Feint
"Carry the battle to them. Don't let them bring it to you. Put them on the defensive and don't ever apologize for anything." ~Harry S. Truman
*Author's Note: Emily's lines of dialogue in the first section are not my own, they belong to Erica Messer, who wrote the episode referenced in this section (7.23 Hit/Run). Also, the last interaction between Rossi and Strauss at the end of the first section is taken from my other short story "Mulligan", the one which made me write this story in turn.*
May 2012. Washington, D.C.
Even after SSA Emily Prentiss' miraculous return from the dead, John Curtis still kept tabs on the BAU, from time to time.
Sometimes, on days like today, it was just too easy—he had heard about the standoff at the Colonial Liberty Bank, and he'd felt compelled to watch the team in action. He'd driven back into the District, slipped on a baseball cap and some shades, placed his camera around his neck and joined the group of reporters and cameramen and newspaper photographers at the edge of the security barricade. He didn't look at all out-of-place, snapping photos of the agents who had become as recognizable as celebrities to him, after all the months of research he'd conducted.
There was David Rossi, whom he'd known long before (if the Bureau was truly fair-minded, they would have shipped Rossi off to Timbuktu after Ruby Ridge, they should have disgraced him the way they disgraced John), and Aaron Hotchner, another fallen angel of the best and brightest who still somehow managed to lead one of the most elite units in the Bureau, both quietly talking and conferring back and forth under the pop-up tent that served as negotiation headquarters.
There was Jennifer Jareau, entering the mobile command center, which he knew held Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia and several other members of the team (god, imagine the work he could do, if they would let him in that van). Agent Jareau was a strange creature—she'd been scooped up by the Department of Defense, given a more powerful position, and yet she'd fought like hell to return to the BAU. She placed friendship over success and team loyalty over personal advancement, which made her a rare breed indeed.
A few seconds after Jareau entered the bus, two more agents exited—the lanky and unmistakable forms of Spencer Reid and Emily Prentiss, the resident genius and the walking dead, respectively. John bit back a snide smile at the illustrious Dr. Reid, over whom the Bureau always wet their pants, acting as if he were some rare and dazzling intellect—what a joke! Sure, the young man had the gift of eidetic memory, and his borderline-autistic brilliance ensured that he knew everything about anything, but he didn't have the skills to go with it. He had the knowledge, but he couldn't translate comprehension into application. John understood biochemicals and he could engineer them; he understood computer technology, and he could hack into some of the most sophisticated systems that the government had to offer. Could their precious doctor do that?
And then there was Agent Prentiss. Emily Prentiss, secret agent and international spy extraordinaire, the origin of John Curtis' angst, the match that had lit this obsessive and indignant fire which burned within him like the righteous and continuous fervor of a religious zealot.
Using his camera lens to get a closer look, he studied the raven-haired woman. She was acting oddly, keeping her shoulder slightly turned away from her companion, as if she were shielding herself from his scrutiny.
As if she were keeping a secret.
He frowned slightly, lowering his camera as he considered the ramifications of such a realization.
He didn't like not knowing the reason behind her sudden closedness. He needed to know.
His gaze was distracted by a blonde head bobbing through the throng of dark navy Kevlar vests and close-shaved men, easily moving around the cars and people with an efficiently crisp pace that said I'm somebody, I have somewhere to be.
Erin Strauss. It had to have been years since she was last in the field, and probably the first time she'd been asked to head off a major tactical situation like this, but she'd always had a sense of bravado that made her seem calm and collected, no matter how far out of her element she might be. He used to admire her for it. Now it just filled him with a dark desire to rip away her sense of security and cool assurance, the same way she'd ripped away his bright and shining future with the FBI. He wanted to prove her lacking in the way that she'd found him inadequate; he wanted to disgrace her in the way that she had dismissed him, exiling him to Kansas (Kansas, for Christ's sake).
The oblivious blonde wasn't the only person who would be disgraced and disproven—no, no, there was a list of people who would ultimately taste the bitter reality of what it truly meant to turn away from John Curtis—but at the moment, she was definitely a priority.
Jareau, Reid, and Prentiss left the scene, and later, the two women returned. Again, John noticed that the dark-haired woman seemed withdrawn, distant, perhaps even more so than she had earlier that morning.
He'd spent far too much time on the outside looking in. He turned away, slipping through the crowd, back towards his car, where his gear and credentials were. When he was a few blocks away, he heard the explosion, and suddenly, he began to smile.
Looks like Erin's already messed up again. Wonder who she'll blame for this one?
Amidst the smoke and the confusion, it was easy for John to slip through the barricades, with his official windbreaker and a quick flash of his credentials. He quietly stood behind several burly officers, listening to Agent Hotchner and Chief Strauss brief the responders (Aaron and Erin, how quaint and fitting, how perfectly matched, his dark to her light, their tones both so serious and authoritative, so easily in-synch as they finished each other's sentences, nodding in agreement with one another).
Of course, he wasn't here to help the wounded or carry the fallen. He was much more interested in the little knot of people at the center of this explosive drama. He shadowed Agent Prentiss, who was so engrossed in the situation that she never noticed him. He remembered the transcripts that he'd read from her questioning during the oversight hearing, after the Ian Doyle debacle (yet another firestorm that the miraculous Erin Strauss had survived, relatively unscathed). She'd sounded lovely and fervent and fierce, in so many ways reminding him of how Alex Blake used to be, before the final days in New York, before Erin Strauss had beaten them, before Alex had somehow become just another one of Erin's little lapdogs (the most capable and logical choice—you didn't get praise like that unless you were doing some serious ass-kissing).
He watched the younger woman, listening in on as many interactions as he could, carefully gathering bits of information to support his theory.
She was standing just outside the tactical van now, so deep in conversation on her cellphone that she seemed completely unaware of the people moving around her, much less the man standing only a feet away, quietly listening to her.
"Yes, you should fix that." Her tone was laced with sarcasm. Obviously, she knew the other person well. A beat passed as she listened to the response. Whatever was said certainly surprised her, because she took a deep breath and shook her head, her tone now teetering between frustration and amusement as she gave a slightly incredulous laugh, "You have always had bad timing."
There was another pause as she listened to the reply, and though she rolled her eyes, there was a moment in which she checked herself, as if perhaps she really had begun to consider whatever her companion was suggesting. Clearing her throat, she ended the phone call with a quick, "Yeah, I will."
Although he wasn't entirely certain of the nature of the request, John Curtis could tell by her reaction that she'd just received a proposition of some sort. She was a rather attractive woman, but given the nature of her conversation, he was certain that the offer was something a little more professional.
Emily Prentiss was going to leave the BAU again.
John Curtis knew this, knew it with every fiber of his being. How he knew such a thing was beyond comprehension, but he simply felt it, with the kind of heavy-weighted certainty that went further than a simple gut feeling. She'd blown the other person off, but she'd hesitated.
She had hesitated.
That millisecond of silence spoke volumes.
This time, he wouldn't be blindsided by the short list of replacements. Erin Strauss still had the chance to redeem herself, the chance to realize her mistake and put forth his name as the only truly suitable candidate for Prentiss' coveted spot in the BAU.
Emily Prentiss had fulfilled her use—he'd found out her secret, which had given him a temporary edge over the others. Now it was on to bigger things. His attention shifted to the other team members—to the two who would ultimately decide upon the replacement, the wonder twins Aaron and Erin.
He stood front and center as Agent Hotchner briefed them on the latest developments, and the younger man didn't recognize him. But in Hotchner's defense, he hadn't personally worked with John, and therefore he received a free pass on not immediately remembering his face (after all, they were in a different setting, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the situation, so it was understandable).
However, that did not excuse Erin Strauss. Several minutes later, he spotted her delicately picking her way through the rubble, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sidestepped another twisted piece of metallic debris, and John actually reached out, offering his hand for support, and she took it, grasping his fingers as she balanced unsteadily on one high-heeled boot to move around the metal.
"Thank you," she said softly and quickly, almost without thinking. She released her grip and offered a perfunctory smile of gratitude, so polite and politically-correct as always.
Her eyes (were they grey, green, or blue?) locked onto his for the briefest of flashes before she continued on her journey, so completely blind to the truth that was literally staring her in the face and holding her hand, quietly waiting to be recognized.
She'd forgotten him, had swept him under a rug with the rest of her problems from the Amerithrax case, had killed his career and quietly washed the blood off her hands without the slightest hint of remorse.
Erin Strauss had sealed her fate, and the fate of the entire BAU team as well. John had tried to be benevolent, tried to offer her one last chance at redemption, but she was too far in denial over her past transgressions to even see the olive branch, much less accept it.
Again, John Curtis' mission changed—now his focus was to gather as much intel as possible on the team members who would remain after Agent Prentiss' imminent flight. Though he doubted that he'd be able to glean much from the hurried and strained reactions occurring in this smoky situation, he still might as well use the up-close-and-personal access wisely, since there might not be many more excuses to walk alongside them in the near future. He continued to watch Emily Prentiss draw away from her colleagues, watched the others interact with each other, with strangers, with press, with hostages, all the little moments collecting like breadcrumbs to lead him to a better understanding of how they thought and operated, as individuals and as a collective.
Over an hour later, his eye caught a movement across the debris-riddled asphalt, and again, it was Erin Strauss, walking back to her vehicle, her bulletproof vest gone but her mental armor still firmly in-place as her face slipped into an unreadable mask. David Rossi was walking beside her, and suddenly, her hand reached out (so quickly, so furtively that John thought at first that he'd imagined it) and took Rossi's, giving it a quick squeeze. That action brought a slightly-awestruck smile to the dark-haired man's face, and they continued walking. Then he stopped, saying something into his comm set, and she turned to him with worried eyes.
John wasn't close enough to hear their exchange, but he could read the body language well enough to realize that Rossi was being called out into the field and Strauss was concerned for his safety. Rossi moved away again, and Strauss turned back to him, calling out again. She said something else, her expression soft and her eyes shining, and he replied with some kind of reassurance, because his face softened as well, and his hand went over his heart in an almost subconscious gesture.
His hand. Over his heart.
Her hand. Reaching for his.
John Curtis had just found his first secret weapon to use in his future assault on the BAU.
Oh, Erin Strauss. You naughty girl.
May 2013. Rural Virginia.
The alarm beeped, eliciting a groan from Erin, who rolled over, burrowing back under the covers as she mumbled, "Why is it already morning?"
David turned off the alarm, merely grinning as he turned back to her, diving under the comforter to find the warm and sleepy skin that always seemed like a golden peach in the pale morning light. He kissed the curve of her shoulder blade.
"We don't have time for that this morning," she flatly informed him. Though she loved the fact that he still wanted more of her, after all the times he'd had her last night, Erin Strauss was not nor would ever be a morning person, and she coveted her sleep like a dragon guards its gold.
"We might," he corrected.
"We're gonna be late," she countered.
She could feel him grinning against her skin. "That all depends on how long it takes for me to make you scream my name."
"David—"
"That doesn't count, bella. I'm looking for a very specific inflection here."
She gave a sleepy amused smile, "I thought you weren't a morning person."
"I'm not." He admitted, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her closer so that she could feel his erection pressing against her bottom. "But I am very much a morning sex person."
Despite the fact that the mere contact of his body with hers was enough to start that familiar heat deep within, her tone still held a warning, "If you make me late for work—"
"Calmati, bella. I set the alarm earlier than usual."
It was actually touching, knowing that he'd planned on starting his day by making love to her. Throughout the night, they'd awakened each other with soft kisses and sleepy caresses that sometimes turned into some semi-conscious sex, and she had found something comforting in the simple knowledge that they sought each other, even when they weren't cognizant. She hadn't had that kind of connection in a very long time, and she'd forgotten how much she'd missed it. Of course, that didn't stop Erin from raising a dubious eyebrow, "Rather presumptuous, aren't you, Mr. Rossi?"
"A well-established fact," he agreed, his hand slipping further down, to the thighs still satiny and warm with sleep, which she easily shifted for him, allowing him better access. She gave a small happy hum as he began waking her body with the simple strokes of his fingers, arching into him and grinding against his hardness as her own hand reached back to wander whatever planes of his body that she could reach.
Her other hand reached up and removed the pillow from under her head, using it as a prop for her left knee. Relishing the solid warmth of his chest against her shoulder blades, her fingers found themselves buried in his salt-and-pepper locks once his mouth began retasting and rediscovering her neck and the curve of her shoulder. She was turning her head, her mouth seeking out his own, a silent call which he gladly answered.
"I suppose this is a better wake-up call than coffee," she mused dryly.
"Do you want me to stop and go make you some coffee?" He asked, not even half-seriously, because that obviously wasn't going to happen.
"I can have coffee at the office."
"You can have this at the office, too," he gave a suggestive push of his hips, and she pretended to be shocked by his insinuations.
"David!"
"That filing credenza of yours is the perfect height," he pointed out, and she couldn't help but give a low chuckle.
"You've put some thought into this, haven't you?" The knowing amusement in her tone answered her own question (she'd never be so brazen as to actually have sex in her office, but this was good ammunition, a good way to tease him whenever he stopped by).
He simply kissed her again. Her left hand was on his hip, pulling him closer, letting him know that she was ready, and he entered her, filling with a certain delight at the feeling of her muscles contracting around him (he loved how easily he could arouse her, how receptive she was, how deliciously responsive her finely-tuned body was for him, loved that she shared his ardor and his passion, and could return it with a flame of equal heat and force, loved how perfectly matched they were and had always been, in so many ways).
She'd turned her face away again, pressing into the mattress as she softly murmured his name like some kind of arcane mantra. Though she seemed oblivious, he knew that she was doing this on purpose, because that was what he wanted, because she knew what it would do to him, and he loved it—he loved that she did it and he loved that he knew her well enough to know her reasons for doing it.
That was the measure of a soulmate, he was quite certain.
Quantico, Virginia.
His soulmate took a deep, quiet breath as they boarded the elevator, shifting into the corner to provide more room for the other passengers. On the drive to work, she'd become increasingly quieter as they'd moved closer to the rooms full of ominous photos and unanswered questions, closer to the reality that they'd been able to escape for the past few hours.
He simply reached over and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, which she returned with equal force, keeping her eyes focused straight ahead, and David realized that Erin was actually fighting back tears. He followed her to her office, waiting until he'd fully closed the door before speaking.
"Five days left." That was all he said, all he needed to say.
"I know," she took another unsteady breath through her lips, touching the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth (an odd little tell that she'd always had, the one that she gave when she was holding back, when she was busy pushing her fear into some small box to file away).
After a beat, she looked at him, "Is it odd that I actually wish he'd communicate with us again, just so we could have some new clue to go on?"
"No," he assured her softly. She gave a slight nod.
"Dr. Reid thinks it might be some kind of distraction," she said, though her voice held no hope.
"I know," he replied simply. "He told us his theory."
Again, her eyes were on his face, filled with the wariest of hopes as she asked, "Do you agree?"
He knew what she wanted, but he couldn't give her that—not if he was going to be honest with her.
"It's plausible," he kept his voice neutral. "But there are too many unknown variables. We just don't know enough about this guy yet, Erin."
That wasn't the reassurance that she was looking for, but she was still grateful for his candor. She simply nodded, crossing her arms over her chest as she compartmentalized her emotions once more.
One of the greatest joys of finally being able to recognize his true connection with Erin Strauss was the fact that David could now do what he did in that exact moment—he moved across the room to her, taking her in his arms, holding that blonde head against his chest as he kissed her forehead. He could finally comfort her, could finally find solace in her, could finally experience the simple healing power of touch, even in an embrace as chaste as this.
Her arms uncrossed themselves, slipping around him, pulling him closer to her. He felt her chest shift against his own as she simply breathed. They were in a strange new territory, being able to heal and support one another, and though it seemed odd and unbalanced, it also filled them both with relief and comfort. Erin softly smiled at the realization that this was just another adjustment to make, another sign that they were truly becoming something more. After a few more seconds, she pulled away slightly, turning her face up to his.
"I've got work to do," she regretfully informed him before rising up on her toes and planting a quick kiss on his mouth. "And so do you."
"You really think you're gonna get away with a simple peck?" He chided, his hands easily moving down to cup her ass and pull her back in. She grinned and tilted her chin towards him, giving a small hum when his tongue found its way back into her mouth. With one last pinch and a wink over his shoulder, he exited her office, grinning at her as she shook her head in mock disapproval of his naughty ways.
Slowly turning back to her desk, Erin took a moment to survey the room—the walls adorned with the physical proof of her dedication to the Bureau and the good ol' American way, the heavy glass vases, the smiling faces of her children, the stacks of files, the unrelenting stream of work that would not allow her to be distracted.
Her mind suddenly flickered with the ghost of an idea. She moved back to the stack of action reports, which still needed to be filed.
Her own words echoed in her brain, the words she'd spoken to David just a week ago, when she first began to suspect that the Replicator was an insider.
He knew both of us. Very well. Someone who knew them, who had known them for years, who also knew the movements of her team, knew the cases like the back of his hand—knew details that had never been released, details that were only published in the confidential reports.
It had to be someone who saw the reports—either the reports filed by the team to her office, or the reports filed by her to the higher ups. It was a short list, and a dangerous conjecture, but Erin felt that familiar humming beneath her veins (the same thing she used to feel when connecting the dots in a paper trail, or upon finally finding that unlisted account in the Cayman Islands, or when the final detail in a mapping analysis clicked into place), and she knew that she was right, even if she couldn't prove it yet.
Yet.
Erin Strauss was not a chess player. It was too static for her, required too much patience and idle inaction. However, in her younger years, she had been an avid fencer—she'd loved the adrenaline humming through her veins, the breath before the lunge, the push to be quick on her feet and quicker with her mind.
She wasn't one to think twenty moves ahead and hope that her opponent took those moves. She wasn't one for deflection and distraction. She was a creature who pushed, who egged her opponent into moving and reacting right now. She was one to feint, to prick her opposition's skin, to taunt and lunge and retreat and act and react, to make them move, to make them misstep, to force their hand and force them into making a mistake.
So she decided that it was time to throw out the bishops and knights and bring in the épées and sabres. Enough intellectualism—it was time to start drawing blood.
With a sudden sense of determination, Erin sat at her desk, turning the chair around to face the computer. She pulled up the blank format and grabbed the stack of reports, quickly finding one that suited her needs—Phillip Connor, the cutter from Detroit.
She quickly filled in the basic details, using her usual, concise style that had made her reports a model for all others. She pursed her lips as she typed:
'Connor was an equal opportunity anger-retaliatory sadist.' (Just like you, whomever you are, you fucker.)
Holding her breath, she added the next line, the little bait with which to catch her big fish:
'Connor cut an infinity symbol into his victim's wrist.'
It wasn't true, not in the least. Once the Replicator was caught, she would go back and amend that statement, just for future reference. For now, she would use it as the perfect trap—the team didn't know that she'd lied on the report, so if the Replicator was someone who followed the team, or someone who had access to the team's reports, and he replicated this crime, then the symbol would not appear; the people reading her reports didn't know that she'd lied, either, so if the symbol did appear, then it meant the UNSUB was on her mailing list.
She finished her report and quickly scanned it for any errors before sending it off. Then she sat back in her chair, biting her lip. It was a bold move, but one so cleverly calculated—the kind of thing that had gotten her this far in life—and she actually felt a surge of adrenaline. Finally, she was getting the chance to throw the ball back into this bastard's court, to shoot a volley across the bow.
"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly...come and get it, buddy. I'm gonna raze you to the ground.
*Author's Note: "Will you walk into my parlour?" is taken from the cautionary tale, "The Spider and the Fly" by Mary Howitt, which oddly enough was one of my favorite children's tales growing up. Also, the two lines taken from Erin's action report on Phillip Connor are actually verbatim from the copy of the report that Hotch, Garcia, and Kevin read in 8.24 The Replicator. So those aren't my words either, but rather the work of some very wonderful person on the production team. And Strauss' "tell" of touching her tongue to the corner or side of her mouth is not my invention—it's totally something Jayne Atkinson does whenever her character is frustrated, perplexed, frightened, or holding back what is likely a scathing retort. Go back and look for it. It's there.*