For Auld Lang Syne
"Could we see when and where we are to meet again, we would be more tender when we bid our friends goodbye." ~Ouida
February 1989. Washington, D.C.
"Erin! Erin, get over here!" Corrine Scott-Jones called out loudly, waving for the blonde to join them. "We've gotta capture this for posterity!"
Erin laughed at her colleague's animated antics—Corrine was normally pretty outgoing, but the amount of vodka that she'd consumed had only enhanced her gregarious nature. Setting down her beer, Erin moved over to the small group surrounding her soon-to-be-former SAC, Rutherford Golden.
Ruthie already had one arm around Corrine and the other around Todd Norfolk, another analyst with large glasses and a Cheshire cat grin. By sheer luck, Erin was standing next to David Rossi, who wasn't even assigned to this field office, but was here to celebrate Ruthie's retirement.
Erin hesitated, not sure how to close to get (after all, it had only been a month since...since they'd made the awful mistake in Philadelphia), but the older man quickly put her fears to rest, simply grabbing her by the waist and pulling her tight. It was the type of informal grasp that anyone would use when taking a photo with a friend, with a colleague, and she breathed a sigh of relief. David had told her, a month ago, that he really was alright with forgetting everything that had happened between them (a fling's a fling, kid, no need for hard feelings), but she'd feared that he would change his mind and start treating her differently. Because that's what people did, isn't it? They promised that things wouldn't change and even as they were making that promise (which they knew was a lie, deep down), they were already changing.
Obviously David Rossi was one of those rare creatures who actually stood by his promises, because though she'd been mentally holding her breath ever since he walked in the room, he had acted as if nothing had happened at all—well, perhaps he'd actually been a bit nicer than usual, but not so much that anyone would notice or suspect something.
Now his arm was around her waist and her head was leaning on his shoulder, and they were both smiling happily at the camera, and no one would ever know or be able to tell that they were anything more than two work buddies enjoying a bittersweet day.
The picture was taken and Ruthie sat back down in his wheelchair—he was still a young man, but a near-fatal shoot-out with a drug lord six months earlier had left him with a shattered hip and now he couldn't stand for long periods of time or walk more than a few yards without needing a rest. Physical therapy was helping him regain mobility, but the doctors' prognosis had ensured that he would spend the rest of his days at the Bureau chained to a desk due to his bum hip, so Ruthie decided to cash in his chips and bid the Fibbies farewell.
He motioned for Erin to join him, patting the chair next to him, and she grabbed her beer before plopping down beside him with a warm smile.
"I'm gonna miss you, Ruthie," she admitted, and he knew that she meant it—if there was one thing he'd learned about Erin Strauss, it was that she hardly ever talked about her feelings, so when she did, she meant what she said.
"Me, too, Erin," he smiled softly at the younger woman, reaching over to gently pat her hand. He didn't promise to stay in-touch, or ask her to do the same, because it wasn't how the world worked—you said those things, and you meant them, but then life always got in the way. Erin Strauss was destined for big things, and he knew that she'd go far and above in the Bureau, and she wouldn't have time to check in on a man who was once just her SAC for a few months. Besides, if he asked her for such a favor, it might betray how he really felt about her, and what he felt was...improper. Improper because she was a subordinate, because she was married, because she was a decade younger, because she'd never intentionally created these feelings inside of him, and she'd certainly never encouraged them. Improper and impossible. What a winning combination.
Across the room, David Rossi was chatting with Todd Norfolk, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched Erin, silently gauging her mood and reactions. She'd actually paled a bit when he'd entered the room earlier, and he'd known that she was flashing back to the quiet conversation they'd had in a hotel room in Philadelphia just a few weeks ago. She'd feared that he wouldn't hold up his end of the bargain, and her lack of faith had been irritating, although he did feel a twinge of regret for the fact that he really hadn't given her much reason to trust him in the first place. Hell, he couldn't stand her most of the time (and the other times, he couldn't even begin to explain the almost chemically-induced sway she held over his desires, so he simply chalked it up to "just one of those things" and let it be), but he never wanted to make her feel afraid or uncertain, because he never wanted to make any woman feel that way (it reminded him too much of his mother, his sisters, and all the things he wanted to spare them from). Besides, the way things were going lately, it looked like they would be working together quite often over the next few years, and he really didn't want to muddy the waters any more than they already had. It had been a brief little thing—two nights over a span of three months, did that even really qualify as a fling?—two little blips, two little accidents brought on by too much alcohol and not enough human contact, by the nature of their jobs and the stress of their personalities. He'd meant what he'd said in Philadelphia; it really wasn't a big deal.
Now she seemed relaxed again, perhaps even more relaxed than he'd ever seen her before. Her comfort level seemed to be directly related to the fact that David was no longer near her, and that Rutherford Golden was. He'd never really seen the two interact, though he knew that they both respected and thought very highly of each other. They were talking quietly, their heads dipped forward, creating their own little space in this room crowded with people and noise. Erin was smiling, a soft, almost regretful smile (she'd never smiled at him like that, that's for damn certain), nodding in agreement with something Ruthie said. Then her smile blossomed into a laugh, and she leaned forward, her head dropping as her body shook with laughter, her hand lightly resting on Ruthie's arm for support. Ruthie glanced down at her hand whenever she touched him, his own expression softening.
That's when David knew that Rutherford Golden had a thing for the kitten.
May 2013. Washington, D.C.
Time had been good to Rutherford Golden. He'd retired from the Bureau over twenty-four years ago—after he'd realized that he would be resigned to desk duty for the rest of his career, he'd decided to go into the private sector, first as an author then as a consultant on a television show. Years of physical therapy had made his injury seem nonexistent; he only limped when he was tired or the weather was particularly bad, and sometimes he even thought that the bullet to his hip had been the best thing to happen to him—it had pushed him out of the FBI, it had given him a life full of travels and strange tales and exotic sights that he probably would never have seen chasing down bad guys in D.C. Despite the bad parts, his life had turned out well, and he enjoyed it.
He had the body of a swimmer, a broad chest and shoulders with slim hips, with short salt-and-pepper hair (more salt than pepper these days) and well-defined features that marked him as a man of contemplation—a thin, serious nose, a gentle mouth, and deep, expressive brown eyes that never seemed to miss a single detail.
Those deep, expressive brown eyes lit up at the sight of Erin, who gave a small wave as she wove her way through the tables toward him. He rose to his feet and they exchanged a quick hug before Erin sat down with an airy smile.
"I went ahead and ordered your favorite," he motioned to the glass of wine waiting by Erin's plate. "At least, I think it was your favorite, at one time. It's been a while."
"It has," she smiled, the tips of her well-manicured nails lightly tracing around the base of the stem. "And it's really a lovely gesture, Ruthie, but I can't."
"Oh?"
She bit her lip—she hadn't expected to have to reveal everything within the first two minutes—but went ahead anyways, "I'm…in recovery. 340 days sober."
"I had no idea," he sat up, feeling a wave of consternation at the blush in Erin's cheeks.
"Of course you didn't—there are people who work with me every day who still don't know about it, and you and I haven't seen each other in over a decade," she offered a forgiving smile, reaching across the table to lightly pat his hand. "Really. It's alright."
It was then that Ruthie realized that Erin Strauss was no longer wearing her wedding ring. Apparently a lot had happened in the last decade.
The waiter came by and Erin ordered an iced tea, quietly and kindly sending the wine back after they'd placed their lunch orders. While her attention was focused on their waiter, Ruthie took a moment to observe her. She seemed more solid, more balanced than the woman he'd last seen so many years ago—he knew that she was a section chief now, and she wore the authority well. She'd grown into her looks—when she was younger, she'd been so beautiful that she was almost painful to look at, with her flawless face and piercing eyes and sharp edges, but now she seemed softer, there were curves to taper the intensity, wrinkles to add depth and warmth. She didn't seem to take herself quite so seriously now, and her smile was genuine and easy (and something he hadn't seen very often during their time together). She also seemed to be glowing.
The glowing woman turned her attention back to him, leaning forward in earnest curiosity as she asked, "So how have you been, Ruthie?"
"I've been well," he answered with a smile.
"You look great."
"I feel great," he admitted.
"Life on the Florida coast must suit you," she grinned, only slightly envious.
He nodded in agreement before asking, "And what about you? How've you been?"
"Well, I'm better," her smile softened. "There were a few tough years, but for the past few months, I feel like I've been moving into a better place. I feel…balanced again."
Ruthie took a moment to contemplate this new Erin—the one who spoke so quietly and philosophically, who seemed so much more open about her life, who smiled more freely, who seemed to absorb all the light in the room with her gentle joyfulness.
"I'm happy for you," he said, and he truly meant it.
She beamed again as she replied, "I'm happy for me, too."
Their salads arrived, and Erin waited for their waiter to leave before adding, "By the way, I wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you made the trip—David was so happy to see you. It really meant a lot to him."
"I have to admit," Ruthie turned his attention to his salad, picking out the radishes. "I was a bit surprised when I found out that you were the one helping Penelope organize a surprise party for Dave Rossi."
His dining companion gave a soft hum, and he looked up to catch a fleeting smile on her lips.
"We actually get along now, Ruthie," she replied, grinning as her mind naughtily finished, You should've seen just how well we were getting along this morning.
"Well, well, wonders never cease."
She laughed at the comment, because she knew that for someone like Ruthie (who'd witnessed some of their biggest battles), the idea of Strauss and Rossi finally behaving in a peaceful manner seemed to be a sign of the Apocalypse.
"We've mellowed in our old age," she informed him with a wry grin, and the twinkle in her eye told him that statement was far from the truth.
"How's he handling the Yates' thing?" Ruthie asked softly, and Erin's smile disappeared. Of course, he knew, because stuff like that always made its way through the Bureau grapevine, because it was just too twisted and macabre not to mention, because it was a prime example of why "others" would never fully understand their lives or their jobs.
"He's...he's being David about it," she answered. "You know how he is—ever the hero, always trying to be strong and unaffected, but deep down, it kills him."
The soft lines in her voice, the compassion and tenderness held within each word—those were the little clues which told Rutherford Golden that whatever dark thing had existed between Erin Strauss and David Rossi had completely transformed into something else entirely.
Ruthie leaned forward, delicately searching for the words to ask, "Erin...Erin, are you and David..."
"Yes," she blushed slightly, and suddenly he understood why she was glowing. "Yes, we are."
And damn her practical mind for silently adding, For now, at least.
Somewhere on Interstate 81 (East of Hazelton Penitentiary, Jonesville, Virginia).
David Rossi took another deep breath, directing his attention to the innocuous spring sunshine seeping through the car windows and into his skin, to the smooth feel of the leather steering wheel beneath this hands, to the soft static sound vacuum created by going 75 miles per hour in his little black sports car—this was a coping technique he'd learned long ago, focusing on the smallest details of his surroundings to alleviate the toll of his emotions.
Another year, another name. Another call to Penelope Garcia, who quickly and quietly tracked down the closest living relatives of one Janie Loveland.
Janie. The name itself sounded young, carefree, happy and smiling and all the things that this person would never be again, all the feelings that Thomas Yates had taken away from her, all the feelings that David Rossi's arrival would take away from her loved ones, who probably still held onto some fragile, slim hope that their girl was still alive (even after all those years, David knew that the hope never really died, not until a body was found).
Yates had given him the location, and Garcia was contacting local PD, who would probably already have Janie's remains uncovered by the time David arrived.
He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, his mind flashing back to Erin's words: Call me...if you want to, if you need anything...
The answer was yes on both counts. Yes, he wanted to, and yes, he needed to, needed the simple comfort of her voice. It was strange that only a few short weeks ago, he would never have imagined himself thinking such things—but his time spent with Erin had taught David Rossi that he didn't have to be alone, and more importantly, he didn't want to be.
He punched a button on his steering wheel, at which his hands-free system dinged to life and an automated voice broke the silence. "Phone. Please say a command."
"Call Erin Strauss."
"Calling Erin Strauss," the voice repeated.
The phone rang only once before Erin's voice came over the line, "David?"
He almost wept at the sound of her voice. Instead, he answered, "Hey, bella."
"Where are you going this time?" She didn't waste time with pleasantries. In a way, it was a relief.
"Back to Nevada. Penelope was able to get me on a flight that leaves tonight."
"You could have taken the Bureau jet," she reminded him gently.
"I could have," he agreed softly, and she seemed to understand why he didn't (because this was his own burden, his own deal with the devil, and because he didn't want to sit alone in a big empty cabin for hours on end, with just his thoughts for company), because she didn't press the matter any further.
"You're on your way back?" It was more of a statement than an actual question, something to keep him talking, and for that, he was grateful.
"Yeah. I've got another six hours before I'm back, then it's straight to the airport."
"Do you...do you want me to keep you company, on the drive?" The question was halting, as if she feared imposing, and he could imagine the uncertainty in those beautiful green eyes.
"I'd like that." He admitted, feeling his throat tighten with unshed tears at the confession.
"Ok," she said softly. He could hear her rustling around, "What—I don't know—what should we talk about?"
It was almost funny, how awkward something as simple as a phone conversation could be. It only furthered the realization that they were truly entering new territory.
"I don't know," David admitted, giving a slight gesture with his hands. "I just don't want to think about disposal sites or dead girls or anything like that. Tell me what you're doing right now."
"I'm folding laundry. It's a very glamorous life I have here." She laughed and he imagined that she was shaking her head wryly, "I'm sorry, darling; I've never been good at chit-chat. I used to get very low marks in conversation in finishing school."
"You went to finishing school?"
"Yes, I did—at my mother's insistence, might I add. I even was a debutante, just like my mother."
"Really?"
"You sound surprised."
"I am, a bit." Actually, after the way David had seen Erin behave at high-society events, that fact really didn't surprise him at all. Still, it was an interesting thought, trying to imagine a young Erin Breyer in a white ball gown, belle of the ball.
"I'll have you know, David Rossi, I am one fucking classy lady," her tone was dry, laced with the sarcastic humor that had first attracted him to her so many years ago.
"You certainly are," he agreed with a grin. There was a beat of silence as his eyes scanned the horizon, which seemed unchanging and eternal and much too far away from the soft owner of the voice currently slipping through his speakers.
"I'm really no good at this," she said regretfully. "I'm not good at comforting you with words. If you were here, I would—I could hold you. I'm not sure what you need me to say."
"The sound of your voice is enough," he assured her, and he was slightly surprised to realize that it was completely true—he'd already turned up the volume, so that her smooth voice was carrying over the speakers, filling the car with a soothing presence, even as she joked about her mundanely domestic life. He took a deep breath before he spoke again, "Tell me a story, bella."
"A story?"
"Any story. A story from your day, something you've heard, anything."
"Ok…" she seemed to be thinking. "How about a poem?"
"Let's hear it."
"It's in French."
"It's still your voice."
He could sense that she was blushing. "You always say the smoothest things. Makes a girl feel flattered."
"Tell that to my exes."
This earned him a sharp laugh. She hummed again, resuming an air of semi-seriousness. "It's a poem I had to memorize years ago, in college, and it's just always stuck with me."
"Can't wait."
"You have to stop talking, David," she chided. "I can't recite the poem if you're talking."
"If you'd go ahead and recite it, then I would stop talking."
"Shut up and listen," she gave a huff of mock irritation, and he smiled as he imagined Erin rolling her eyes at this antics.
She began, her French accent becoming stronger and more certain with each verse:
"Je vis, je meurs: je me brule et me noie,
J'ai chaud extrême en endurant froidure;
La vie m'est et trop molle et trop dure,
J'ai grands ennuis entremêlés de joie.
Tout à un coup je ris et je larmoie,
Et en plaisir maint grief tourment j'endure,
Mon bien s'en va, et à jamais il dure,
Tout en un coup je sèche et je verdoie.
Ainsi Amour inconstamment me mène
Et, quand je pense avoir plus de douleur,
Sans y penser je me trouve hors de peine.
Puis quand je crois ma joie être certaine,
Et être en haut de mon désiré heur,
Il me remet en mon premier malheur."
David had no idea what she was actually saying, but he could feel the emotions running through the verses, and regardless of the emotion, he was completely entranced by the new hue and tone that Erin's voice adapted.
"I think I'm going to ask you to speak to me in French more often," he admitted, and she gave a slight hum of amusement.
"L'aimez-vous, Monsieur?" She purred.
David knew enough le Français to respond, "Oui, je l'aime."
"Très bien," she complimented him. "I think I'll have to teach you more."
"And I'll teach you Italian."
"So we can talk dirty in three different languages?"
"Well, as you pointed out, you are one fucking classy lady."
She cackled at the quip, giving a happy sigh before she spoke again, "Alright, teach me something."
"Now?"
"Well, do you have something else to occupy your time?" She drawled, and he gave a small laugh as he realized that she had a point. He still had many miles to go before he reached the airport, and he still needed something to take away the dread and despair that would settle back onto his chest like a weigh the instant he boarded the plane. Teaching Erin Strauss to purr out naughty directives in near-perfect Italian was definitely a worthwhile distraction.
"Alright, bella, let's start with the basics."
"I live, I die: I burn and I drown,
I feel extreme heat in enduring coldness.
Life is to me both too soft and too harsh,
I have great languor intertwined with great joy.
At the same time, I laugh and I cry,
And in pleasure many a severe torment I endure,
My good disappears—it never lasts,
In the same instant, I wither and I bloom.
In this way, Love inconstantly directs me
And just when I think I shall have more pain,
Without even thinking, I find myself far away from my affliction.
Then, when I believe my joy is certain,
And am at the height of my desired pleasure,
It pulls me back to my first misfortune."
~Louise Labé, Sonnet VIII.
(Translated by yours truly)
*Author's Note: As always, thank you all for the lovely reviews. I apologize if the French version of Labe's Sonnet VIII has any errors, because I had to take the original middle French version and adapt it to modern French. I did keep some of the archaic words in place, because they are crucial to keeping the syllabic integrity of the French sonnet structure.
Other things you should just know: Louise Labe was a Renaissance poetess whose artfully composed sonnets were noted for their intensity and eroticism, and she is also one of the first female writers to write under her own name and be recognized for her literary skill during her lifetime. She was very well-educated for a woman during the 16th century, and she even wrote in Italian, hence making her the perfect choice for our lovely couple.*