Madonna Eleusa

"To err is human; but contrition felt for the crime distinguishes the virtuous from the wicked." ~Vittorio Alfieri

May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

Erin Strauss' heart was pounding so loudly that she was certain that David could hear it, even from across the room. He sat so calmly, so quintessentially David, and she felt an ache deep in her chest, just to be able to curl up in his lap and listen to his heartbeat keeping time with her own, to wrap her arms around his neck and whisper in his ear, Let's just pretend this never happened, let's pretend you love me again.

But she could not ask such a thing, because she did not deserve his forgiveness, nor his love, nor the comfort of his presence. So she simply waited for David to speak again, trying to shore up her defenses against whatever may come. He looked like hell—there were dark circles under his eyes, and his usually immaculate clothing was wrinkled (something that someone else might not notice, but she knew him so well, knew what it meant, knew that it was the physical manifestation of his inner turmoil), and she felt another wave of sadness and self-loathing. This is all your doing.

This was the closest he'd been to her all day, and David realized that Christopher's assessment had been correct—Erin was not doing well. The fine skin beneath her eyes was etched with deep lines from dehydration and lack of sleep, her startling grey-green irises were further intensified by her bloodshot sclerae, and her cheeks were hollowed from fatigue and worry. She was already rubbing her ring finger again, worrying her bottom lip as she watched him with cautious eyes, unsure of what to do or say.

He hated how fearful she looked. He hated knowing that he was part of the reason that she was so pale, so sickly, so filled with dread. More than anything, he hated the fact that he still cared about her welfare.

He looked away. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to hear her voice (even hearing her hiss a stream of profanities had created the familiar prickling across his skin, as if his body didn't listen to his mind when it said we don't want to feel like that about her anymore), didn't want to be reminded of all the parts of her that he'd loved, but there were things that were more important than his broken and betrayed heart. This was bigger than them. This was about Christopher's safety. David was not going to discover his long-lost son, only to lose him to some sick bastard. Every second was hell, but parents endured all kinds of pain and discomfort for the security of their children. It was just part of the package. So he pushed aside his personal turmoil and focused on the task at hand.

"You think the Replicator chose Christopher because I'm his father," he was surprised at how calmly he spoke, at how simple that statement sounded as it rolled off his tongue. "How does he know that Chris is my son?"

"I don't know," Erin admitted softly, her breath catching at David's words. "I never—I never told anyone. I never mentioned any of the times we spent together….did you?"

"No," he answered with a shake of his head.

"Then the only way he could know…was if he knew us both. Very well." The wheels were turning in her analyst brain, putting together the little bits of data. "He would have to know, or at least have some suspicion of what our relationship was like back then."

"We never said anything—"

"People knew, David," she interrupted quietly. Noting his confused expression, she continued gently, "Don't you remember the glances, the whispers? Even before we were actually together, people used to call our fights lovers' quarrels. Mark Smith used to joke about it all the time, saying he'd wished that we'd just hurry up and fuck already, and get past the passive-aggressive foreplay."

Suddenly, David did remember, "But those were just jokes, just passing comments—Mark always thought that I was sleeping with every female agent in the Bureau."

It wasn't far from the truth, Erin wanted to retort, but they weren't at the point where jokes would be acceptable. Right now, David was speaking to her, he was working with her to figure out this little mystery, and even though he still wouldn't look her in the eye, she'd take what she could get.

"Someone must have believed them," she shrugged.

"Someone who knew that we were in Seattle at the same time, and that you gave birth nine months later," David added, still incredulous at the odds.

"This has to be an inside job." The weight of that revelation sank in Erin's stomach like a stone. "We don't have any mutual acquaintances outside of the Bureau, and no one would have ever heard those rumors, unless they were working on a case with us."

There was a moment of silence as they considered the implication of such a thing.

Finally, Erin broke the silence, her voice quivering as she asked, "Should we tell the team?"

David let out a long sigh as he contemplated her question. Then, with a single shake of his head, he answered, "No. We could be wrong. He could just be targeting sons—his signature could possibly only include sons, not daughters. I say we lay low until we know something further."

She nodded in agreement, not daring to hope or to even wonder why he was still protecting their secret.

Their secret. The thought struck her—for almost two decades, it had been her secret, hers and hers alone. Now it was theirs. Of course, it was also the thing that ripped them apart, but still, now they finally shared the truth. There was some odd measure of relief in that.

David stood up suddenly, and Erin took a step back. She could sense the pain and hurt rolling off his frame in waves, filling the room with a heavy, breathless dread. He still wouldn't look at her—it was as if she'd become his Medusa, as if one glance would turn him to stone—and that hurt, because she could always bear his hatred much easier than she could his indifference, because she knew that she was hurting him, just by being in the same room, and she hated knowing that she was only adding to the grief that she'd already caused.

He moved towards the door, stopping as his hand rested on the doorknob. He didn't turn back to her as he asked in a quietly and heartbreakingly small voice, "Why, Erin?"

Tears brimmed in those grey-green eyes, but she blinked and they disappeared again. She would be strong, she would face the truth and give him whatever he asked for, whatever he needed.

"Because I didn't think we'd ever see each other again—and I didn't know what to say, or how to say it. After all, we'd agreed...a fling's a fling, kid, remember?" She stepped forward on trembling legs, her hand automatically reaching for him, wanting so desperately for him to understand, for a chance to reconnect, but she pulled back. He didn't want that, didn't want her, didn't want anything to do with this mess she'd created, and she didn't blame him. With another deep breath, she forced herself to continue, "And when you came back, we'd already...Paul and I had Anna, and he didn't know, and we were happy—and you were happy, too. By then, Christopher was almost four years old, and so much time had passed, and I...I was just too afraid."

The last statement was the shining moment of truth, the real meat of her confession—the rest were just excuses, reasons she'd created over the years, justifications for the fear coursing underneath it all.

David simply nodded. Then he opened the door and walked away.

Erin felt sick again, and her hands began to tremble once more as she walked forward and quietly shut the door, holding onto the doorknob a little longer than necessary, rubbing it gently with her thumb (it was stupid, soppy and sentimental in a way that bordered on mentally unwell, but gods, it was something that connected them—he had touched it, and now she was touching it, and she imagined that the warmth she felt on the smooth metal was left by his hand).

She'd been preparing herself for this moment for months now, but it didn't change the fact that her mind still reeled at the reality of it all. Every time before, every fight before, there was always some semblance of a chance of redemption, some possibility of future reconciliation. But this wasn't even a fight—it wasn't anything that they'd been through before, because for the first time ever, David was tapping out. He didn't want long discussions or angry words or quiet apologies. He didn't want anything, except to be as far away from her as possible.

Erin felt another pang at the realization that the one thing he wanted was the one thing she couldn't give him.

Rural Virginia.

Grief is like a long, wet, woolen grey cloak. It weighs you down, almost suffocating you, sticking to your skin in a heavy, clammy, uncomfortable way, and no matter what you do, you can't simply take it off. You have to keep trudging along, dragging the damn thing with you.

David Rossi knew exactly how that felt. He was all too acquainted with its weight, with its discomfort, with its perpetual presence. During his lifetime, he'd lost many things and many people, in many ways and in varying degrees of sorrow.

He'd been down this road before—he'd lost the woman he loved (he would always love Carolyn, in the rosy-golden way that one always loves their first true love, idyllic and a bit unrealistically, but still deep and abiding), he'd lost other women in other ways, he'd been betrayed before, had learned to live through heartache and heartbreak, and he would learned to do it again.

Of course, every loss was different, on some level. The loss of Erin was different, because she was still living, still moving quietly around him; they were still like two planets in their respective orbits, always aware, always connected, always floating at the back of each others' lives. It would be a continuous cycle, a crash-course in learning to look at her again, to see that face (the one he'd studied with the intensity of a master painter, hoping to capture every nuance, every spark of his subject), to hear that voice (the one that had uttered such beautiful things to him, that spoke his name in a way that could rend mountains into ashes, that could ignite his blood with a single hum), to stand next to that body (the one he'd coveted so darkly, all those years ago, whose scent and texture and weight and depth had been his own holy communion, that always sparked some strange chemical reaction within his being), to be constantly surrounded by every fiber of her aura and learn how to be completely unaffected by it, in any way.

It was physically painful, being in the same room with that woman. The entire day had been a bundle of nerves and sighs, unspoken sorrows and unshed tears as the two had tried to work around each other—she'd stayed away from the BAU as much as possible, but whenever she was there, she moved quietly, holding her breath and trying not to cause so much as a ripple in the soft, sad silence that pooled around him. David was grateful for her consideration, but at the same time, it only added to his grief—her tenderness reminded him of all the beautiful, sweet moments before, and it only compounded the reality of their situation (that part of them was forever gone, that was something he could never fully experience ever again, and every past moment of tenderness was now tainted by the bitter knowledge of her treachery).

She still loved him. He knew that. And he still loved her, which only made it worse.

With another heavy sigh, he entered his home, dreading the next few hours until he could leave again, until he could return to the office and try to lose himself in his work. Almost against his will, he glanced into the living room again. The all-too-mundane manila envelope was still patiently waiting for him.

He'd survived the day. It was time to push through this final act, this last unveiling of the ugly truth.

But first things first. He really needed a drink.

Quantico, Virginia.

She was trespassing. She knew that. She was no better than a common thief, a stalker, one of those crazed individuals whom they captured on a regular basis. Still, this knowledge did not stop Erin Strauss from waiting until everyone else had left the BAU, slipping through the neatly-ordered rows of desks and up the stairs, into David's office.

She didn't turn on a light; she didn't have to. The lights from the parking lots and neighboring buildings seeping through the windows were enough to illuminate the contours of this private world, and the shadows were actually comforting. If she sat still enough, she could imagine herself sinking into the room itself, becoming part of it, being able to simply stay there and watch over him as he went about his day.

She slipped into his chair, feeling the grooves left by his own body, after countless hours spent going over files or typing away at his latest book or consulting on cases around the country via telephone conference. His cologne still lingered in the air and her chest tightened with sadness at the achingly familiar scent.

Aside from the strange and anxious encounter in her office, they hadn't spoken all day. And all day, she'd felt like there wasn't enough oxygen in her lungs. There was so much that she wanted to say to him, but she knew that he didn't want to hear it, so she kept silent (because it wasn't about healing her own hurts, it was about letting him heal his, because she didn't deserve a chance to explain or justify her actions, because he'd always sacrificed his own wants and needs for her whims, and now, she was martyring herself for his, because she needed to atone, to somehow lessen the debt that she owed him, after all those years of his quiet assents). She didn't ask him what he was going to do, or whether he was going to tell Paul or Christopher. That would be his decision entirely, and she would let him decide whenever he was ready.

She deserved every ounce of this painful punishment. She knew that. That didn't ease the ache that radiated from every fiber of her being. She'd wounded him, but hadn't been kind enough to kill him completely—she could tell that he still cared, and she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt (because she didn't deserve his affection, didn't deserve his love and his loyalty, because she knew that his feelings for her only added to his suffering).

Maybe the director had been right. Maybe she did need to go to a meeting. She didn't feel the urge to drink, but at least she could confess some measure of her sins to anonymous strangers, could unburden a small part of her soul in a safe place.

Strangers. Unburdening. Safe place.

Had she ever mentioned her affairs with David during the AA meetings?

Oh, gods.

Sure, the meeting were anonymous (that was the whole point), but if the Replicator was there, and he was someone from her past, then he would have recognized her, would have known who she was, even though she never mentioned her job or the names of anyone whom she knew. She'd talked about having an affair (never said David's name, never said it was a coworker, never mentioned that it resulted in a child), and if he'd been there...he could have known enough of her life and her backstory to fill in the blanks.

She had no idea what the Replicator looked like. He could have been sitting next to her, holding her hand as they prayed the Serenity Prayer, nodding in saddened understanding as she recounted horrible binges and admitted to the havoc she'd wreaked on her family. He could have been there the whole time.

Oh, gods.

Rural Virginia.

Judging from the way the envelope felt in his hands, David could wager a pretty good guess as to its contents. Once he opened it, his suspicions were confirmed. He leaned forward, gingerly taking a stack of photographs out of the envelope and setting them on the coffee table.

This is yours now.

A photo of a much younger Erin, face still puffy and red, hair completely frazzled, holding a tiny newborn, wearing the brightest, proudest smile that he'd ever seen. He flipped the picture over to find Erin's neat, thin script: Christopher Paul Strauss. 6lbs. 11oz. 18 inches.

A photo of Erin sitting Indian-style, a dark-haired toddler curled up in her lap, opening a present. They both seemed completely oblivious of the camera—he was focusing on unwrapping his gift; she was watching his face with unmistakable adoration. Second birthday.

There were shots of her on the beach, their son on her hip, both smiling as the wind whipped their hair, and candids of silly faces and precious moments, one of him seated at the kitchen table, his young face adorably serious as he concentrated on his coloring book, which bore Erin's comment on the back: Hard at work, age five.

These were the moments she'd stolen from David, the memories that he would never truly get to experience because of her decision, and he understood the gesture—she was trying to ease the loss, as best as she could.

This is yours now.

He was surprised that these photos didn't cause him any pain—in fact, he found himself smiling slightly at young Christopher's antics, and although there was a wave of sadness every time that Erin had captured their son in a moment that so plainly showed he was David Rossi's child, it did not outweigh the tenderness that those images inspired. He felt the tears slipping down his face, but he didn't even bother to wipe them away.

A picture was worth a thousand words. The last two photographs were Erin's silent confessions.

The first was a shot of Jordan and Christopher. It was captioned: Dress up, ages 7 & 3. Jordan, with her dirty-dishwater blonde hair, was smiling at the camera, so proud of herself. She was wearing a princess dress and a pair of her mother's high heels, her young face smudged with lipstick. Christopher was also in a dress (the source of those stories he'd heard the first time they'd all met, he remembered with a soft smile), though it hung off his smaller frame, revealing Spiderman pajamas underneath. He was not looking at the camera—his big brown eyes were turned to his sister, looking at her with the worshipful adoration that all younger siblings seem to have when they are small. His chubby little fingers were wrapped around his sister's hand. David thought back to the gentle interactions between the two siblings earlier that day, in the bullpen, and he understood Erin's message: This is why I hid the truth for so long. This is what I wanted to protect. This is what I feared destroying.

The second photo made David's heart stop. It was the only one in black and white, as though it'd been taken by an amateur with a professional camera. Erin was slumped in a rocking chair, an infant Chris curled up on her chest, both dead asleep after what looked like a long and restless night. The sun seeped through the nursery windows in the background, outlining their silhouette in a soft glow, the blonde tendrils around Erin's head catching the sunlight and creating a halo. With her peaceful expression and her Grecian nose and that small, dark head perfectly nestled into the crook of her neck, she resembled a neoclassical rendition of the madonna. Forgive me, I have sinned.

This is yours now.

This is still yours, if you want it.

*Author's Note: Thank you so much for all the reviews and feedback so far. Truly.*