Bite the Bullet
"Confíteor Deo omnipoténti et vobis, fratres, quia peccávi nimis cogitatióne, verbo, ópere et omissióne: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa." ~Confiteor (Ordinary Form of the Roman Rite)
*Author's Note: The words of dialogue in this first section are not mine. They are the work of Charles Murray, who wrote the particular episode from whence comes this scene (3.6 About Face).*
October 2007. Quantico, Virginia.
There was a beat as David Rossi and Erin Strauss simply sized each other up. It was obvious that she didn't want him to be there—her body language was practically screeching for him to go away. He knew that she'd only called him because the director had insisted; they hadn't spoken since that ugly encounter at Christmas three years ago, and knowing how passive-aggressive Erin Strauss was, she probably would have been content with never seeing or speaking to David Rossi again. Truth be told, he would have been happy with that, too.
She'd given him a cordial greeting whenever she'd opened her office door to find him in the reception area (all for show, he knew, because he knew Erin well enough to detect the iciness beneath her words, the way the light in her eyes switched off whenever she saw his face, like a child dutifully stomaching her vegetables when all she really wanted to do was shriek). However, as soon as the door was closed and the audience disappeared, she became cold and distant, silently motioning for him to sit in the uncomfortable chair in front of her cherry oak desk, with its immaculately arranged trinkets and stacks of paper.
She gave him another long look, the corners of her eyes crinkling slightly as she tried to read his face (which was intentionally passive, so that she couldn't read his thoughts or gauge his reaction at all, she knew this, knew he was being obstinate on purpose, and that only encouraged her to be more captious as well).
"I really don't understand this, David." She said, allowing her tone to be gentle (but only slightly), because the statement was true—she didn't understand why he was coming back, didn't understand why they had to be so awkward and cold, didn't understand why he was still punishing her for what happened three years ago, or why he had been so angry with her in the first place, why he'd been upset at her for simply following the rules of their strange relationship.
"What's to understand, Erin?" He said her name so carefully, articulating it as if it were some equally distasteful and explosive thing in his mouth (he used her first name, not her last, denying her the deference of rank, reminding her that at one time, they'd been equals, and he would never see her as anything more than Kitten the Analyst).
So that's how he was going to play it. Erin immediately lost her gentle edge. If he was going to act dumb, then she was going to spell it out. "You've been retired for nearly ten years—"
"BAU is a man down; I'm offering to help," he answered succinctly.
She gave a slight nod at this (obviously, they needed the help, or else she wouldn't have been forced to call him in the first place), but she still wasn't ready to welcome him back with open arms, "You've written...how many books? World tours, speaking engagements, big payday private consultations..."
He leaned forward, reaching for something on her desk, and her stomach gave a small flip as her green eyes carefully followed his hand. Luckily, he went for her clock (not the photo, don't look at that, don't notice that).
"You've made quite a name for yourself," she finished, feeling a small begrudging sense of pride for the man seated before her. She'd always wanted him to be successful, to be happy, to find something to ease the little hurts that she'd caused him over the years (the agreement, the promotion, the fight at Christmas). The problem was that she wanted him to have all those things away from her.
"Well, this is getting boring," he sighed (his mind going back to the feisty young agent of yesteryear who would never have complimented him like that, who would have made some snarky remark about his failures instead of parroting his success like the scores of little cute co-eds singing your praises that she used to taunt him about).
"You know, you won't be in charge." She informed him, in her no-nonsense, bureaucratic tone. "Agent Hotchner's the SAC and I'll be seeking his endorsement."
The words had their desired effect, because (as usual), David Rossi bridled at the implication that someone else still had control over his fate, "I'm not looking for anyone's permission here."
"So you're coming in." She leaned forward, her green eyes locked onto his brown ones. "In a subordinate position."
She emphasized the word subordinate in the same way he'd pronounced her name—carefully articulated, emphasizing the new difference in their ranks, silently reminding him that the reason he left all those years ago was because she was, in fact, becoming his superior.
"Is that a question?" He challenged, well-aware of her insinuation.
Now, she pounced; now, she stopped pulling punches, "The question is, why?"
"To help," he retorted, the cadence of his tone informing Erin that he was trying to reign in his anger, and she was surprised at the restraint. Perhaps retirement had mellowed him. She also felt a slight wave of disappointment at the fact that he hadn't risen to take her bait—maybe everything truly was broken and over between them. After he'd stormed out of that ballroom three years earlier, she'd known that something had irrevocably changed between them, but she'd held onto the hope that time would heal his wounds and that if they ever met again, perhaps they could at least be civil to one another. Now she realized that she didn't want civility, she wanted the old blood and fire between them, she wanted to know that part of them still worked, even if it was the baser, crueler part.
So she needled him just a little bit further, forcing an amused smile as she added a shade of sarcasm, "A completely selfless act."
"Is that so hard to believe?" He gave a slight sigh, rising to his feet. He felt drained, as if simply being in her presence for just a few minutes had become a taxing effort. He was tired and he wasn't sure why Erin was the one acting so defensively—after all, if either one of them should be angry, it was him. Why was she acting like the woman scorned, when she'd so obviously chosen to cut David from her life?
"Yes." She answered simply, her green eyes meeting his again as she stood. She was waiting, waiting for him to respond, waiting for his rebuttal, for something, anything. He suddenly realized what she was doing—she was intentionally trying to anger him, to elicit some form of the old spark between them. So he said the thing that she would never say, the thing that she was trying to say through her actions.
"I missed you too, Erin."
She didn't smile, but the corners of her eyes mirrored Mona Lisa's as she handed him his newly-reissued credentials. It was almost like a peace offering.
"You'll meet the team tomorrow."
He took the slim leather case and walked out without another word, without another backward glance. She watched him disappear before sitting down again, suddenly deflated and drained. Gods know, they'd had many a row in their day, but nothing had taken such a heavy toll as the strained and restrained silences and glances between them today. Her eyes traveled over to the photo of Christopher, smiling happily back at her.
He'd turned eleven, just four months ago. Last month had marked twelve years since that bad decision in Seattle (she'd never call it a mistake, not when it brought her such a sweet consequence, which filled her life with light and laughter), and though she had seen David many times since then, she'd remained emotionally tethered to that point in their relationship. The instant he'd sat down, his dark eyes scanning the room, never missing any detail, she'd felt her entire body tense up in fear, found her mind praying to every entity she could think of, Please don't let him see the resemblance.
The hidden truth had been literally smiling at his face, and he hadn't noticed. He had probably interpreted her anxiety to the fallout from their last encounter, and though it was partly true, she was glad he didn't realize that the majority of her unease came from a completely different source.
Oh, Erin. She simply shook her head, her chin plopping into her hand. You're going to have to be very careful. There's so much to be lost here.
She suddenly needed a drink.
May 2013. Rural Virginia.
Oh, ye gods and little fishes, Erin Strauss needed a drink. She swallowed nervously, her throat suddenly dry and her tongue suddenly two sizes too big for her mouth. Adrenaline and sheer terror had given her a faintly out-of-body sensation as she felt the pulse in her neck pounding all the way to her jaw, as she felt the tremor of her hands as they clutched a stiff manila envelope filled with things that would now belong to David, once she quietly broke his heart.
She took another long breath, trying to steady her nerves, but she could hear her own lungs shuddering, could hear the tears that rippled just below the surface of her entire being, which felt charged with electricity, ready to blow a fuse at any second.
This terror was different than what she'd felt earlier that morning, upon seeing Christopher's image captured by the Replicator—that was something that wasn't her fault, a hurt that she didn't cause, a moment in which she was the victim, not the perpetrator. This was the sad worry of the executioner who would truly raise her axe for the first time, fully equipped with the knowledge that this wasn't war, this wasn't justified, this was an attack on a harmless individual, a cruel and cold reality in which every blow would kill, not just wound.
Her gentle and unsuspecting victim sat across from her, leaning back in his chair as his dark eyes took in every detail of her behavior, her own unease seeping into his body language as well. This was the last moment of innocence between them, the last moment of denial, and suddenly, she thought that he'd never looked so beautiful (yes, beautiful, an odd description perhaps, but the best description for his regal manner, his easy charm, his piercing eyes and handsome features, his tender trust and selfless concern).
She'd been so stupid, thinking she could avoid this moment. He was too much good, too much for someone with hands as dirtied and imperfect as hers. Hands that shook, clutching to the final clue in this little mystery, the final thread of trust and hope, the bloody evidence of her crime against him, the key to a Pandora's box that would unleash the total destruction of all that they were, all that they had been, all that they would ever be.
Erin's behavior was completely disconcerting to David Rossi. In the almost-thirty years that he'd known the woman, he'd never seen her so close to being completely unhinged—not even during the strange encounter in Seattle, the day her mother died.
Normally, he forgot how much smaller Erin was than he, because her personality seemed to stand seven feet tall, but in this moment, as she sat in his living room, mentally retreating into herself in an oddly protective gesture, he was painfully aware of the delicate set of her shoulders, of the fragile skin on her hands (though he still knew, deep down underneath were bones of solid steel, strength that would always carry Erin Strauss through the rolls and punches of life). He knew that she had every reason to be afraid, with everything that had happened today, but still, it scared him to see her this way.
She seemed to be waiting for something, and the silence was beginning to suffocate him, so David softly asked, "Erin, what is it?"
"I-uh-well, I—there's something I've wanted to tell you, for quite some time now," she found her mental footing, pushing forward with a sudden determination. "And now...now I realize that I can't put it off any longer."
He didn't respond, but she could read his face well enough to know he was filled with both curiosity and dread, like a cat sensing that its next discovery will take away another of its nine lives. She licked her lips, took a deep breath, and pushed onward, "Earlier today, Christopher asked why the Replicator didn't take photos of Anna and Jordan."
It was obvious that David had already asked himself this question as well, because he sat up slightly.
"I told him that I didn't know," Erin set the envelope on her lap, smoothing over its surface with shaking hands. "But that was a lie. I know why. I know why Chris was in the photos, and why the others weren't."
David felt a wave of anxiety pour over him as he asked, "Why?"
"Because..." She took another shaky breath, trying to make herself say the three simple words that would reveal all (he's your son), but her body physically froze at the attempt. So she blinked, swallowed, and chose another path, "Because he was born in June of 1994."
David's face skewed in confusion.
"Christopher was born nine months after September of 1993," she said slowly, unable to meet David's gaze as she continued. "Thirty-nine weeks after the weekend in Seattle."
"What are you saying, Erin?" His tone belied his words. David Rossi knew exactly what she was saying.
"I'm saying...there's a reason that he's on the list and the girls are not. There's a reason that he has dark hair and brown eyes and the girls do not." She took another deep breath, forcing her eyes to meet his. "He's your son."
The look of pain and shock his face was enough to slay Erin then and there, but fate was not so kind—no, she would survive to witness every millisecond of the destruction she wrought.
David stared at the woman in front of him, trying to comprehend her words. She was serious, expectantly holding her breath, waiting for his reaction. He could barely breathe, the world seemed to tilt sideways and slowly re-right itself, and she still sat there, completely unaffected.
"But...you said you were on the pill," there was a note of accusation in his tone.
She ducked her head, "And I was...I just, I'd been sick, and I was taking antibiotics for a week before, and I just forgot—I forgot that I was taking them, forgot that they would cancel out the birth control, I just forgot."
"How do you know?"
"What?" She looked up again, confused.
"Well, obviously Paul thought Christopher was his, and I'm sure he would have to have some valid reason for believing it to be so," he felt his anger building at the thought of what she'd done, to him and to her husband. "So how do you know which one of us really is the father?"
"I just do." The simple conviction of her statement would have been enough, had it been anything else, but right now, it wasn't.
"How, Erin?"
"Because." Tears threatened to overcome her, but she quickly stamped them down. "Because I just knew, the moment I found out that I was pregnant. Because he looks like you, because when he was little, he was always—he was—he did things, things that were just you. He furrowed his brow like you when he was concentrating on his coloring book, he was curious and wild and infuriatingly smart and hilarious in ways that only your son could be, he—"
"But there never was a paternity test," David cut her off. He couldn't bear to hear anymore about the second son he'd lost, the one that wasn't taken through the cruelty of death, but through the cold calculation of the woman to whom he'd given his heart.
"No." She admitted, ducking her head again.
"So you don't know for sure." He reiterated, his voice becoming harsher.
"I do. I know." She said quietly.
"No, you don't," his voice rose and she resisted the urge to shrink back. The hurt and the heartache and the pure bewilderment were so strong in his voice, she felt another sob rising in her chest, but she fought it back down again. She would not cry (not here, not now, not in front of him), because she knew what her tears did to him, and she didn't want to manipulate him, didn't want to soften the anger that he so justly deserved to feel. She would be strong and take her penance, she would bear it with the solid determination of a martyr, because although she was neither innocent nor holy, she was going to face her fate and accept whatever David Rossi gave to her. She loved him, and it hurt her to hurt him, but she would gladly bear whatever pain was necessary to heal David's wounds. Let him scream, let him yell, let him bring the whole world crashing on her head, and she would not try to stop it, so long as it eased the suffering of his tender heart, caused by her own hand.
"I am not going to try to offer excuses," she looked down at the envelope in her lap. "What I did was...I had my reasons, but they will never be enough for you, I know that."
She still couldn't admit that what she'd done was wrong. The realization filled David's heart with a dark anger. This woman, his bella, had she always been this calloused, this self-righteously unjust, this cruel, this dark and capable of such deception? Had he truly been so blinded, so fooled by her innocent gestures and airy smiles and fragile uncertainties? Had it all been some sick game, some coy plot to distract him from the truth that she'd always been hiding such a dark secret from him?
"I hope that, one day, you can understand that I never wanted to hurt you," she continued softly. "It was...I've done the unforgivable, and I'm not asking for your forgiveness, because—"
"Because you're not truly sorry." His cold words stopped her. She looked up, steeling herself for the next blow. His whole body was radiating with a righteous anger. "You're just sorry that you got caught."
"David, I—"
"Please leave."
There it was. The moment of finality, the last toll of the bell, the final breath of whatever they'd become. His mouth (that mouth which held fire and blood and passion, which had captured her own so many times, which had stopped her mind and opened her heart) had pronounced the two words that killed any small shred of hope that may have still survived within her soul.
She ducked her head again, silently acquiescing to his edict. She smoothed the manila envelope again before rising to her feet. She set the package on the coffee table. "This is—this is yours now."
He didn't respond. He was sitting rigidly, his gaze fixed across the room. He had nothing left to say. More than anything, she wanted to take him in her arms, to let him unleash the tears that she knew were just underneath his cold exterior, but she didn't deserve to be the one who comforted him, not anymore.
She went to the door, turning to look back at the man who sat alone in this grand house, surrounded by finery and fancy things, whose heart was now a thousand pieces, shattered by the hand of the one woman who was his greatest weakness, his trusted confidant, his sweet Judas.
Look at him. Look at what you've done. Look and see and know. That is what you truly are, Erin Strauss. The monster who destroyed David Rossi. The one who broke a beautiful man, because you were too foolish, too scared, too selfish. This is your doing, your great masterpiece. Don't look away now.
She quietly shut the door, taking a moment to gently pat Mudgie's head as the dog sadly looked up at her, as if he could sense his master's distress. From within the house, she heard the muffled sound of David weeping. The shreds of her tattered heart seemed beyond breaking anymore, but they shriveled and evaporated, blowing away like smoke on the wind as her knees buckled under the weight of the knowledge that she was the source of such deep sorrow. Erin gripped the door frame, mentally regathering her physical strength and standing straight once more. Mudgie gave a small whine at the sound of David's distress, so she quietly opened the door again, letting the dog enter the house. Perhaps he could provide some measure of comfort, or at least more than Erin could.
She didn't belong here anymore, didn't belong anywhere near what was left of her lover, the man who'd taken her to places that she'd never dared to imagine, who'd filled her lungs with fire, and who'd stirred her soul in ways that no one else could. She'd killed one of the most beautiful things that she'd ever witnessed, and somehow, she was supposed to be content in the knowledge that it was the right thing.
Her greatest amend had been made. And yet, there was no feeling of accomplishment, no feeling of relief, no twelve-step chant to make it all seem alright. Perhaps that was because it was only the beginning of the rest of her life, the beginning of a long, cold, desolate atonement. Perhaps because she knew that her confession would never fully outweigh the sin itself, and she would forever be separated from a man whom she believed in with the fervor of a religious zealot.
Now David Rossi truly knew every side of her. And now he could no longer love her, because he saw her as she really was.
Divine justice was always so harshly fair.
"I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault." ~ Confiteor (Ordinary Form of the Roman Rite)