A History in Grief

"Oh, I am very weary, Though tears no longer flow; My eyes are tired of weeping, My heart is sick of woe." ~Anne Bronte

April 1979. Pomfret, Maryland.

David had never realized how paramount a simple question of location could be. When considering his own resting place, he hadn't much cared, so long as it was in a churchyard, facing east, and next to Carolyn. However, that was different, because once he was dead, he wouldn't really care.

But he wasn't the one being buried. And suddenly what seemed like a simple question became an agonizing choice.

Of course, everything about the last four days had been absolutely agonizing. From the moment that Carolyn had awakened him in the middle of the night, her eyes wide with terror at the blood seeping between her legs, their lives had become a whirlwind of panic and prayers and so many tears. There was an emergency c-section, and James had come into the world a few weeks earlier than planned. But the doctors had given him a chance of survival, and the next few hours were spent praying and trying to make bargains with a silent and deaf God.

James, who seemed so utterly perfect, despite the tubes and machines, quietly slipped away, and David had felt as if the world actually stopped. Carolyn had cried hysterically, but he'd simply stood there, too numb for reality to register.

Then came more choices. What outfit would you like your son to be buried in? Which casket? Which funeral home?

But the most important one was where.

Did they bury him in Commack, where he could be surrounded by his father's family? Or in Trenton, with Carolyn's people? Or should he be interred near his parents' home? Should he be somewhere surrounded by people who would have loved him, or alone, where his parents could visit him every day? What would they do if the Bureau transferred David elsewhere?

Children should grow up, and bury their parents, and then be buried next to their parents. That was the way things were supposed to be. Parents should not have to make these types of decisions, because they should never have to bury their children. That was not how the world should be.

Carolyn had nearly collapsed as they lowered the tiny casket into the ground, and now David was faced with another agonizing choice. Did he follow Carolyn back to the car, or did he stay here as they finished covering his son (he's too tiny to be left here alone, too tiny to be so deep in the earth, too small, he can't just be abandoned)? How could he simply walk away? How could he leave his son?

James was in a better place (at least that's what they said, but what better place could there be for a baby than his parents' arms?), but Carolyn was not. David chose to follow his wife, but he was certain that his heart stayed behind, forever floating over that heartbreakingly small patch of freshly-dug earth.

May 2013. Rural Virginia.

The hardest part of losing James had been the constant flood of all the things that would never be—the first steps, the first words, the first laughs, the first tee-ball game, the first fishing trip, the first day of school, the many quiet moments of parenthood that had been so darkly stolen away from him and Carolyn. The day that they returned from the hospital and had to face the brightly colored nursery, so full of hope and joyful expectation, had been one of the hardest moments of David's life. Carolyn had locked herself away in their bedroom while he and his sisters had sorted through all the baby shower gifts, packing away the tiny blankets already monogrammed with James' initials, all the little trinkets and baby accessories that they would not need (not ever, not anymore, especially since the doctors had informed them that Carolyn could never carry a child again). That was the day that David Rossi realized if he could survive the soul-crippling loss of his child, then he could survive anything. It had been a constant hell, realizing all the little moments that would be forever denied them.

He had been denied those moments with Christopher, too, but in a different way. His second (secret) son had survived, had experienced all those little moments, even though David hadn't been there to witness them. He'd lost the chance to be a father, again. He knew that Paul had been a good dad, but that only deepened the pain—he was glad that Chris had an ideal childhood, a perfect nuclear family, but that also meant that he didn't need David, and that hurt.

David looked up at the pictures displayed across the wall of his study—in a small frame, in the corner, barely noticeable, was the first and last photo that he and Erin had ever taken together. It was from Ruthie Golden's retirement party, just after they'd ended their little fling in Philadelphia. His arm was around her waist (he could still remember exactly how it felt, the solid warmth of her body, the way it fit so naturally), her head was tilted, almost resting on his shoulder, their eyes bright and merry as they beamed at the camera. If he cut the other people out of the photo, they would look like a happy, ordinary couple. They looked good together.

The thought made him flash back to the morning of his birthday, to the burning image of their bodies reflected in the bathroom mirror, naked and flushed, her back arching into him as her fingers ran through his hair, pulling his mouth back to her skin. That was over twenty years after the photo, and they still complemented each other so well. We look good together, bella.

Even then, she'd carried a dark truth in her heart. She'd known, and she'd let him continue in his blissful ignorance. Despite how beautifully intimate and loving that moment had appeared, it was far from the truth. Things are never what they seem.

Vienna, Virginia.

Erin Strauss did not like the fact that she didn't recognize any of the agents assigned to Christopher's protective detail. If the Replicator was someone on the inside, he could easily be one of the silently foreboding men in black stationed around her house. The thought caused another wave of panic to claw up her throat, but she pushed the fear back down as she entered the house and pasted on a smile for her children.

"How goes the house arrest?" She asked, just a tad too cheerily, and they knew that she was still petrified.

"We're fine, Mom," Jordan replied softly, rising from the armchair to wrap her into a hug. Chris got up and joined his sister, and the three Strausses simply held each other for a moment.

"My children are willingly hugging me—we really must be in the middle of a crisis," she quipped, and that earned her two light laughs.

"I was just waiting for you to get home before I called it a night," her daughter informed her, moving into the foyer and towards the stairs. She called over her shoulder, "Good night, you princes of Maine, you kings of New England."

Christopher turned to his mother with an amused smile, "Did she just quote Cider House Rules to us?"

"She did."

"You have strange children, you know that?"

"I do." Erin admitted dryly. Then she smiled, "But they ensure there's never a dull moment."

"Case in point," Chris motioned to the driveway, where two black SUVs were parked. However, his joke fell flat when his mother's face paled. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"It's not your fault," she told him, and she meant it.

The phone rang, interrupting the stillness of the house.

"Who would be calling this late at night?" Chris wondered aloud.

"Your father," Erin answered, grabbing the phone from the end table.

Paul's voice was comforting after the jagged events of the day (he'd called to talk about the situation with Jordan earlier, and she'd been surprised at how relieved she was to hear his voice again). "Everybody in for the night?"

"Safe and sound," she replied softly.

"How's it going?"

"It's...it's going," she answered truthfully. He gave a small hum of understanding. "How's Anna?"

"Not happy that she has to miss Sarah Callahan's party, which apparently is going to be the social event of the century."

She gave a smile at her husband's humor, especially when she heard Anna's light retort in the background. Silently, she was grateful that her youngest would only be a teenager for two more years—the constant drama and battling of raising a teen was something she certainly wouldn't miss.

"She thinks we're overreacting, as usual," Paul said in a conspiratorial tone. "I told her that she was absolutely right, and this was all just some twisted plot to keep her from enjoying life."

Erin gave a short laugh at the quip, finding an old sense of familiarity at the sound of Paul laughing with her. She always reacted to fear with anger, but he'd always been her polar opposite, finding ways to make her smile even in the direst circumstances. That spark had been missing from Paul's personality during their last few years of marriage, but since their separation, he'd mellowed out again, becoming more like the man she'd met all those years ago, and she was glad. He deserved it.

She looked up and saw the oddly hopeful expression in her son's face, and her mother-heart contracted with sorrow. That was what she regretted the most about the divorce—its effect on the children. For the most part, they had accepted that their parents were moving on, in different directions, but every time that she and Paul had a nice moment in front of them, their eyes lit up with a wistful longing that stabbed her to the core.

Paul's tone became serious as he quietly asked, "Are you any closer to catching this guy, Erin?"

She bit her lip, taking a deep breath before answering, "No. Not yet."

The only new information was the realization that it had to be an inside job, and that wasn't something she could disclose right now.

Paul was silent, and she felt the need to reassure him, "We're going to get him, Paul. The BAU team won't stop until we've got him. We've got the smartest people in the room, I promise."

"I know. I have faith in you," he answered simply, and she knew that it was true. Paul Strauss was the one who always had faith in her, even when she didn't have any in herself.

She glanced up at her son again as she asked, "Do you want to speak to Chris? He's right here."

"Sure. Put him on."

She handed the phone to her son and walked into the kitchen, the low intonation of her son's voice following her throughout the house. The cat suddenly appeared at her feet, trying to weave its way through her legs and nearly tripping her.

"Constantine," she admonished, scooping him into her arms.

She remembered the day she'd brought the kitten home—a tiny ball of fluff, too adorable and too innocent to leave in the grocery-store parking lot where she found him. He might have been a total mutt, but his markings were almost Himalayan, and his ice-blue eyes had given him an imperial look—prompting Jordan, ever the history buff, to name him Constantine, after the Roman emperor. Christopher had agreed to the name, because he liked the comic book anti-hero of the same moniker. That was how her children were—different reasons, same conclusion.

The now fully-grown and very large cat was purring happily in her arms as she absentmindedly rubbed his ears, walking around her own house as if she were a stranger. She entered her study (once it was Paul's, but when he moved out, she converted it to her own), her eyes traveling around the room. An old photo box still sat on her desk—she'd pulled it from the shelf to find pictures of Christopher to give to David. How carefully she'd chosen each one, each piece of their son's life story, meticulously ignoring the ones that were photos of Paul and Chris, keeping only the ones that showed David just how much Christopher was like him.

She wanted David to know that she had always cherished their son, that she loved him, loved all the little ways that he was like his true father, that she'd catalogued and guarded those attributes with motherly pride and affection. She wanted him to know what Chris looked like as a child, to know how innocent he looked when he slept, how devilishly adorable when he was a bright-eyed toddler, how exuberant and joyful he seemed even as a teenager. She wanted to make some kind of reparations for all the things that David had missed, all the moments that she'd robbed him of, all the small knowledges that a father would have.

She suddenly realized that her gift might have been seen as some form of manipulation, some kind of cheap trick to pluck David's heartstrings, some silent plea to help their darling son and save him from the Replicator's clutches, and she felt sick at the thought. She began to pray that David would see the photos as what they really were—a step towards atonement, a silent amend for her wrongs against him, an illustrated love letter, an ode to all that they were, to their greatest achievement, their purest moment, their best and brightest parts contained within one shining soul, the living, breathing proof of their secret life.

Don't do this for me; do it for him. Let him know that I don't want to hurt him any further. Let it heal him. Please. Please. Please.

In that moment, her desperation turned into a deep, dark, hot hatred for the man who had led them to this point, the UNSUB who had stolen what was left of her precious time with David, the one who'd turned her house into a prison and her family into captives of fear and uncertainty, the one who hunted her team, who filled Aaron and JJ's stomachs with the same sickening dread. There were so many things that Erin Strauss could forgive (could, not would), but he'd breached all lines of justice the instant he took her son's photo. He'd brought the fight to her doorstep, and gods be damned if Erin Strauss was not one born and bred for battle. Justice was abandoned. Revenge took its place. She'd see this man captured, and she would stare right into his eyes through the cold, hard glass as they strapped him into the electric chair or filled his veins with poison. Gods, she'd do it, if it were the last thing she ever did.

That was your last mistake, you baseless bastard. You chose the wrong woman to strike, and before this is all said and done, you'll know. You'll know and you'll see just what it means to pick a fight that you can't possibly win.

Quantico, Virginia.

Aaron Hotchner stared at the black and white photo of his son for what seemed like the thousandth time. It had been three days since Erin had handed him the photos, had stopped his heart with a single image.

He'd promised Haley that this wouldn't happen again. He knew it was an irrational promise, something over which he had no control, and yet he felt angry that it had been broken. What the hell had they done to this UNSUB, to make him go after their innocent sons?

Right now, Jack was home, happily watching cartoons with Beth as his aunt Jessica prepared pancakes, his current favorite food. Aaron smiled as he remembered how Beth had volunteered to come back to Virginia (he hadn't asked, though he wanted to)—the second he'd told her what was happening, she had informed him that she had several days of sick leave saved up and she could be there by the next morning. She had added, suddenly hesitant, If you want me to.

Her concern and her immediate commitment were both heartwarming and affirming. And yes, he wanted her to—he told her so. She could only stay a few more days, but the peace of mind that came from her presence was crucial to Aaron, who knew that soon, the director would force them out into the field again, regardless of the fact that they would be distracted as hell by the thought that a ruthless killer with a personal vendetta against the BAU was stalking their children.

Erin Strauss, in a not-so-surprising turn of events (not anymore), had been toeing the line with the director, insisting that the team focus only on consult work, staying safely within the confines of Quantico and within a reasonable distance from their endangered offspring. He admired her pluck, and he knew her bullheadedness could put almost every other personality within the Bureau to shame, but he also had to recognize the irrefutable fact that Erin would eventually have to bend to the will of her superiors, even if it meant that she'd simply be fired and replaced by someone else.

As if his thoughts had conjured her up, Aaron noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to see the formidable blonde entering the bullpen. Erin Strauss was barreling through at a pace that normally would signal her impending wrath, but the look on her face was much too worried to imply anger. She quickly mounted the stairs and entered Hotch's office without even bothering to knock.

"I am so sorry, Aaron, I tried," she was in strange state, vacillating between distress and regret.

"He's sending us back into the field," Aaron surmised before she could even deliver the news.

"I told him that it was too soon—it's only been three days." She gave a sigh that contained her frustration and concern. "But of course, he wouldn't listen."

That of course was a bit of a clue as to her true feelings towards the director, but Aaron filed that away for another day.

"He doesn't think that you would be distracted in the field," she continued. "I respectfully disagreed."

She had the good grace to look slightly chagrined as she added, "And then I might have disrespectfully disagreed."

"You might have?" Aaron drawled.

Her green eyes flicked up to the ceiling, "I might have said some things, which I should probably regret."

He felt an amused grin creeping across his face at her feigned innocence, at the word should, which implied that she did not, in fact, regret a single syllable of what was likely a scathing remark.

She shared his smile for a moment before returning to the matter at-hand. "Penelope has already been assigned several new cases to look over, and I'm sure she'll have a briefing arranged by tomorrow morning—that's the most she can postpone it, I'm afraid."

Again, Erin's use of Garcia's first name did not escape Hotch's notice, and he fought back another smile at the thought of the two blondes plotting to delay the director's order as long as possible. He knew that he should be appalled by Strauss' lack of professionalism and her petty ways of defying authority, that he should want to courageously go back into the field and uphold the oath he took to defend and protect society, but deep down, he was grateful for Strauss' empathy, and for having her indomitable will on his side (a welcome change).

"Thank you, Chief," he said quietly, and she understood all the rest that was left unspoken. With a curt nod, she turned to go.

"Oh, and Agent Hotchner?" She popped her head back around the doorframe, her eyes widened in faux innocence again. "If you and Agent Jareau just happen to grab sushi for lunch today and just so happen to contract a serious case of food poisoning, I would have to authorize you to stay home for a day or two...for your own well-being, of course. We couldn't have agents in the field when they're obviously ill."

He didn't even try to fight the grin that spread across his features. "Duly noted, Chief Strauss."

She offered one last true smile before turning to leave again. She stopped suddenly, as if she'd been sucker-punched, and Aaron instinctively knew why—Dave must have been out in the bullpen. The two had been circling each other cautiously for the past three days, and Erin had started coming into the BAU only when she knew that David wasn't there, such as during his usual lunch breaks or whenever he had a consult scheduled and she knew that he would be locked away in his own office. Of course, she'd been so upset over the director's edict that she hadn't thought about whether or not David was around.

Aaron Hotchner had never seen his section chief look so heartbroken—the last time she'd been this distressed was when she'd joined them in the field for the Joe Smith case and had accidentally stepped on the victim's hair. But this was a different kind of sorrow, a different kind of regret. To make matters worse, Dave seemed equally distraught. He was the first person at the office and the last one to leave every day, and if the shadows under his eyes were any indication, he apparently wasn't sleeping well. He spent more time than usual separated from the rest of the team, and his office door was closed more often, too.

Both had tried their best to pretend as if nothing had happened, though their pain seemed so evident to a room full of seasoned profilers who also knew them on a personal level. Thankfully, the rest of the team had quietly and respectfully left them alone. Erin had once told him that they weren't the type of people who talked about such things, and he knew it to be true—still, it did not stop him from wanting to ask if she was OK. He didn't want to know what had happened (well, mostly...after all, he was still a curious human being), but he did want to know that both Erin and Dave were going make it to the other side.

Erin took a step back, as if she considered retreating into his office until David disappeared again, and that simple action made Aaron rise to his feet. She noticed his movement, blushed at the realization that he'd been watching her, ducked her head and started moving again.

David saw her approaching, but he studiously kept his focus on Alex Blake, whose back was turned to Erin. He could feel Erin holding her breath as she breezed past, could almost hear the voice in her head praying that he wouldn't notice her. He caught the light scent of her perfume and immediately his mind went to the soft skin at the base of her neck—he knew how it tasted, how it felt beneath his lips, how well it reacted, how the blood beneath the skin would hum and quicken under his touch.

As she walked by, Erin swore she could actually feel the heat radiating from David's body, even though he was several feet away. Her skin was tingling with that (now painful) familiar feeling that always seemed to appear in his presence, and her heart ached at the realization that from now on, that was a thirst that would never be quenched, a feeling that would never be reciprocated. She could also feel his muscles tensing, as if he was trying to shield himself from her again, and this only made her walk faster.

David Rossi could mark the exact instant that Alex became aware of Erin's presence, because she, too, experienced a physical shift as her shoulders moved forward ever-so-slightly, as if she were trying to make herself smaller and less noticeable, and her big brown eyes followed Erin's retreating form with an odd mixture of pity and curiosity.

He also knew the moment that the glass door closed behind Erin, because those big doe eyes immediately flicked back to him, not even masking the fact that she was reading and cataloguing his reaction—though her scrutiny was softened by her obvious concern.

Alex didn't ask if he wanted to talk about it, because she already knew the answer. So she simply continued their conversation, and she could tell that David was grateful for her willful blindness.

After David returned to his office, Alex cast a glance towards the doors again, though she knew that Erin was long gone, probably carefully ensconced in the safety of her own office again.

Heaven knows that Alex Blake did not want to feel an ounce of sympathy for Erin Strauss. A few weeks ago, she'd agreed to bury the hatchet with the blonde, but really, it was because Erin had been so desperate to make amends, and Alex was finally at a point where she would have said anything to end the phone calls and the "just-dropping-in-to-see-how-you-were-adjusting" visits and the questions and all of Erin's fumbling attempts at cordiality. For years, Erin Strauss had loomed in Alex's imagination as an austere and refined rich bitch, an ice queen with a cold Darwinistic worldview to match, but that evening, as Erin had clutched her folders so tightly that her knuckles paled, her breathing slightly unsteady and those grey eyes filled with hesitation and fear of rejection, Alex had realized that she'd turned a misguided ghost into a villainous vampire. She had experienced a moment of weakness and had softly told Erin that all was forgiven, because she hated seeing people in distress, especially when she could end it, and because she really was past holding a grudge.

But she'd never taken Erin up on that offer for coffee. For Alex, there was a difference between forgiveness and friendship, and while she'd forgiven Erin, she certainly had no interest in becoming that woman's friend (fool me once, shame on you...fool me twice, shame on me).

Well, shame on me, Alex decided, because for some unfathomable reason, she found herself wanting to reach out to the other woman. Over the past few months, she'd noticed a definite change in Erin, had been pleasantly surprised by how the notorious fast-tracker had finally placed herself in front of the bus, rather than throwing the rest of the team under it, had been even more shocked to learn that the blonde was the mastermind behind Dave's surprise party (further proving her suspicion that one should never tell a secret to Penelope Garcia), had watched in slightly-awed curiosity as the years and layers of frost seemed to slip off the woman's face and demeanor in the days following Rossi's birthday (she knew what that meant, but really, she tried not to think about it). But now, the section chief had undergone another drastic change, except this one was much less pleasant. Erin was withdrawn, pale and distracted, floating through the halls of Quantico with her dead doll eyes and still perfectly-coiffed hair and flowing cardigans like some nouveau Lady of Shalott. She was tragic, and Alex discovered that she actually pitied the woman.

Erin Strauss would probably prefer walking over burning coals after being supremely doused in lighter fluid rather than being pitied.

Still, Alex Blake's mind was made up. If nothing else, she was going to give Erin a little pick-me-up by proving that her amend had been truly accepted.

It was time to take the blonde out to coffee.

*Author's Note: I could write an entire book on the feelings of grief, anger, sorrow, and loss that accompany the death of a child in such a tragic and sudden way, and how it changes entire families, but that's another story for another time, I suppose. I hope that in this story's brief section on that particular moment of Rossi's life, I have conveyed enough to make you truly understand the sense of outrage and injustice that comes with it as well. Sadly, I think there are some parts of it that cannot be truly expressed with words, but only understood by those who've experienced it. And I hope, dear reader, that you never do.*