroom. Coming back into the kitchen, to the other side of the staircase, he found another door, which led to a study. It was obviously Erin's, though it held none of the personal touches that her office at work had. There were no photos, no decoration on the wall aside from two framed degrees—a Bachelor's in American Literature and a Bachelor's in Political Science, both awarded to Erin Elaine Breyer (she would say that she didn't display those at work because they had no bearing on her current position, but he knew the real reason was because she didn't want people knowing her maiden name—she didn't want someone to accuse her of building her career simply upon the formidable reputation and powerful connections of her father, which was something that David had done before). He took a moment to study the contents of the book cases—the complete works of Shakespeare, Washington Irving, Victor Hugo, T.S. Eliot, and Edgar Allen Poe, books of poetry by Leonard Cohen, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Lousie Labé, and Jewel Kilcher, biographies on everyone from Upton Sinclair to Clark Gable to Inez Milholland, various anthologies of short stories, a few books in French, and then an entire shelf dedicated to his own books, as well as any other book regarding a case they'd worked on, which surprised him. He hadn't known that she'd even read his books, much less bought them and kept them.

He suddenly felt as if he were spying on her, so he left the room and continued his journey, silently reminding himself that he wasn't trying to profile her, but rather merely learn the layout of her home. The next room's door was slightly ajar, and when he peeked in, he saw Erin asleep in her bed, her back turned to him, the early morning light already touching the golden strands splayed across the pillow.

He continued his tour, back into the front foyer and the main living room. Like the kitchen, the living room had large French doors that led out to the back yard, which looked even more inviting in the daylight. The room was filled with light, and it had a decidedly family feel to it—the large overstuffed couch, the armchair with the huge cushions, the wicker basket filled with blankets for colder nights, the books and photos and family heirlooms, all arranged and on display. There was a large armoire that housed the TV; when its doors were shut the room was completely devoid of technology, and it had a lovely rustic feel to it. This was the room that was the most like Erin to David, and he immediately decided that it was his favorite in the house.

At the other end of the living room was another opening, an arched doorway with three steps leading down into what Rossi could only describe as the entertainment room. Half of the room was dominated by a large, dark brown leather couch and a deep mahogany coffee table. A flat-screen TV perched on the wall, above a mahogany credenza, which proudly displayed a PlayStation, a Nintendo, and a Wii station, as well as various controllers for each. In the corner, a drum set and two guitars for Rock Band quietly waited. The other half of the room was occupied by a billiards table, with a rack of cue sticks tucked away in the corner. David gave a slight smile as he tried to imagine Erin in this room, shooting pool or playing bass on Rock Band.

Taking another draught of his cooling coffee, he returned to the living room, gazing at the backyard. The bright blooms in the flowerbeds swayed gently, calling to him; the sun had risen enough to spill over the rooftop and onto the stone patio; it was the perfect spring day. He reached for the doorknob, then remembered Erin's warning about the house alarm. The allegory of the situation was not lost on him—Erin, like her house, beckoned him, played a siren song for all the deepest parts of his being, and yet, like some wicked queen in a fairytale, her need for security and certainty kept him locked away from her.

But this was no ordinary fairytale. David knew that he could not simply charge in, armor flashing and white steed neighing to the heavens in defiance and bravery. No, there was no knight, no savior in this fairytale—the only person who could release Erin and break the spell was Erin herself. He could only look on and offer his support from the sidelines, holding his breath and hoping against all hope that she proved victorious.

Less than fifty feet away, the blonde combination of damsel, knight, and evil queen was finally stirring. Anna was perched on the edge of the bed, lightly patting her mother's feet to further shake her into reality.

"What time is it?" Erin mumbled, squinting at the light streaming through the window.

"Almost seven," Anna answered. She cast a conspiratorial look over her shoulder before adding, "Agent Rossi has been awake since 6:15. He's wandering the house now."

"Wandering the house?" Erin blanched, sitting up suddenly.

"I told him that it was OK," Anna admitted, slightly concerned by her mother's reaction. "It was OK, wasn't it? I mean, it's not like he's a NARC, right?"

"It has nothing to do with his title," Erin sighed. "Besides, even if a Narcotics Officer were in the house, we wouldn't have any reason to be concerned."

"Right," her daughter rolled he eyes. "Because Chris totally never kept a stash of pot—"

"Anna Claire." Erin's tone held enough warning to cut her off.

"Well, Tara's on her way to pick me up." Anna easily changed the subject, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on her mother's forehead.

"Tara?"

"It's her turn to drive to school. We're carpooling to save the environment, remember?" The teen stood and flipped her dark blonde hair over her shoulder.

Erin simply smiled and waved her daughter off. A few moments later, she heard the rapid beeping as Anna punched in the alarm code. The door opened and shut, and for the first time, she was truly alone with David Rossi, who was apparently roaming her house.

She grabbed a light sweater from the bench at the foot of her bed, wrapping it protectively around her as she peered cautiously out the door. The kitchen and dining room were empty, so she moved to the living room.

There he was, standing in her living room, holding a cup of coffee and smiling blissfully at the serene spring morning. Her chest tightened at the realization that he looked so right—he fit here, in her home and in her life, just as easily as he'd slipped under her skin all those years ago, just as effortlessly as he'd claimed her heart long before she even knew. It was both scary and wonderful. Again.

David heard the pad of bare feet on hardwood and turned to the sound. Erin stood in the foyer, a soft, timid smile on her face. Her face was bare, her hair uncoiffed, and she actually looked younger, refreshed.

"Good morning," she stepped into the room, her arms still wrapped protectively around herself.

"Good morning," he returned, matching her low tone. He gestured to the backyard with his coffee mug, "Lovely view."

She gave a small hum of agreement as she came to stand beside him, her gaze turning to the yard as well. There was a beat of silence as they simply shared one another's company (that was one of the things that David liked the most about them—they never had to constantly fill the spaces and silences with words and small talk and other anxious little things, because they were comfortable enough to simply be with each other).

"You don't eat breakfast, do you?" Erin asked, though she was fairly certain of the answer.

"No," he replied easily.

She glanced over at the now half-empty mug in his hand, her tone lightly laced with amusement as she drawled, "Do you have the time to actually sit and drink your coffee?"

He looked over at her, saw the twinkle in those grey-green eyes, and played along. He checked his watch, although he knew that he did have the time. "Well, I suppose I do…I mean, if my section chief asks me to sit and drink coffee with her, can I really refuse?"

Her expression suddenly softened. "Your section chief isn't asking you. Your friend is."

He understood the unspoken rule—this was Erin's home, her sanctuary, and when she was here, she wasn't Section Chief Strauss, and he wasn't SSA Rossi. They were simply David and Erin. She had even gone so far as to use the word friend, although he wasn't certain that simple word truly encompassed all that they were and had been. Still, it was a charming notion, and one that he was definitely interested in pursuing, so he offered another warm smile, his tone dipping even lower, "Then I really can't refuse, can I?"

She smiled again, moving back to the kitchen to get her own cup of coffee. He followed, obediently handing over his mug when she gestured for it, so that she could replenish his supply. With an uncharacteristically playful flair, Erin opened the French doors and motioned for David to exit onto the patio.

They settled into the worn cushions of the patio chairs, Erin tucking her left leg under her and letting her right swing freely, which made David smile.

"What?" She cocked her head to the side quizzically.

"You're just very uninhibited," he replied, his tone laced with amusement.

"It's my home," she responded simply, giving a slight shrug of her shoulder. She wasn't being defensive, merely stating a fact, and David accepted it. She clutched her coffee with both hands, her grey eyes searching his dark brown ones as she gently asked, "Did you sleep well last night?"

He knew what she was really asking (did you dream of the children, did you see the faces of all the ones you've lost, did I slip away too soon, did you have a nightmare that I wasn't there to soothe away?), and he felt a certain sense of wonder as he replied, "I did."

It was strange, because normally, he wouldn't have slept at all. Normally, he would have retired to his den, to smoke a cigar with Mudgie curled up at his feet, watching the hours tick by on the clock until dawn. It was a pattern that he would repeat until he practically collapsed with fatigue, and eventually, he'd see enough new gruesome images to push back the ones that currently haunted his mind, and sometimes, despite their horror, they allowed him to sleep again, because they were different.

Last night, he hadn't had the slightest trouble drifting to sleep, and when he did dream, it was a dim, soft thing, filled with the scent of honeysuckle. He took a moment to gaze the source of his restful slumber, who now had her eyes closed and her face upturned to the morning sun. He found himself wishing for a thousand more quiet moments just like this one—Erin happy and relaxed and still a little sleepy, his own body feeling rested and rejuvenated by her tender care, the world quiet and warm and full of color.

"Anna says you were wandering the house," she stated, returning her attention to her coffee.

"I hope you don't mind."

She gave a slight shrug, "Of course not. The housecleaner already came this week."

He smiled at how well Anna had predicted her mother's response.

"I did find something that surprised me," he admitted.

"Oh?" The tone of her voice suggested that she already knew what it was.

"I really hadn't pegged you as a fan, Erin," he teased, motioning towards her study. "I'm pretty sure you have every single book I've written or contributed to."

"I do," she confessed with a light blush. Her gaze wandered out to the blooming landscape as she admitted, "I felt like I had to read them…to make sure, you know. To make sure they didn't mention certain things."

"I would never do that to you, Erin," he replied softly. She nodded in agreement.

"I know. You never mentioned me at all, in fact."

"I thought you would have wanted it that way."

"I would have," she agreed. Her face scrunched up as she tried to explain the conflicting feelings, "It was strange, reading about your life, knowing I was right there with you during some of those cases, and…and it was like you'd rewritten everything, written me out completely. I mean, when you wrote about our huge fight in New York, you simply called it 'a tough tactical decision that took hours to resolve.' It was just strange, knowing you were writing about a memory of me without actually writing about it."

"I didn't mention you because I didn't want anyone to get suspicious," he said quietly. It was his turn to look away as he added, "And, because I am a jealous man when it comes to you, Erin Strauss."

She looked at him, "That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever."

He turned back to her, leaning closer as his voice dipped into a low tone, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden intensity, "I didn't mention your name or write anything about you because everything that happened between us—every fight, every good moment, every bad one, every second—belonged to me. I covet those memories; I covet every touch, every glance, every nuance of you, and I'll be damned if I share them—share even one fraction of them—with someone else. They're mine, Erin. They were the only thing that I got to claim from all that happened between us, and I couldn't share them. I couldn't."

The dark passion in his eyes filled Erin with an equally dark heat, as her throat suddenly became very dry and all use of language completely escaped her. The fervor behind his words was surprising and undeniably arousing, but this was neither the time nor the place for the feelings bubbling inside her chest—this was a beautiful quiet morning after a sweet quiet evening, and neither of them had the time for a round of morning sexercise by the pool (though she kept that particular idea for a later date, hopefully).

She turned away, the blush on her cheeks unmistakable as she cleared her throat, "That's probably the sweetest damned thing you've ever said to me, David Rossi."

"It's true. Every word of it."

"I believe you." The quiet conviction of her voice filled David with a certain softness—she didn't avoid talking about their relationship anymore, she was openly acknowledging it here, in the broad light of day, in her backyard as they sipped coffee and enjoyed the springtime sun.

He nodded, accepting whatever small token that she'd just given him, taking it as a sign for the best. Having poured his heart out enough for the morning, he decided to change to subject to more mundane things.

"You've put a lot of work into this," he commented, referring to the carefully ordered flowerbeds and the well-kept lawn.

"Gardening clears my head," she admitted. Her smile deepened, "My mother always had a garden; every year, we'd spend hours helping her clear out the weeds and trimming back hedges—I hated it back then, but when I grew up, I found that I missed it."

He heard the nostalgia in her voice and suddenly remembered that her mother had passed away eleven years ago. Normally he wouldn't remember how long it had been (gods, he wasn't even 100% sure that he knew her birthday), but the event surrounding her mother's passing had been forever ingrained in his memory.

July 2002. Seattle, Washington.

"Yes. Yes, I understand." Erin's voice sounded flat and detached to her own ears, as if someone else was speaking, though she could feel the heavy weight of her tongue as she forced it to move.

"Erin?" Paul's voice was soft yet strong, pulling her back to reality. "Erin, do you want me to call and arrange a flight back home for you?"

"No." She slowly looked around the wide open airport. "No, I'm still at the airport. I can change my ticket. First, I need to call the Seattle field office and tell them what's happened."

This was supposed to be a quick, routine trip. Her old colleague Mike Mikkelsen was finally retiring, and she'd been sent by the director to give a few remarks on his behalf. She was going to be back on a plane by tomorrow night and then on her way to family vacation in Nantucket the morning after. But now none of that mattered as her world spun out of control with a slow frightening certainty.

"Ok. Let me know when you figure everything out. We'll come pick you up when you land."

"Ok."

"Erin?"

"Hmm?"

"I am so sorry."

"I know." She was too numb to even cringe at how awful that sounded, but she knew that Paul would understand her meaning, that he would look past the heavy wooden words and see the shock and grief underneath (he always did that, he always forgave the flatness and the ineptitudes, always simply understood, because he was sweet and kind and dependable in every way).

"I love you," his voice dipped even lower, almost so low that she couldn't hear him.

This was probably the part where she should cry, but she didn't. She simply replied, "I love you, too. I'll call you soon."

Erin hung up, staring down at the cellphone in her hand as she stood in the middle of the baggage claim, people and bags and carts milling around her, swirling and eddying in a whirlpool of beings and belongings, all completely unaware of Erin or how her life just changed in a matter of two minutes.

Her mother was dead.

She still couldn't comprehend the idea—when she deboarded the plane, there had been a voicemail from her youngest brother, Andrew. She'd immediately heard something dancing at the edges of his voice, and her stomach had turned into a cauldron of fear and worry as she'd called him back. When he answered, there were tears in his voice, and her fears were confirmed before he'd even spoken the words.

Brain aneurysm. Mother. On the way to the house in Nantucket. Erin understood all these words, and yet, when Andrew said them together, they didn't seem to fit, didn't seem cohesive or correct or even possible. They became a jumbled, tumbled mess inside her brain, and she'd stopped, eyes fixed blankly ahead as her mind tried to compute the meaning of these syllables strung together in such an odd pattern.

Of course, as soon as she hung up, she began to call home, only to be interrupted by an incoming call from Paul (he'd always had perfect timing like that, had always been almost psychically connected and able to tell when she needed him the most). Apparently, her sister, Carole, had called their house in D.C. earlier that morning, and Paul had been waiting for her flight to land so that he could call her.

She scrolled through her contacts and found the number for Clark Greysmith, SAC of the Seattle Field Office. When he answered with that deep, warm voice that often reminded her of her father, Erin felt a slight tightening in her throat, but she pushed the feeling back and quickly informed him that there had been a death in the family and that she would like to return to D.C. immediately, if he could find a replacement. He responded with his usual compassion and gentleness, told her that of course he could find a replacement, and softly said that she was in his thoughts and prayers.

Again, it was probably the appropriate time to tear up at the kindness, but she didn't. Erin had learned a long time ago not to be surprised by her own lack of emotional attachment, and frankly, she was glad that she wasn't reduced to a blubbering fool in the middle of the baggage claim.

She tucked her cell back into her handbag, retrieved her luggage from the carousel, and with heavy sigh, made her way to the ticket line. It was only late afternoon, but the next available flight to D.C. wasn't until the morning. She booked the flight, traded in her old ticket, collected her things, and hailed a cab.

She was staying in the same hotel that she'd stayed during her last trip to Seattle, almost a decade ago. She couldn't admit, even to herself, that there was more to it than the simple fact that she liked the architecture or the friendly staff—this was a pilgrimage of sorts, a return to some profane Holy Land that only existed in the whisper of sheets and the stains of sins past.

She'd even been able to book the same room (morbid, disgusting, horrible person that she was, as if she actually wanted to relive that base fall from grace), and had alarmingly realized that she hadn't felt the slightest pang of regret for her decision. She deserved to rot in hell for what she'd done, for betraying her family and her vows and her morals. And yet, if repentance meant wishing that it had never happened and truly regretting her actions, then gods above, she'd just have to stay in hell.

Of course, none of that mattered now, because the cause of her lost sanctity was forever removed from her life—he'd been retired from the Bureau for four years now, and after the horrible, hateful way that things had ended between them (which was probably part of the reason he left), she'd quietly accepted the fact that their paths would probably never cross again.

At least that's what she assumed.

Of course, she'd forgotten the old adage about what happened when one assumed.