Splits in the Skin
"Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds, they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material." ~F. Scott Fitzgerald
*Author's Note: The dialogue between Blake and Rossi in the morgue are not my own words—they are the work of Breen Frazier, who wrote the episode from whence that scene comes (8.22 #6). Also, thanks to Mantegna and Tripplehorn for adding the lovely little moment at the end of that scene (the fist bump), which inspired this section.*
May 2013. Detroit, Michigan.
"So, when we get back home, I'm going to have coffee with Erin."
These were the first words that had been spoken between them since they had deboarded the plane. Dave hadn't said a word as they got into the black SUV, choosing instead to focus on the coroner's reports that Garcia had given them before they left while Alex drove. It wasn't a strained silence—whenever they worked as partners, there were often large gaps of quietness between them, because they both needed the time to reflect and absorb, and it worked quite well for them.
She felt Dave take a long, silent breath before he carefully replied, "And why do you think I need to know this?"
"Because you just do." She answered, her tone equally cautious as she kept her eyes focused on the street. She honestly wasn't sure why she felt that he needed to know, but still, she wanted him to know. They'd known each other for a very long time, and though they didn't share every aspect of their lives, when it came to the job, they were always open with each other. After another small silence, she added, "I don't know what this thing is between you two right now, and I don't need to know—I just don't want you to think that I'm choosing sides."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod in understanding. She didn't voice the rest of her thoughts—she didn't need the details, but Dave did need to talk to someone, because his whole noble silence thing wasn't working. He still looked like hell, as if he'd aged a decade overnight, and his usually outgoing personality had all but disappeared. She missed the old Dave, the one who sometimes scared her with his hair-trigger temper and his unpredictable tactics, but who always had a wink and a quick joke, who always was her comrade, her friend, who somehow made the darkness bearable.
Giving him a quick glance, Alex decided that he actually looked better today—being on the trail again seemed to suit him.
The old David Rossi was definitely still there, because after another beat of silence, he spoke again, his tone lightly laced with his former playful air, "You said you're not choosing sides, but if you had to choose—"
"You, all the way," she answered before he could even ask, with such certainty and conviction that she was obviously pretending to suck-up to him. He laughed, and she smiled, silently grateful that her joke had eased some of the tension.
David turned his attention back to the file. Sure, he'd deflected the seriousness of the conversation with a joke, but deep down, he still felt a wave of sadness. Alex talked about the matter as if it were one of the regular old battles between them—choosing sides, as if there would be a big show-down at the end. But this wasn't a fight at all. This was simply two people standing over a broken thing, unsure of what to do or how to fix it, or even if they wanted it to be fixed.
Distance was a good thing. It gave perspective. Being away from Quantico was a good thing, because it meant being away from Erin's constant presence, which followed him around like an insistent ghost, slipping through the moments of his day like smoke, curling into his brain at strange times, distracting his thoughts and overwhelming his mind.
His office was no longer his sanctuary—it was the place where Erin had fought with him again, had re-established that connection, the place where he'd held her as she'd cried in fear for Christopher, where he'd held her hand and softly told her that everything was going to be alright. The conference room was filled with memories of her as well, the little looks between briefings, the slight clashes across the table. Every hallway, every room seemed possessed.
Even his house had been overtaken by her. His bedroom still pulsed with her scent and her heat at night, his bed was always cold from her absence every morning, his kitchen seemed suddenly too quiet and too large without her beside him, his foyer still carried the electric shock of her sudden appearance the night of his birthday, his living room still held the quiet weight of her fear as she revealed her darkest secret to him.
Detroit held no memory of Erin Strauss, and that was helpful, except for the fact that Alex Blake suddenly decided that she wanted to talk about the blonde. However, he understood Blake's reasons for mentioning Erin, and to his relief, she'd graciously let the topic go.
The problem was that he couldn't stay in Detroit forever. Eventually he would return to the places that held the remembrance of things past, and he would have to learn to deal with those sorrowful demons all over again. He still didn't know what he was going to do—despite the anger and hurt he felt towards Erin for holding such a deep, life-changing secret from him, he still didn't want to hurt her (that need to please and shelter her had been ingrained in him for decades now, because he was so used to acquiescing to her desires for years, and now he found that it was a hard habit to break). And worse than his desire to protect her was the fact that he actually understood why she did it. He didn't want to understand. He didn't want to notice how careful Erin had been around him, or how she hadn't pushed or asked him what he was going to do (it was such a shift from their previous ways, when Erin called all the shots and he simply accepted whatever she chose), didn't want to notice or be affected by her sad silence and the realization that she was hurting for him, that she seemed truly penitent for what she'd done.
All these feelings and truths would have to be dealt with, eventually. But for now, he could push it all aside and just focus on the bodies in front of them.
Alex put the SUV in park, effectively jolting David from his thoughts. He looked over at the brunette, who was watching him expectantly. He offered a small smile, "Let's do this."
She gave a curt nod of agreement as they both got out of the vehicle, closing their doors at the same time with a heavy thud, which filled Alex with an odd sense of satisfaction. She liked it when they were moving in tandem, it made her feel safe and assured, and with everything that had happened over the past few weeks with the Replicator, those feelings were becoming more and more valuable to Alex Blake.
Dave was beside her, walking down the cool, empty hall which echoed with their footsteps. Each step felt like another small piece clicking into place.
Alex took a deep breath as they entered the morgue—she always hated the smell, even after all these years, it was still something that made her stomach churn and her lungs automatically stiffen in protest. The medical examiner greeted them and quickly began rehashing the facts of the case with them. After a few preliminary questions, the two agents realized that something was off—the wives had diagonal entry wounds, while the husbands' wounds were straight, which implied the UNSUB was taller than the wife but shorter than the husband. The problem with this logic was that the first couple was 5'11" and 6'2", and the second couple was 5'4" and 5'8". It didn't make sense. Alex felt a familiar prickle in the back of her subconscious.
She set down her folder, turning back to Dave, "Alright, face me."
He did as she asked.
"Put your right hand up." Again, he obeyed, and she bent her knees, bringing herself down to the appropriate height, "I'm the wife, I'm 5'4". Stab me in the chest."
He made a slow motion stab, "Bam."
It was a diagonal entry, just like the stab wounds on each of the female victims.
"But I do the same to you," Alex moved her fist to his chest. It was a straight entry wound. There was another moment of things clicking into place as they both reached the same conclusion.
"This is why he takes couples," Dave surmised, and she nodded in agreement.
"He wants them to hurt each other."
Dave pulled his fist back from Alex's shoulder, but held it out for a congratulatory fist bump, to which she happily obliged, fighting back at smile—that little action was the final piece falling into place, the final click locking it all into full sync.
David Rossi was back in action.
May 2005. Nantucket, Massachusetts.
"Elaine...Elaine...Elaine, are you listening to me?"
The harsh insistency of her father's voice caused Erin's head to snap around, her brow furrowing in confusion. They'd been sitting quietly on the sandy knoll behind the house, watching the tide roll in, surrounded by the peaceful sounds of the sea and the sky. He was seated in a worn wooden beach chair and she was at his feet, her own feet happily burrowed in the sand. Over the years, they'd spent many hours, sitting just like this. It was familiar and comforting, and Erin had let her mind drift, not paying attention to her father's voice.
"Holy hell, woman, are you going deaf?" He demanded, his frustration having an unpleasant effect on his eldest daughter's nervous system. She'd always been a daddy's girl, and the slightest hint of displeasure from her father always filled her with some irrational fear of losing his love. Though she was a full-grown adult and she'd gone head-to-head with him several times during her life, her first visceral reaction was always the same.
He gave another heavy sigh, "Elaine, I have asked you three times when the kids are getting here."
"Daddy," Erin felt a wave of concern. "Daddy, I'm Erin."
Now it was her father's turn to look confused, and then suddenly, a light snapped in his eyes.
"I know," he said defensively. "But your name's Erin Elaine, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, but you've never called me that—"
"I'll call you whatever the hell I want," he growled, and Erin immediately fell silent, ducking her head at his reprimanding tone. Her father was seventy-six years old, but he still had the formidable fire of his youth whenever he was angered, and a childhood spent cowering under his verbal tirades had conditioned Erin to become very, very quiet, and very, very still whenever he raised his voice.
He turned his weathered face back to the overcast horizon, folding his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture. A beat passed before he spoke again, "So, when are the kids getting here?"
"They all went into town," she answered, forcing a lighter note into her tone. "They're just getting the things for the barbeque; they'll be back soon."
"I know where they went and I know what they're doing," he groused again, this time sounding a little less harsh. "I simply asked when they were going to return."
"I don't know."
"That should have been your answer the first time, Erin." This time, he used her proper name. "How many times have I told you—keep things concise and to-the-point. Don't waste time with the unnecessary. I don't know how you've survived all those depositions and federal hearings, with the way you ramble on."
Her mouth pressed into a thin line before she quietly answered, "We can't all be lawyers, Daddy."
"You certainly couldn't," he sniffed, as if it were a great insult, forgetting the fact that after so many years on the other side of the bench, he'd come to abhor most attorneys and their pompous, superfluous speeches. Erin was smart enough not to point that out.
With one last wistful look at the water, Erin rose to her feet.
"Where are you going?"
"Inside," she stated flatly. She couldn't resist the extra barb. "I didn't announce my intentions because I felt it would be unnecessary. I thought a man of your acumen would figure it out, once I started walking towards the house."
He gave her a baleful look, but it was followed by a begrudging smile. She was his firstborn, his little girl of blood and fire, in so many ways like him, in so many ways unlike him. Even in this slightly antagonistic moment, he adored her, adored what she had become, what she had achieved, and she loved him, loved what he had been, what he had given her, what he had molded her to be. With an arched brow and an amused smile of her own, she walked back to the house. He had been an ass, and they both knew it, and she had told him that, without actually saying it, and they both knew that, too. Somehow, it was all alright. That was how they'd always been, ever since she was old enough and willful enough to oppose him, and perhaps that was part of the reason that she was his favorite (he'd never tell her that, never tell the others that, but his wife, his Elaine, had said so, many times before she passed away, but it was never an accusation, merely a statement of fact—she's the most like you, that's why you love her so).
Erin's smile disappeared once she entered the house. Taking a moment to dust the sand from her bare feet, she padded into the kitchen, where Carole was busy preparing lunch.
Carole Ann Breyer Drake was one of those perpetually unhappy people. She had a good life (a husband, two darling children, a dog and a picket fence and a house in the suburbs), she'd been given a good education (Ivy League colleges all the way, charm school and Catholic school, just like Erin), and she'd had a relatively idyllic childhood, had all the advantages that came from wealth and good breeding, and yet, she always looked as if someone had sucked every ounce of joy from her soul. Though her three siblings remembered their mutual childhood with warmth, she seemed to view the past as a desolate wasteland of bitterness and abandonment.
Carole, at least in her own opinion, had her reasons for feeling so persecuted. Years ago, Erin had taken a long, hard look at her younger sister, and had relatively pinpointed the source of Carole's unhappiness—it stemmed from the simple fact that, of all four Breyer progeny, she'd never once felt special. As the eldest, Erin was special by virtue of her birth rank, though her career accomplishments and the fact that she held four degrees and now was a high ranking Bureau official had only added to her overachieving adored-by-all status. Then there was Peter, the second child but the first son, the long-awaited prize, who'd gone on to be a formidable district attorney, then later a great defense lawyer (once hailed as the Clarence Darrow of Virginia, in a local publication). In the middle was Carole, neither first child, nor first son or daughter, with no marks of patriotic distinction, no illustrious career. At the end of the line was Andrew, the golden-haired baby of the family, the charming and well-beloved Senator from Massachusetts.
Instead of politics and national servitude, Carole had chosen a quiet life, and honestly, the only person who had a problem with her choice was Carole herself. Her feelings of inferiority caused her to lash out, and her easiest target was her elder sister, because at least she could prove herself to be the better wife, the better mother, the better housekeeper, the better cook. Her competitive nature drove Erin insane, and she tried not to engage her sister in those catty comparisons, but as anyone with siblings can understand, our sisters and brothers often know how to bring out the child within us in the worst of ways.
Erin immediately inserted herself into the preparations, despite her sister's huff at the intrusion.
"Have you noticed that Dad seems to be…slipping a bit lately?" Erin tried to keep her tone conversational as she began washing the cabbage that was sitting near the sink.
Carole didn't look up from the sandwiches that she was making, "He's been that way for months now, Erin."
She could hear the unspoken accusation in her sister's voice (you would know that if you were around, if you weren't busy being wonder-woman and showing the world how amazing you are).
"Has he been to see a doctor?"
"Of course he's been to see a doctor. What do you think I am?" Carole's voice was practically a growl now.
Erin waited for her sister to elaborate, but of course she didn't (that would be too helpful, too nice, because Carole always loved having the power to make Erin beg, even over matters as serious as this). Using every ounce of self-control not to snap, Erin pushed, "Well?"
"What do you think it is, Erin? He's got Alzheimer's."
Erin felt her stomach clench at the diagnosis. Her hands stopped their movements and she slowly turned to look at her sister, who was making her damn sandwiches as nonchalantly as if they were talking about the weather, though Erin could feel the anger and blame radiating off Carole's narrow shoulders.
Carole was acting this way because it was the only way she knew how to react—it was the only way Erin knew how to react as well. Their go-to emotion whenever fear or danger called was anger. That was their mother's fault, she knew, because that was the type of woman she was. She had loved her children and adored her husband, but she had never known how to handle the tumbling, rolling emotions that encompassed that love, had never known how to express herself in a way that was healthier or less destructive.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Erin took a step closer, fighting the urge to grab her sister, to make her stop moving, to make her stop acting as if the world hadn't just stopped spinning.
"Because we are handling it," came Carole's succinct reply, the threat rumbling just beneath the surface. She set the plate of sandwiches on the other side of the island with a little more force than necessary.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Erin's words came sharp and fast, cutting at her sister's turned back.
"It means we are handling it." Carole stated, her tone matching Erin's as she turned to give her sister one of her bitterest glares. "We don't need you to come in and fix it, Erin."
There it was—the unwitting truth. This was Carole's attempt to prove that there was something she could do better than her older sister. For the first time, their father needed a caretaker, and Carole wanted to be his heroine, his champion, his darling child who loved him enough to care for him in his decaying health.
Erin wanted to cry for her poor little sister, for her pathetic attempts to garner some recognition by using their father's illness. She stepped forward again, her tone softening, "Carole, this isn't something that can be fixed. Don't you think that I deserve to know what's happening to my own father?"
"If you ever spent any time with him, then you would've known something was wrong months ago, Erin," her sister spat. "If you weren't so damn busy playing secret agent and neglecting your family, then you would know. But the truth is: you didn't want to know, because you didn't want to ruin your pristine little life and your perfect little career."
There was a beat of ugly silence as Erin's younger sister's barb hit her mark. Erin took a deep breath, every muscle in her body tensing with the familiar fight-or-flight reflex.
"That was completely uncalled for," Erin's voice was low, trembling with anger and hurt.
"But that doesn't make it any less true," Carole shot back, though her earlier bravado was crumbling under her elder sister's gaze. Years of fighting with Erin had told her that she'd pushed too far, and there was no mistaking the way that Erin's body tensed as she tried to contain the pure violence and righteous indignation that shivered through her muscles like heat lighting on an open prairie.
Part of her actually wanted Erin to strike her, to leave a mark, so that when their husbands and brothers and children returned, everyone could see what her sister was truly capable of. Let Paul see what his adored and beloved wife is really like. Let Daddy see what his precious golden girl can do. Let them all see.
Erin simply stood there, her mind unable to comprehend what she could have done to make her younger sister hate her so.
The moment was broken by the sound of the front door opening. A few seconds later, Peter appeared, tall and tanned and the epitome of their father, smiling as he announced, "The Apostles are back!"
Carole's husband was named Philip, so with the addition of Peter, Andrew, and Paul, the men liked to joke about their common Biblical connection.
Peter's smile disappeared the instant he felt the tension in the room. Carole's blood boiled at the small motion of his hand reaching for Erin's elbow—he didn't even know what the hell had happened, and he was already choosing sides (he always chose Erin, even when she was wrong). With a quick shake of her head, Erin brushed past her brother, disappearing down the hall.
Torn between the two women, Peter glanced back at his elder sister's retreating form before turning his attention to his younger one. "What happened?"
"What does it matter?" Carole turned to the sink, continuing Erin's original task of washing the cabbage. "You're just going to take her side."
It was so childish and so utterly Carole that Peter simply rolled his eyes. Still, there was some truth in it—of all the Strauss siblings, he and Erin were probably the closest. That was mainly because they were the closest chronologically, only two years apart, compared to the four-year gap between him and Carole, and the six-year gap between Carole and Andrew. They probably understood each other better, and knew each other better, than any other two members of the family, aside from their parents. Peter was the only one who knew about Erin's drinking habits (she'd never been able to hold her liquor, not even when they were rebellious teenagers), and she was the only one who knew about the one time he fell in love with another boy in college (he'd cried when he confessed to her, and she'd simply held him, rocking him gently like a mother, smoothing his hair and letting him cry until there were no more tears).
He would take Erin's side because unlike his younger sister, he knew how to overlook the petty things and how to protect the ones he loved, because she'd always taken care of him, no matter what.
He felt his blood rising as he demanded again, "What did you do, Carole?"
Normally, Carole would take offense to his insinuation that it was her fault, but she felt the same dark threat looming over her that she'd felt with Erin, and really, she was smart enough not to tempt fate twice.
"I told her about father," she gave a slight shrug, as if it weren't a big deal.
Her elder brother felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, "You did what?"
He moved closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous new level, "We agreed that we would tell Erin and Andrew tonight, together."
"Well, she was asking questions, and I didn't see the point in lying to her."
"No, you didn't see the point in wasting a perfectly good opportunity to hurt her," he spat. His face was red now, and not for the first time in his life, he resisted the urge to slap his younger sister's impassive face. "You are one vindictive bitch, Carole, you know that?"
That arrow hit its mark, because she actually flinched. But she quickly resumed her expressionless mask as she softly intoned, "You should go rescue poor little Erin now. Between you, Drew, and Paul, she might not have enough brave knights to rush to her defense."
With another angry sigh, Peter turned away. "I wish I could pity you, Carole, but I think you actually like playing the persecuted underdog."
He didn't even stay to see if the barb had its desired effect, because, honestly, he didn't give a damn.
Erin went into her father's study and poured herself a whiskey neat, followed by a second, to calm her nerves. She heard the soft creak of the heavy wooden door, and just by the thoughtful silence, she knew it was Peter.
"You knew, didn't you?" She set the glass down on the dark oak of the wet bar.
"I did," he answered softly. She heard him shuffle across the plush carpet towards her. "I noticed a few weeks ago, at Easter. I said something to Carole, and she took him to the doctor. I wanted…I wanted to be able to tell you and Drew in person, so we decided to wait. We were going to tell you tonight."
"Well, that plan didn't quite work out like you hoped," she commented flatly, turning to face him. Her expression was meticulously blank, and he knew that she had summoned every ounce of self-control to appear so nonchalant.
"Carole's a bitch." He stated.
"She is a very big bitch," she agreed, the corner of her mouth flickering into the ghost of a smile.
"I should have known that she'd pull something like that."
Now she truly offered her brother a gentle smile, "It isn't your fault, Peter. You aren't responsible for her actions, and you don't have to try and shield me from her."
That was the second time today that he'd been accused of being protective of Erin. He simply shrugged, "You would have done the same for me."
"I would have," she agreed softly, closing the gap between them and taking her younger brother into her arms. They simply held each other for a moment, feeling the weight of reality settle into their bones.
"How bad is it?" She asked, almost too fearful to hear the answer.
"It's manageable, for now," he answered honestly. "But they think that in a year or two, we'll have to start looking into some kind of home or assisted living facility. He won't be able to take care of himself for much longer."
She was silent, and he knew what she was thinking, "Erin, I know you've put in your time at the Bureau, and you're eligible for retirement, but don't you dare even consider pushing everything aside to be Dad's full-time caregiver."
"He's our father, Peter. He raised us. He deserves—"
"He would never forgive you for it," her younger brother interrupted. "He'd be furious with you for abandoning your career, and you know it."
A lump formed in her throat as she acknowledged the truth. She'd had to fight like hell to make him understand why she chose the FBI, but once he'd finally accepted it, he'd been proud of her dedication and her determination, had carefully catalogued all her accomplishments like any father would. If she left that all behind to take care of him, he would feel that she was sacrificing her life for his, and he would be angry. She could hear his voice now, If you're going to make a mess of your life, Erin Elaine, then it certainly won't be on my account.
The thought of her father's sacrifice and love brought tears to her eyes.
"We've still got time before we reach that bridge," Peter reminded her gently. She nodded, wiping away the tears and taking a deep breath.
"I need to tell Paul," she announced, and she felt a wave of hesitancy pass through her body. Ever since her mother had died, she'd felt a strange gulf between them (maybe it wasn't that strange, considering that despite their years together, she'd spurned his comfort and had chosen David's instead). Perhaps it was because Paul seemed to say the things that only intensified her distress, rather than soothing it away. There was a time when he knew just what to say, just what to do, but over the past few years, those times were becoming few and far between. She didn't want to tell him about her father, because she knew that he would be kind and sweet and all the things she needed but didn't want.
Most people would gladly run into the arms of their spouse, Erin realized with a pang of guilt. How many times had she been told how lucky she was to have a man like Paul, by envious friends and strangers at dinner parties? How many times had she felt a deep gratitude to the Universe for bringing him into her life, for his gentle calmness and intuitive ways, for how he knew just what to do to remedy a situation? Why did she no longer feel that thankfulness?
Deep down, she knew the answer. After her pregnancy with Christopher, she'd sworn that she would never be with David Rossi again. And yet, when her mother died, she'd launched herself into his arms, into something far darker and more sordid than she'd ever done in the past. The week of her mother's death had been the first time that she'd ever let David come in-between her and her husband—she'd pulled away from Paul, because she didn't want him to see the bruises left by David's hand, didn't want him to know the awful, ugly truth. Before, she'd told herself that she had never lied about her affair, because Paul simply hadn't asked and she simply hadn't told him. But after the second time in Seattle, she'd actively avoided her husband, had been so careful to keep the marks hidden, had made excuses, had lied to him. That changed everything.
To make matters worse, after last year's horrible encounter with David at Christmas, she and Paul had returned home, drunk and happy (though David's face had stayed at the back of her mind, quietly fraying her thoughts), and when they'd fallen into bed, she'd closed her eyes and pretended that it was someone else's hands on her flesh, someone with a darker complexion, with a more irritating personality, someone whose mere presence was enough to set her soul on fire. She'd never done that before, and she had felt horrified (though she hadn't stopped, not until the lovely blinding thrill of her orgasm). That night, a gulf was created between them, and she had hoped that she was the only one who saw it, because she certainly didn't want to have to talk about it or why it was there.
Still, he was her husband, her life partner, her chosen traveling companion, and he needed to know what was happening to her father, to the grandfather of his children. With a heavy sigh, she went off in search of Paul.
They went for a walk along the beach, and she told him the news. He held her and kissed the top of her head, and part of her wished that she could ask for more from him, but she didn't dare. Later that night, when everyone else was asleep and he was moving inside of her, their hips slowly keeping time with the sound of the waves that rolled in from open window, she cried—cried for the world that was slowly changing around them, cried for golden halo that was becoming tarnished by time, cried for all that was lost, for all that would never be again, for the helpless feeling in her chest at the realization that the foundations of everything she knew were slowly crumbling around her.
May 2013. Washington D.C.
"If I had to choose a moment that was the beginning of the end for me, I think that was it. I'd always used alcohol as an excuse for everything—to escape stress, to unwind, to celebrate a big event, to say farewell to a retiring colleague; pretty much if there was a way to have alcohol involved, I found it," Erin admitted with a self-conscious smile. The other people in the room gave small sardonic smiles of understanding—after all, they knew this path better than anyone else. She continued, "But really, though I fit the definition of an alcoholic for years, I was a highly functional one, and I never let it affect my life…well, at least I didn't think that I did, at the time….but after learning about my father's Alzheimer's, my drinking became heavier. And it rose, in correlation with the amount of stress that I felt as I watched the strongest, most amazing man I ever knew, slip away, piece by piece."
She took another deep breath, "In 2011, everything began to truly fall apart as my father's condition began rapidly deteriorating. In April of that year, my daughter asked me to seek help. Until that moment, I truly didn't think that I had a problem—and even then, I thought she was overreacting. But when your kid is standing in front of you, tears in her eyes as she begs you to get help, well….well, you do whatever you can to heal the hurt you've caused, to right the damage you've inflicted, because you're supposed to be the one that takes care of them, not vice versa. By that time, my father was needing around-the-clock care and my siblings and I were trying to be with him as much as possible, so I also knew that I needed to get my head on straight, to be able to deal with it all. So I checked into a 28 day program, did the whole shebang, and walked away thinking that I'd done my duty. I'd gotten rid of this bad habit—that's what I still saw it as, a habit, not an actual problem or a disease—and I could get back to life as normal. Three months later, just after the nine-year anniversary of my mother's death, I lost my father. And still, I didn't pick up a bottle. I thought that there was nothing more that could happen to me, that losing my parents was the last really bad thing that would happen, because that was what was fair. I forgot that life isn't fair."
She looked down at her hands again, slightly readjusting her watch. "Then…then my baby brother announced that he had been diagnosed with Stage III liver cancer, and it was like the ground beneath my feet just opened up and swallowed me whole. Andrew was the baby, the golden child, this bright and beautiful boy whose whole life had just been this smooth, perfect path to success and adoration. He had just turned forty years old; he still had so much life left ahead of him."
She fell silent for a moment as her mind traveled down the paths of yesteryear. They used to always joke that he would be President one day. And suddenly—just like that—all those jokes were gone, all those promises, all those unwavering faiths in the surety of tomorrow. She had been twelve years old by the time Andrew was born, so she saw him as something closer to her own child instead of a brother.
"I was just devastated." Erin admitted softly. She shook her head sadly, "It was so horribly unfair—he'd never been a big drinker, he'd been a total health nut, and just a good guy. And here I was, a raging alcoholic, a regular shit of a person, and somehow my liver was healthier than his, and my life was longer. I couldn't…I didn't understand how the world could be so cruel. I became embittered and angry—and naturally, I slipped back into the bottle, because I didn't want any part of a reality that was so tragic and unjust."
The woman sitting next to her, Cathy, made a small noise of understanding deep in her throat. It was strange, how comforting that little sound was, how much grief and compassion and empathy was contained within a single hum.
Erin took a moment to look around the room again, her eyes scanning for something more than just sympathy and empathy. For the past four days, she'd been attending meetings—sometimes twice a day, if her schedule allowed. The director had been so pleased that she'd taken his suggestion to heart, and she didn't dare tell him what she was really doing.
She was looking for the bastard who had tried to use her own son as a weapon against her, like a pawn in some twisted game.
So far, her search had been futile, though her only hope was seeing a face that pricked some kind of memory, or feeling some kind of intuitive pull (something her analytical brain didn't tend to believe in). Still, she'd keep making the rounds until she thought of a better plan or until something happened. The definition of insanity is repeating the same actions over and over again and expecting different results.
She continued with her tale, her green eyes still moving from face to face, observing body language, trying to decipher the true meanings and motives behind glances and nods and smiles (wishing, not for the first time in her life, that she possessed the natural skills of some of her behavioral analysts).
Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket halfway through the serenity prayer, and she quietly slipped away to answer it.
"Ma'am, they've apprehended the UNSUB," Garcia didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Well, he's not an UNSUB anymore, technically—his name is Phillip Connor, and he's in custody, and the team will be leaving Detroit within the next hour or so."
Obviously, Agent Hotchner was too preoccupied with wrapping up the case, which was why Penelope was calling her with the news.
"Good," Erin gave a curt nod. She looked over her shoulder at the rest of the AA group, who were milling around, chatting, quietly talking amongst themselves. "I'm on my way back to the office now."
With one last glance around the room, she walked away. She hadn't found him yet, but one of her greatest assets was her persistence. You win today, but I'll find you tomorrow.
Somewhere between Detroit and Quantico.
"Watcha working on?" JJ asked quietly, leaning over to inspect the set of note cards that Spencer Reid was shuffling.
"I'm giving a lecture at the new exhibit opening at The National Museum of Crime and Punishment," he answered, his brow furrowing as he scratched out a few more words next to a phrase on his note card.
"Sounds interesting," the blonde commented.
This began a discussion regarding everyone's plans for the weekend, and David noticed that Alex was unusually quiet.
"What about you?" He asked softly, so low that the others couldn't hear (they were too busy teasing Morgan by now).
"Not sure yet," she admitted, clearing her throat and shifting in her seat slightly—a sign that she was being evasive. She easily changed the subject, "You seemed more relaxed today. I'm glad."
"I was," he replied. "As strange as it may sound, I find something very…calming about being in the field."
She nodded in understanding, "That's just the kind of creatures we are, Dave. We were built for this kind of work, as sick as it may sound."
There was a soft sadness in her smile as she spoke these words, the gentle acceptance of their strange lot in life—she seemed almost regretful, resigned. Almost.
He took a moment to contemplate her words. Deep down, he knew they were true—there was no special training, no manual or course that prepared them for the lifestyle that they led, nothing to help them cope with the darkness they encountered on a daily basis. At the end of the day, it was just you and the little voice inside your head and the face staring back in the mirror, and the three of you had to band together to figure out how to make it out alive. You either learned how to deal, or you didn't. You either stayed with the unit or you transferred out.
That's just the kind of creatures we are. They were the ones who stayed, the brave and the few. The ones who'd found ways to heal, who had figured out little moments of escape to retain their sanity, who had somehow remained unjaded and unhurt enough to keep coming back to the fight.
The creatures we are. Who were the creatures that he and Erin had evolved into? His mind flashed back to a hundred little moments from the past few weeks—her smiling up at the early morning sun in her garden, the electric beats between their words during their fights, the heat in her eyes when she wished him happy birthday, the simple joy of feeling her body roll over and nudge him in the middle of the night as they slept side-by-side, her laughter at his jokes, the gentle cadence of her voice as she taught him French, her fearful eyes just before she told him the truth, her pained expression the last time she'd seen his face.
They were flawed, imperfect creatures, both fumbling and tumbling through this new world, so heavy with knowledge and secrets and fears, so unaccustomed to this new depth of knowing, so vulnerable and uncertain. They were filled with mutual sorrow, so strangely mixed with passion and love and aggravating quirks, with so many sins against one another's hearts, unable to separate the good from the bad.
But was there enough good to outweigh the bad? Was there something worth holding on to, something worth fighting for? Was he the kind of creature that could heal and look past the wounds she'd given him?
He didn't know. And the not knowing scared him more than anything.
*Author's Note: As always, merci beaucoup pour les critiques.*