Choices

"We are our choices." ~Jean-Paul Sartre

April 2013. Plainfield, Wisconsin.

"Alright, Babygirl. Hit me up when you've got something." Derek Morgan smiled softly as he ended the call, looking up from his cell phone and turning his attention back to Alex, who was crouched next to the body of their latest victim, which had been dumped in an abandoned field. The only reason they'd found her so soon was because someone had noticed the large number of carrion circling overhead earlier that day—sadly, the authorities hadn't gotten to her before the birds had. By the time Morgan and Blake had arrived, night was falling, and now the field seemed even more isolated by the darkness and the stillness. Around them, police combed through the grass, their flashlights bouncing from point to point, the blue and red patrol car lights swirling across the quiet field.

"His timeframe is accelerating," Alex commented, her brown eyes still focused on the remains of Jenny Greenwald, yoga instructor and mother of two who now looked nothing like the smiling woman in the family photograph pinned to the board in the police station conference room. "I think our presence has him spooked."

Morgan didn't miss the sense of blame that Blake's voice held, but he pushed past it, because it didn't help them, "Or something else has gotten to him. If the timeframe accelerates, it could mean that the event he's preparing for is approaching."

At the mention of impending events, Alex's mind immediately returned to the list of names on the dry-erase board back at Quantico, "Did Garcia find anything on the women who weren't on the Replicator's list?"

He shook his head with a frustrated sigh, "She said there are no connections, aside from Yates' usual preferences."

"And his only real preference was victims with uteri," Alex surmised, pressing her lips into a thin line. There was a heavy silence as Morgan crouched beside her, taking a moment to survey the body. Alex turned her face to the sky, trying to find solace in the velvet indigo and bright diamonds of their universe.

"You know what the worst part of this whole Replicator thing is?" She asked quietly. Morgan turned to her, his face silently questioning. She continued, "Going on a new case and wondering if this is going to be the one he decides to replicate. Praying that whomever he's going to torture next doesn't have to endure whatever it is you're seeing now."

She looked back down at the body, her latex-gloved hand gently brushing away a lock of hair from Jenny's pale, dirty face, "It's almost like, with every case we choose, we're choosing the next way that someone else is going to die."

"That's how he wants us to feel, Alex," Morgan said quietly.

"Well, it's working," she replied with a sigh.

"I know," he admitted softly, turning his face up to the heavens. "I know."

Quantico, Virginia.

Penelope Garcia felt a wave of apprehension wash over her as she rounded the corner and saw Chief Strauss leaning against her doorframe, waiting with a studied coolness that made her seem like a mobster from a film set in the 1930s.

However the would-be mobster smiled when she saw Penelope, "Good morning, Garcia."

"G-good morning," Penelope halted, slightly confused.

Strauss stepped away from the door, allowing Penelope to unlock it, "I don't make a habit of lurking outside people's offices, but they'd told me that you are here by seven most mornings."

"Oh, I am," Penelope suddenly felt like a child being reprimanded for tardiness. "I mean, I usually am—today was an exception, because there was a really long line at the coffee shop, and then I think there was a wreck on the freeway, but usually I'm very punctual, because, you know, that's important—and if I am late, I always make up for it by staying—"

Strauss smiled amusedly at her ramblings, gently interrupting her, "Garcia, I don't care what time you show up for work. I know you work harder and longer than any other analyst, especially when the team's out in the field."

"Oh, no. I mean, yes, I do—thank you for noticing, ma'am," Penelope still couldn't stop herself from blabbering, although she was fully aware that she was doing just that. "Is there—is there something I can do for you?"

"There is, actually," Strauss crossed her arms, looking down at the floor. She glanced around the hall, "Could we perhaps discuss it in your office?"

"Sure. Yes. Absolutely."

The younger woman opened the door, bustling in to set down her purse and her coffee before turning to her companion with an anxious air. Erin Strauss had not always been a friend to her beloved team of crime fighters, and Penelope still wasn't sure exactly how much to trust the older woman. It didn't help that Strauss also looked as nervous as Penelope felt.

"I—ah, there's something—I need your help," Strauss clasped her hands in front of her.

"With what, ma'am?" Penelope asked cautiously.

"It's…well, it's a bit personal, in a way, I guess." Erin took a deep breath, setting her shoulders as she looked up to meet the other blonde's gaze, "It's about Agent Rossi."

"What about Agent Rossi? I know nothing about Agent Rossi—I haven't seen, or heard, or noticed anything about him at all," Penelope's mind immediately flashed to the scene outside the Sci-Fi-Gate Convention last year, then to the strange moment she'd witnessed just a few weeks ago in Hotch's office.

If Erin wasn't so nervous, she'd probably burst into laughter. Penelope Garcia was officially the worst liar ever. Erin was now well-aware of the fact that the team had witnessed the tender moment between her and David after the screaming match in Aaron Hotchner's office, and surprisingly, she found that she didn't care (much).

"It's about his birthday."

"Oh." There was visible relief in those big brown eyes. Then her face suddenly lit up with delight, "Oh!"

"As you know, since the capture of Thomas Yates, it hasn't been the best day for him—"

"No, ma'am, it hasn't."

"So, I decided…perhaps we should change that."

"Do you have something in mind?"

"I do, actually." Strauss admitted. Penelope's face filled with unadulterated glee as she added, "But I'm going to need your help."

The technical analyst placed her hand on her chest, "My infinite powers of surprise party planning and general awesomeness are at your command, my chief."

Plainfield, Wisconsin.

Jennifer Jareau stared through the one-way glass, her arms crossed over her chest as she sized up the man entering the room on the opposite side of the window. His name was Tobias Schechter and he'd been pulled over by a local deputy for expired tags—then the deputy had noticed what appeared to be blood stains in the back of his truck. Further inspection of the vehicle produced materials that could be used to remove skin and organs, all covered in traces of blood as well.

Her phone buzzed and she looked over at Rossi and Morgan, who moved closer as JJ answered, "You're on speakerphone, Garcia."

"Alright, here is the skinny on Tobias Schechter," Penelope's voice came across the line. "He has lived in Plainfield his whole life, has a really awful credit score, and he has had the same known address for his entire life. A few speeding tickets, one DUI, no major run-ins with the law at all, it seems."

Penelope followed a few more links as she continued her narration, "However, there was an incident at his high school involving a Carrie Jane Cooper—"

She gave a slight gasp when the old newspaper article came up and she saw the photos of the young woman, "Oh, guys, she's a dead-ringer—no pun intended—for our victims."

"What was the incident?" Rossi queried.

"The article doesn't go into details—it just cites that police were called to the local high school after a disturbance between two teenagers," Penelope frowned, her fingers quickly issuing commands as she searched for court records. "It was in 1993. Tobias was fifteen, Carrie Jane Cooper was seventeen. But for some reason, Carrie dropped the charges against Tobias—the police report states that Tobias attempted to kidnap her, also has mention of attempted assault and a history of inappropriate and unwanted advances, although school records seem to write it off as a 'misunderstanding'."

She pursued a few more links, searching for Carrie Jane Cooper, and suddenly it made sense, "Carrie went on to become a novelist, and she is returning next week as the guest speaker for her twenty-year high school reunion."

"That's our stressor." Penelope could hear Morgan's quiet voice in the background.

"And that's all I have for now, my loves—sending it to your phones and tablets as we speak," the analyst finished, adding with her usual flair, "Garcia out."

The call ended and the three agents returned their attention to the man in the next room. JJ felt Rossi shift next to her, heard him give a slight sigh.

"I don't think this is our guy."

"How can you tell?" JJ's eyes never left the suspect.

"He's too sloppy," came the simple reply, though JJ knew that it contained enough explanation to make sense to a behavioral analyst.

Morgan leaned against the frame of the window with his usual easy grace, silently watching the man seated at the table. He seemed less certain than Rossi, but JJ could tell that he was starting to feel the same way.

The door to the observation room opened and Hotch appeared, repeating Rossi's sentiment, "This isn't the man we're looking for."

"Too sloppy," Rossi pointed out, to which Hotch gave a curt nod of agreement.

"Everything matches up perfectly—I mean, his history, the stressor of Carrie Jane's return, the tools found in the truck, all of it," JJ murmured, finally turning her attention away from the suspect and back to her colleagues. "You think someone set this guy up?"

Hotch gave another nod of affirmation. "And I think he knows who did it."

He turned his attention to his cell phone, pulling up the information that Garcia had sent as JJ bit back a wave of fear at the thought that this was starting to feel just like Scott Grimes in Philadelphia. Oh, God, please don't let it be the Replicator again.

Approximately 20 miles away, Spencer Reid and Alex Blake were coming to the same conclusion as they walked through the home of one Tobias Schechter, who was currently in the interrogation room.

"Doesn't this seem a bit disorganized to you?" Spencer frowned, looking around.

"Well, he is a single man living alone," Alex quipped in a rare bit of humor. She'd been on-edge since they'd found the latest body the night before, and now she was trying to combat the overwhelming feeling of apprehension with a glib attitude. However, Spencer didn't acknowledge her joke, so she sobered again, "You're right—we profiled our UNSUB as highly organized and efficient, and everything about this place screams the exact opposite."

She took a moment to survey the living room—the paneling and carpet dated back at least two decades, although Tobias Schechter was only in his 30s. The furniture was worn and old as well. This man was living in a house that he didn't decorate or furnish, which meant it had to have been inherited, most likely from his parents. They'd profiled the UNSUB as someone who definitely lived alone, but their analysis suggested that he'd be much more organized and in-control of his space. The person who lived here was someone just skating through life, without control over anything, too passive to care about his living environment or any major aspect of his life at all.

She shook her head with another irritated sigh, "Besides, we have yet to find a space large enough and isolated enough for him to hold the women for so many hours."

"Something's off," the younger agent agreed, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing Hotch's number.

Alex continued touring the house, silently shifting past the local deputy who'd followed them to the location. Her eyes followed the line of family photos along the wall—something a bit strange to find in a single male's home, which further confirmed her suspicions that this once belonged to his parents—as her mind pieced together the narrative told by these captured moments. First there was one son, then there were two.

There were two.

Her eyes widened as the little missing piece clicked into place. "Spencer..."

He heard the low tone, which warned him of some new discovery on the imminent horizon, and he stopped, keeping the phone pressed to his ear as he followed the direction of her voice. She appeared from the hallway, clutching a framed photograph.

"He has a brother."

Quantico, Virginia.

"Two internet points for the lovely Agent Blake—Tobias Schechter does indeed have a brother," Penelope's fingers flew across the keyboard as she continued relaying information over the speakerphone. "Michael Schechter was born in 1975 but left Plainfield in 1993...he apparently dropped out of school just six weeks before graduation and went to live with relatives in Colorado. His last known address was two years ago, also in Colorado. There's no mention of him returning to Plainfield ever—no plane tickets, no credit card transactions, nothing even in the state of Wisconsin."

"When did he leave Plainfield, exactly?" Hotch's voice came over the line.

"March 1993. Right after Carrie dropped the charges against Tobias, Michael left town." The dread creeping into Penelope's voice was unmistakable as she pursued the rabbit trail into Michael Schechter's life. "There's a few incidents in Colorado, where he's accused of stalking or trespassing, but none of the complaining victims ever pressed charges—"

"He charmed his way out of it," Rossi surmised. "This sounds like our guy."

"He bumps around from job to job, although each one has a certain flair to it—car salesman, insurance salesman, pretty much anything that allows him to manipulate people into buying things." Penelope continued, frowning in distaste—she had a certain fear of car salesmen that immediately informed her dislike of Michael Schechter.

"Psychopaths seek out settings that not only allow them to manipulate and control others, but that actively encourage it as well," Derek commented. "Working in high-stakes positions like sales and the stock market is usually a way to achieve that in a socially-sanctioned setting."

"His left his last job two months ago," Penelope felt a wave of apprehension. "His bank account was cleared out then as well."

"When did the high school reunion notices go out?" Hotch asked.

"Months ago," Penelope returned, frowning as she went back to Carrie Jane Cooper's thread of information, "But Carrie didn't announce that she was attending as guest speaker until two months ago—via her Twitter account."

"I would bet good money that our boy Michael's a follower," Derek's voice was heavy with the realization.

"Thank you, Garcia," Hotch's voice cut in. "We'll talk to you again soon."

"Right-o, Boss," Penelope replied, hanging up the phone and returning her full attention back to her computer screen.

Plainfield, Wisconsin.

Eight long hours later, Michael Schechter was in custody. An interview with Carrie Jane Cooper revealed that he had been the one behind her attempted kidnapping, after he'd manipulated his younger brother into physically carrying out the plan—apparently Michael had been using Tobias as a scapegoat for most of his life, because he believed Tobias' birth to be the reason their father abandoned them and their mother. Once Carrie had discovered the truth, she'd dropped the charges against Tobias, and Michael had agreed to leave the state. She had thought that everything was alright after that.

Michael moved on to other victims, but after seeing Carrie on TV during an interview on her latest book several months ago, he reverted back to his need to possess his old high school fantasy—he'd become a member of her fan club, had followed her on every social media site that he could, and when she announced her return to Plainfield, it had seemed like divine providence to him. He could finally finish what he'd started two decades earlier, and send his brother away for the crime—two birds, one stone. It couldn't get any better than that.

However, the final missing woman, Delia Anderson, was still unaccounted for. Which meant that in some ways, Michael Schechter still held the winning hand.

When it came to interviewing Schechter, Alex Blake drew the short straw simply because her dark hair and brown eyes meant that she most closely resembled Carrie Jane and the other victims.

This did not go unnoticed by Michael, who grinned whenever she sat down at the interview table, "You know, after all those years of watching crime procedurals, you discover just how transparent interrogation techniques can be. For example, they sent you in here because you look like Carrie. They're hoping you'll throw me off, unsettle me on some level."

"And is it working?" Alex asked, her tone remaining neutral.

"Depends on what the desired result was," he leaned forward, arching his brow suggestively.

Alex immediately wanted a shower, but she shoved back the now-familiar feeling—she'd have many more miles to travel into the dirt of this man's mind before this was all said and done, and she couldn't do her job properly if she let her sense of revulsion override her rationale.

"Why would Carrie be a trigger for you?" She set her hands on the table, clasping them in front of her, leaning her shoulders in slightly to show that she was interested in hearing his story, open to whatever excuse he might try to provide.

"I didn't say she was. But you think she is."

"Ah, I see," she ducked her head. "I inferred, but you didn't actually imply."

"Exactly."

From the other side of the glass, Morgan gave a heavy sigh. "This is going to be a long night."

Derek Morgan's words rang prophetic, because it would be another six hours before they finally discovered Schechter's hide-away forty miles outside of Plainfield, along with Delia Anderson, who was severely dehydrated and barely alive—but still, she was alive, and that counted as a victory.

The flight home was quiet, as usual, as everyone tried to catch up on the sleep they'd lost during the past few days, with the exception of Hotch and Rossi—the former was briefing Chief Strauss over the phone, while the latter listened, a soft smile gracing his face whenever he first heard the cadence of her voice. He couldn't make out her words, but he could tell that the vein of conversation had turned to the Replicator, because Hotch's brow furrowed as he answered, "So far, Garcia has not found an identifiable pattern or connection between the six women who didn't make the list. She pulled the same comparisons for the locations and victims that were on the list, and there's nothing there, either. I'll have Reid geo-profile the coordinates of the unlisted women when we get back, but I think that should wait until tomorrow."

Strauss was speaking again and Hotch nodded in agreement with whatever she said, looking around to make sure he wasn't disturbing the others. "If Blake's invitation theory is correct, we may still have time to predict his next move. But I don't want us to get trapped by following only one line of thinking. The team's been running at full-steam for two weeks straight, and we haven't had the time to truly look at it from all angles yet."

Rossi could tell by the pitch of Strauss' tone that she was agreeing with him. Hotch gave another curt nod. "We land in two hours; I'll have the action reports on your desk by tomorrow morning...You, too, Erin."

He ended the call and turned back to the older agent, quietly admitting, "Sometimes I think Strauss is more shook up about the Replicator than we are."

"She's not as accustomed to dealing with these types of things as we are," Rossi shrugged.

"True." Hotch agreed. He waited a beat before asking, "What did she want to speak to you about, before we left for Plainfield?"

Rossi saw the same mischievous glint in Hotch's eye that had been in Derek Morgan's. Sweet Jesus in short-pants, he was never gonna hear the end of it. However, with Aaron, he chose honesty, "She'd heard that Yates' case had been connected to the Replicator, and she just wanted to see if I was alright."

"That was very kind of her," Hotch said diplomatically. There was a smile dancing just at the corner of his mouth.

"It was," David agreed, turning to look out the plane window.

"So, does this mean that there's something happening between you two again?"

"Again?" David turned back to the younger man. "What makes you think there was anything happening before?"

Aaron gave a light shrug, "I remember, just a few months after I'd transferred to Quantico, you and Strauss had a huge fight—over her promotion. I remember her storming out of your office, and seeing you topple an entire filing cabinet. I thought then there was something more going on than just a spat about a job position."

"Well, aren't you just a master profiler?"

"I had a good mentor." That was a compliment directed at Rossi, and he knew that. Hotch's face filled with concern as he quietly added, "Just be careful, Dave."

Despite the irritation that he felt at Hotch's warning, David understood that it was coming from a good place, so he simply nodded.

"I'm going to interpret that as an admission of guilt," Hotch informed him.

"You'd have to have some proof first," David shot back easily.

"Well, I think the fact that you boarded the plane wearing her lipstick is pretty solid evidence."

The older man swore under his breath, "I hate profilers."

"Luckily for you, Erin Strauss doesn't seem to share that sentiment."

David shot the younger man a baleful look at that comment, but Aaron could see the smile dancing behind his eyes. He held up his hands in mock surrender, "That was the last one, I swear. It was too good to pass up."

Rossi simply shook his head with a wry grin. In all honesty, he didn't really give a damn who knew about his feelings for Erin—so long as they didn't use it as ammunition against the section chief. Now that they were both divorced, there was no reason to hide anymore (although the idea of stolen moments in the office and furtive kisses in the hallway might actually be a fun little challenge, David mused). But all of this had come into being simply because a year ago, David had finally realized that he was tired of hiding, tired of pretending, tired of forgetting and brushing away the memories created between them, and as fun as sneaking around might seem, it would not compare to the sheer relief of being able to finally acknowledge the claim that a certain infuriating blonde had held over his heart for the past two decades.

He knew what it felt like, to be on the outside looking into Erin's life and affection, and he never wanted to know that feeling again.

December 2004. Washington, D.C.

That laugh. That short, sharp, full-throated bark of a laugh—David Rossi would know it anywhere. Even here, in a ballroom filled with hundreds of people talking and laughing and arguing, even over the strains of the live band and the soft swish of gowns trailing across the polished wood of the dance floor.

He turned to the sound, his dark eyes searching for the source. He heard it again—this time it was muffled, but he could tell that he was getting closer. He moved around a group of tuxedos and then he saw her.

She had her face buried in her husband's arm, her shoulders shaking as she tried to contain her mirth. Her husband was regaling their companions with some story, and they seemed equally amused by his words.

She turned back to them, her face bright and animated as she exclaimed, "It was horrible! There was this awful, awkward pause, and then Paul says—"

"Then I say, 'That's what happens when you let a stock broker choose the restaurant!'"

The group erupted into howls of laughter. Erin was shaking her head in mock despair, her eyes twinkling as she glanced back up at her husband with the knowing warmth that can only be shared by a couple who've shared many years, many memories, and many inside jokes. Paul's arm moved around her waist, resting on her hip with an easy familiarity.

David suddenly understood why she saw him as nothing more than a fling. Water seeks its own level, his mama used to say, and he saw it in living, breathing truth—Paul and Erin Strauss were cut from the same cloth, and it showed. He stared at them, with their light hair and bright eyes, a perfect WASP couple straight out of a Norman Rockwell Americana painting, his silk tie perfectly matching her midnight blue gown, so at-ease and at-home with one another and their surroundings, as he stood there, a Catholic Dago with his dark looks and unpolished ways, so obviously out-of-place in this room filled with high-and-mighty political players and stock brokers and trust fund babies and Ivy League types.

She spotted him, and her face lit up (she didn't even have the decency to look slightly embarrassed to see her former lover while standing in the presence of her husband, David thought sourly) as she moved towards him, "David! David, how are you?"

At that point, the older man realized that she might be drunk. That explained the twinkling eyes and bright smile as she wrapped her arm around him, guiding him back to her group, "Paul, darling, this is David Rossi, a former colleague from the FBI. David, this is my husband, Paul."

"Pleasure to meet you, David," Paul Strauss smiled and shook his hand.

"Same here," David replied, and it was a lie straight from the pits of hell.

Erin turned to their two other companions, "And this is Dean Satterwhite, and Colin Chance."

More handshakes, more nods and pleasantries.

"Former FBI, eh?" Dean Satterwhite smiled pleasantly, taking another sip from his champagne glass. "So what's your take on the new interim director who'll be coming in this January?"

"He's an idiot," David replied succinctly, not at all surprised to see the consternation in the faces staring back at him.

"He happens to be an old family friend," Colin Chance commented.

"Then you know better than anyone that I'm right," David said smoothly. He could feel Erin's body tensing up next to him, but he continued anyways, "I remember him from my days in the Bureau, and I know him well enough to know he has absolutely no field experience worth mentioning, which means he doesn't really understand what he's doing or what kind of situations he's sending his agents into—although, promoting armchair generals into high positions seems to be quite a trend at the Bureau these days."

Erin flinched again, and David knew that he'd hit his mark. It was petty, bringing up old battles, but Erin wasn't the only one who'd had a bit to drink tonight, and he couldn't deny the pang of jealousy he'd felt the instant he'd seen her with Paul, which had developed into a slow burning anger at how flippant she'd been towards him, inviting him over and smiling as if there had never been a single moment shared between them. He felt foolish and used and insignificant, which were not things that David Rossi enjoyed feeling.

Still, he knew he'd crossed a line, so David added, "I have no personal feelings against the man; my main concern is for the agents and the agency itself."

Dean and Paul were nodding in agreement; Erin was focused on the pattern in the flooring as if it held some great riddle. Colin shrugged and the matter was abandoned. They moved on to the less-explosive topic of the stock market, and after a few more minutes of conversation, David excused himself and headed back to the bar.

A half hour later, he felt a shift behind him, and he knew that Erin was nearby. He saw her lean into the bar, quietly giving her order to the bartender, and his mind returned to the moment they'd met (nineteen years ago...had it really been nineteen years?).

She must have known he was there, because she sidled up to him, allowing a moment of silence before she asked in a low tone, "Do you want to explain what that was back there?"

"No, I don't."

"I see."

"Do you?" He challenged, setting his drink down on the bar again.

Her grey-green eyes locked onto his brown ones and she suddenly seemed much more sober than she had been earlier. "I see more than you think I do, David."

"And what do you see, kitten?" He drawled, arching his eyebrow questioningly.

She blinked back another hurt look before answering, "You're mad at me. For Paul."

"I'm not mad at you for being with your husband, Erin." It was a lie and they both knew it was a lie.

Still, she simply nodded, "Good. Because you shouldn't be. You don't have the right."

"That's absolutely right. I don't." He agreed.

"Then…" She sidled even closer, her bare shoulder brushing against his smooth tuxedo jacket. "Then what's going on?"

"I have no patience for pretentiousness," he answered easily, so easily that he almost convinced himself. He pulled his drink closer again. "And I have even less patience for people who try to discuss topics which they know nothing about."

Part of that was directed at her, and she knew that. She ducked her head at the blow, hiding her hurt by taking a draught of her vodka tonic. She was past the point of actually being able to taste the alcohol, and she knew she'd regret it in a few hours. But for now, she was grateful for the numbing qualities. She schooled her voice into a neutral tone before speaking, "You generally aren't this passive-aggressive, David. I suppose old age has mellowed you."

"Whaddya want from me, Erin?" He asked tiredly, keeping his gaze focused straight ahead. "You want me to yell and be angry and jealous and break glasses? You want me to upset this perfect little moment in your perfect little life?"

"No," she said quietly, although deep down, she knew that in some ways, it was a lie. She had no illusions about David Rossi—he was the Casanova of Quantico, the dark-eyed charmer, a man who'd spent many nights with many different women. For awhile, she'd thought that he cared for her, but over the past two years since their last fateful parting, she'd convinced herself that she'd merely been another notch in his belt, another warm body to pass another cold night, a fleeting fancy and nothing more. It was childish and silly, but all she wanted was for him to show some sign that the little voice in her head was wrong. Sadly, right now he was proving her doubts to be truths.

Erin Strauss had learned a valuable lesson from her many battles—knowing when to simply throw in the towel. So she downed the rest of her drink and said the one thing that she wished he would say to her, "I didn't want to hurt you, David. And I'm sorry if I have."

The corner of his mouth turned into a sour smile, "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, kitten. In order to be hurt by something, you actually have to care about it first."

He didn't have to look at her to know that his arrow hit its mark—he could physically feel her body contract, as acutely as if he'd actually punched her in the gut. She ducked her head again, pushing her now-empty glass back across the bar.

"Well, David, it's been a pleasure, as always," she whispered, and this time, she couldn't keep the hurt from her voice. She straightened her shoulders and walked away, back to her husband, back to her charming companions and her charming life and her bland jokes about stock brokers and family connections and things that would never mean anything to David.

In a moment of weakness, he turned to watch her go. As usual, she didn't look back. David realized how foolish he'd been, after all these years, thinking that Erin had actually felt something for him—now it was painfully obvious how happy she was with her little slice of American life, with her handsome husband and her three perfect children, with her shining career and her charmed existence. The last time they'd been together, she'd admitted that he was something special to her, and suddenly he realized exactly what made him special. He was her dirty little secret. There was a reason that dirty little secrets lived up to their names—they made you feel guilty and horrible and ashamed, they were the things you hid, the things to which you never admitted, the weaknesses for which you always ended up hating yourself.

She brushed her shoulder against her husband's arm; he automatically reached his hand around to gently rub her bare shoulders (which were soft and smooth, David knew, even though he shouldn't) before it traveled further down, quickly giving her ass a squeeze before settling firmly on the small of her back. David knew, with startling and painful clarity, that Erin would go home and fuck her husband tonight, in a sweaty, semi-drunken state, would fall asleep in his arms, her head resting on his chest, and in the morning, she wouldn't be ashamed or pull away or refuse to return his kisses.

Erin turned to glance back at David. With one look at his face, she knew that he'd seen the entire exchange. Part of her was glad. I hope that hurt you as much as your apathy hurt me. I hope I made you finally feel something towards me.

He simply walked away, out the double doors of the ballroom, through the grand foyer and into the cold December night. She didn't come after him. He didn't expect her to. She'd made her choice years ago, the same choice she made tonight, and he'd been an absolute fool for thinking that everything they'd been through was enough to make up for the simple security of a man who was all that David wasn't.

The cold air seemed like a slap in the face after the warm haze of the ballroom, and in that moment, David Rossi felt as if he'd finally broken through whatever hold Erin Strauss had held over his heart for all those years. He was finally, truly, a free man. He expected to feel light and airy, but for some reason, freedom felt desolate.

*Author's Note: This last section was inspired by a scene from "House of Cards", which also stars the lovely JA, who is absolutely brill, per usual. Just FYI.*