Some Unholy War
"In a battle, all you need to make you fight is a little hot blood and the knowledge that it's more dangerous to lose than to win." ~George Bernard Shaw
May 2013. Quantico, Virginia.
"Anger-excitation with a non-preferential victimology and an accelerating timeframe," Alex pronounced as she scanned the reports on their latest consult case. Hotch was standing beside her, but she didn't even bother to look up for his confirmation. She gave a slight frown as she continued, "They need to make this guy a priority—he's escalating, and anger-excitation rapists are the most likely to become serial killers, due to their sadistic tendencies."
"Agreed," Aaron gave a curt nod, taking the folder that Blake handed back to him and giving it one last cursory glance. "I'm going to give them a call this morning and let them know what to look for."
"I can type up a bullet-point profile to send along with it," she offered with a small smile, one tinged with the slightest hint of sympathy (he looked so drawn and pale, and she knew that it was because he was staying up at night, keeping vigil over his son and praying that history wouldn't repeat itself and he wouldn't be responsible for the loss of yet another person whom he loved).
"I would appreciate that," he replied in his usual tone. She knew that she hadn't yet made it into whatever inner sanctum of Hotch's confidence that allowed him to be anything less than her team leader, so she simply nodded and let him retain his detachment.
The glass door opened, catching both of their attention, and their heads snapped up simultaneously to see David Rossi breezing into the BAU. He gave them a slight smile and a nod of greeting as he continued up to his office, his dark eyes twinkling and his entire manner easy and relaxed.
Aaron and Alex turned back to each other, both obviously thinking the same thing, because the corner of his mouth curled into a grin and she tried to fight back a laugh.
Blake set the rest of her consult notes back on her desk, flashing one last conspiratorial smile over her shoulder as she mounted the landing—no way was she going to let the chance to tease Dave slip by untaken.
"So," she leaned against the door frame of Rossi's office, crossing her arms over her chest in a nonchalant pose. "I guess Erin will have lots to talk about whenever we go out for coffee."
Sweet God in Heaven, David Rossi actually blushed at the comment. It was so foreign and intriguing and adorable that Alex actually made a little sound of surprise at his reaction. Dave Rossi, the infamous cool cucumber, the forever-grinning Cheshire Cat, was blushing like a little boy.
"Don't make this a big thing, Alex—"
"Oh, we are way past the point of me not making this a big thing," she informed him. With another amused smile, she shook her head in wonder, "I don't think I've ever seen you blush, Dave. Ever. I mean, in all the years I've known you, I really don't think—"
"Alex, I'm human. Humans blush. It's a thing—"
"A thing people do when someone mentions another certain someone whom they happen to like—"
"We're way past that—"
"I figured as much, based on how spryly you stepped through the door this morning," she quipped with a dry grin. Quickly, she held up her hands in mock defense, "Please, spare me the details, though. I don't really need to know."
He laughed at her antics (she reminded him so much of his younger sister right now, with her devilish dancing eyes and juvenile remarks), "I'm not one to kiss and tell, so you're safe."
"Good," her grin deepened into something less playful, something warmer and happier. Dave was a good man, and more importantly, he was a good friend, and she was so glad to see the storm clouds gone from his eyes.
There was a beat of amused silence as they simply looked at one another.
"I'm happy for you," she stated, rather unnecessarily.
"I know." He smiled again.
"I know you know. I just wanted you to hear those words aloud." He understood the meaning behind her statement—despite the fact that their relationship had greatly improved over the past few months, Alex Blake still wasn't Erin Strauss' biggest fan, but she didn't want her friend to doubt that she was happy for his happiness. She didn't want him to just think that she was happy for him, she wanted him to truly know that she was.
"Now are you gonna stop harassing me and let me get some work done?" He tried to give his most severe and reprimanding look, though he was certain that it failed.
With another grin, Alex stepped away from his door. She turned back to Hotch, who was still watching this whole exchange from the bullpen, giving him a quick thumbs-up, wordlessly confirming that their diagnosis was correct, and he grinned in response.
David witnessed this silent conversation between his two co-workers and he gave a soft chuckle at the realization that nothing ever stayed a secret in a room full of profilers.
Well, some things did.
He was dead certain that no one on the team would ever know the truth about Christopher. He had meant what he'd said to Erin the day before—he never wanted their son to have to deal with the emotional turmoil of learning that his whole life was lie, and David would do whatever it took to ensure that never happened.
It was strange, how instantly and deeply he loved his son, the moment he had learned the truth (despite how painful and heartbreaking that truth had been). He'd been torn between wanting to walk away from the pain and needing to know everything about the young man who now connected David to Erin on a level far deeper than anything else ever could.
Erin had sensed this need, because she'd begun slowly telling him little stories about Christopher's life, bestowing them like gifts throughout the course of the past evening, and suddenly the marks on Erin's body left by her children took on a new meaning (because some of those marks were proof that she had carried his son and his love inside of her, resting just below her heart with the quiet weight of reality, a silent and unseen herald of all they had been and all they would ever be). Last night, he'd laid his head on her breast, his fingers lightly trailing over the slight ridges on her abdomen, the old scars which gleamed white in the dim lamplight, and she'd quietly told him tales of their son, her smooth and deep cadence humming through her chest and into the ear that was pressed against her warm flesh as her fingers lightly danced across his back and through his hair. It had been soft and golden and beautiful and David had actually shed a few tears, because it reminded him of the quiet moments with Carolyn, before James was born, when the world still seemed so hopeful and full of promise.
Erin had given him Christopher. Christopher had given him some semblance of that soft, sweet naiveté that hadn't filled David's heart since the loss of his first son.
God, he'd kill the man who dared to threaten his son, who sought to shame them with him (really, how could they ever be ashamed of such a thing, of such a boy, of such a gift?), who tried to ransack the defenses of his warrior-lover, who no doubt found such malicious delight in their suffering. He'd kill him with his bare hands.
This thought brought back another image from the night before—after Erin had finished telling her sweet stories, she had asked a deathly quiet question (David…David, if you're the one who catches him….will you make sure he dies? I want him to enter the FBI building in a body bag. Will you, will you make that happen?), and he had somberly answered her (On all that is good and holy, bella, I swear I'll kill that bastard as soon as I catch him). They had both simply stared at each other, understanding that this was more than just the need for justice, this had become a blood feud, a battle for survival that could only end one way. She had given a curt nod of her head, her grey-green eyes hard and glittering like diamonds as she kissed him fiercely (Good.) and then she had pushed him back onto the mattress, her movements slow and weighted and burning with the single intent and ferocity of a lioness. They had both been angry, but not at each other, and in that darkness, yet another bond was formed between them—whoever this Replicator truly was, he would never live to stand trial, or to even answer a single question on his crimes (because the two predators that they were would never allow it, because they would never give him the chance to ruin their son's life, they would teach him what it truly meant to take on the tigers and their young, because they were creatures of blood and fire and fangs, and they would show him just how grievous a mistake it was to cross them).
As his mind played the reel of images that followed that pact (Erin on top of him, hips rolling and breathing jagged and fingers biting into his chest, lips pressed into a determined line), David suddenly realized that he shouldn't—couldn't—be thinking about these things at work. His body was already responding to the memories, and he couldn't afford to be distracted. Not now, not when the stakes were so high.
He gave a slight groan when a flash of movement caught his eye and he saw the source of his distraction barreling through the bullpen (Sweet Jesus in shortpants, how could he not be distracted when she was just right there, all delicious heat and smooth movements and flashing eyes?). She stopped to speak to Reid, who apparently had arrived sometime during David's reverie, her face filled with concern as the young doctor answered whatever question she had.
David could guess both the question and the answer, and he felt another wave of hot hatred towards the unknown bastard who was responsible for the worried look in Erin's eyes.
Yes. I will kill him, bella. I'll look him dead in the eye and kill the son of bitch who has done this to us.
October 1998. Somerset, Massachusetts.
The tiny kitchen, which had once been the safest place in the world to Erin, seemed even tinier now that she was grown up, now that it was filled to the brim with family and light. The Breyer clan had all trekked up to their first home for the annual family reunion with the rest of Jameson's siblings, and despite their long history of slights and spats, everyone was currently in a festive and loving mood, creating an unbelievably domestic scene. Paul was upstairs, tucking in a very sleepy and grumpy Anna Claire, and Peter was still running around outside with Jordan and her cousins, playing kick-the-can under the sickly light of the old street lamps, and Erin's heart felt as warm and full as her mother's kitchen. She was still seated at the worn wooden table, playing an impromptu round of cards with Carole, Andrew, and their mother, who was waiting on another pie to finish baking for the next day's family gathering. Carole was sitting next to Erin, feet propped up on another chair in an effort to alleviate the swelling brought on by her final month of pregnancy, and Andrew was directly across from her, quietly sipping some iced tea as he waited for his mother's next play. Next to Andrew sat Elaine, whose brow furrowed in concentration as she shuffled through her cards.
Christopher was in the kitchen, too, quietly standing in the space between his mother and his grandmother, his large eyes taking in every nuance of the room. Erin could tell from his adorably concentrated expression that he was deep in thought over something, and she was almost afraid to know what was going through her son's mind because usually, that particular expression meant that he was crafting some master plan. The old adage about toddlers was always true when applied to Christopher Strauss—when things became silent, you should get worried. He occasionally glanced over at Carole, and Erin wondered if he was just curious about her strange transformation (he had been too young to remember her own pregnancy with Anna, and he'd never really been around another pregnant woman before, so this was a new experience for him).
Christopher quietly sidled up to his mother, his dark eyes so somber as he seriously intoned, "Mama, I think Aunt Carole swallowed a frog."
"What?" Erin tried to keep her smile in check (he always had such a strange imagination, this beautiful son of hers).
"Look," he whispered, nodding his head in Carole's direction (he'd been taught that it was impolite to point).
Erin glanced over and suddenly burst into laughter. The baby was kicking, visibly rippling the tight and full skin of her sister's belly, and it truly did look like a frog trying to break free, fluttering and hopping about underneath her skin.
"What on earth is going on?" Carole turned to her elder sister and her nephew, whose childish face was still filled with concern (he wasn't sure why his mother thought it was so funny, because having a frog flopping around in your tummy did not seem like a laughing matter at all).
"Chris thinks you might have swallowed a frog," Erin informed her, motioning in the direction of her sister's baby bump, suddenly losing her smile as she held her breath and waited for her sister's reaction (Carole didn't always share her sense of humor, she always was particularly prickly when it came to Erin, and her older sister suddenly realized that her laughter could be mistaken as something crueler than simple amusement at her son's imagination).
Andrew sputtered his drink back into the glass as he erupted into laughter. Even Elaine grinned as she gave her youngest son a warning spat on the shoulder (everyone was aware of how touchy Carole could be, and she didn't want them upsetting her daughter at a time like this).
Thankfully, Carole understood, because her hand went to the place where the child was kicking, and she, too, began to laugh—a small chuckle that built into a full laugh. Then Erin was laughing again (half in relief, half in mirth) as she lovingly caressed her son's dark head. He still was not amused, still very concerned for his aunt's welfare.
"It's just the baby kicking," Erin explained. "You used to do that, too, when you were still inside Mommy's belly."
"I did?" His face skewed in adorable confusion.
"You used to hop around like a little bunny rabbit," Elaine informed him, reaching over to scoop her grandson into her lap (it always amazed Erin, how tender and affectionate Elaine was with her grandchildren, how doting and mellow she'd become).
Christopher grinned at the imagery, looking around the table at his family, who were all still laughing. He looked to his smiling mother, whose eyes were shining at him in a familiar expression of love and adoration, "Did I really hop around like a bunny, Mama?"
"All the time," she reached over to pinch the tip of his nose, and he pretended to shy away, though he still wore the smug smile of a child who knows he is truly worshipped.
There was a beat of silence as everyone calmed down. Then Andrew suddenly roared again, sending both of his sisters into fits as well—Carole with her dainty giggle and Erin with her booming bray that could shatter glass. Christopher started laughing, too (because his mother was laughing and he liked laughing with her, liked knowing that she was laughing because he'd made her laugh), feeling so warm and happy in the small kitchen of his grandparents' old home, surrounded by his family.
Erin leaned forward on the table, propping her cheek against her fist as she smiled at the faces around her. She'd once read somewhere that a child could change everything—it could heal the wounds of ages past, it could strengthen families of the weakest bond, could cast away the darkest shadow of sorrow—and she knew that it was true. Here they sat, the strange and tangled connections of the Breyer clan, with their resentments and mutual history and old scars and soft loves, laughing together because of the simple words of a child.
It had been almost two months since her venomous final parting with David Rossi, but Erin still hadn't healed (in fact, she'd gone home and cried like a child the last time they'd spoken, the day of their ugly, bitter fight). There were still jagged edges in the corners of her heart that needed soothing and smoothing, but oh, moments like these always made the pain more bearable, when her sweet, shining, witty, wonderful son made her laugh so hard that her stomach hurt and tears filled her eyes. In fact, it was moments like these that made her realize that she could never regret the path she'd taken, because it had given her this jewel, this treasure so rare and beautiful, this curious little creature that had the power to change worlds with his smile, the power to heal wounds and bring together broken pieces with his innocence and charm.
The little boy who so unwittingly ruled the Universe was beaming at her, ecstatic to merely be the cause of his mother's smile, and she beamed back at him, her heart filling with another rush of love.
Oh, he is my gift. In so many ways, he is my gift.
May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.
David took a moment to soak up this purely domestic moment, this live-action Normal Rockwell unfolding before him as he sat at Erin's dinner table, watching as she and Jordan bustled around the open kitchen, clearing away the table, loading the dishwasher, moving around each other without even having to glance up, like some intricately choreographed dance as they completed their tasks (he'd offered to help, but Erin had sternly informed him that since he'd prepared dinner, he could not break the rule of the House of Strauss—he who cooks does not clean).
Anna was still seated at the table, texting away (Erin had confiscated the phone during dinner, so now that it was back in her possession, the teen was trying to respond to all the messages she'd received). David glanced around, silently wondering to where Christopher had disappeared. Then he heard the first muffled chords of a guitar.
Erin hear the sound as well, because she stopped for a moment, turning back to David and nodding towards the French doors (he's in the backyard, go to him). He couldn't help but smile, wondering if that was part of the reason that she hadn't let him help—so that he could have the excuse to be alone with Christopher, without making it too obvious.
He quietly slipped outside, taking a moment to watch the young man who was perched on the edge of a deck chair, too absorbed in his music to notice.
Once David moved closer, the movement caught his son's eye and Chris looked up with a small smile, his fingers still softly strumming the chords.
"You're pretty good," David motioned to the guitar.
"Been taking lessons since I was in middle school," Chris answered easily. "Mom made all of us learn a musical instrument. Said it broadened our cultural horizons."
David snorted at the statement—it sounded so high-brow and so positively Erin that he could actually hear her saying it in his head.
"I wanted to learn how to play the drums, but she quickly vetoed that idea," the younger man continued with a wry grin. "She told me I could choose between piano and guitar. Naturally, I wanted to pick up chicks, so I chose guitar."
"You don't think piano men get girls?" David's question was met by a short bark of a laugh (so much like Erin's). He persisted, "Seriously. What about Dean Martin?"
"You know, that's the exact same example Mom used," Chris shook his head with another wry chuckle. "It's like there was only one cool cat who played the piano, so suddenly he's the rule and not the exception?"
"Ray Charles."
"Also an exception."
"Jerry Lee Lewis."
"The man married his cousin when she was way young, dude. Not a good example at all."
David laughed in agreement at Christopher's assessment, giving a slight shrug of defeat, "OK, so maybe you were better off becoming a rock star."
"I'm not a rock star," Chris gave a sly grin. "College girls don't want rock stars—they want Bob Dylan. They want someone with brains, with words that makes sense and have real meaning."
"Do you write your own songs?"
"I've got a few that I'm working on, but they've got a long way to go."
"Would you mind playing one for me?" David tried to hide the nervousness in his voice, for he feared not being allowed to learn more about his son's mind and personality, feared pushing too far too soon and scaring Chris away.
"I don't think it's your style," Chris gave a slight shrug, his tone bordering somewhere between evasion and taunting. With a completely deadpan expression, he turned his face up to the old man, "I mean, it's no Mambo Italiano."
The double reference to Dean Martin and David's heritage was not lost on the older man, and he laughed at the quip. Chris broke into a smile as well.
"I'm serious. I'd like to hear something of yours," David sat in the deck chair next to Christopher's.
"You sure?" Suddenly, Chris seemed very young and hesitant, as if he feared disappointing the older man with his work.
"Absolutely."
"Alright. Just…just remember, it's still in the early stages."
"Understood."
"Very rough draft."
"Got it." David gave a curt nod.
"I mean, there's a lot—"
"Sweet Jesus in shortpants, son, before I die of old age, play the song!"
Now it was Chris' turn to laugh, and David felt a soft ripple of happiness at the thought that he'd just called him by his true title (son), and the young man hadn't even flinched, perhaps hadn't even noticed (that was OK, too, because even if Christopher never truly understood everything that word held and meant for David, it wouldn't change the truth behind it).
Clearing his throat and offering one last shy smile (please like it), Chris began delicately picking out the opening chords, his deep-but-soft voice gathering strength as he became less nervous, lifting onto the late night breeze and drifting into the rippling leaves of the morning glory vines that shivered and danced in time with his music.
From inside the house, Erin watched her son and his father, sitting quietly in the warm summer night, the slightest strains of Christopher's guitar slipping through the closed doors and into her heart with a gentle ease. She blinked back tears (gods, how easily she cried these days) and quietly went about her work, allowing them to truly have a few moments alone. She wanted David to have memories of Christopher that didn't include her, memories that were his very own, not secondhand stories she'd gifted to him, not moments where Chris' presence was merely guaranteed because hers was there as well—she wanted Chris to want to spend time with David, wanted David to know that Chris didn't merely tolerate him as his mother's boyfriend, and she hoped that their quiet time together would make Christopher trust David like a father, in the way that he deserved to be trusted and loved.
After the kitchen was cleaned and cleared, Anna disappeared upstairs and Jordan curled up in the living room to watch reruns of The West Wing (that was her go-to comfort, she'd watched each episode so many times that she could quote them by heart), so Erin simply retired to her own room to read.
Several chapters later, she heard David and Christopher laughing as they re-entered the house. They wished each other good night, and she was fairly certain she heard the slight pat of a hand on a back (they were hugging, she could sense it), and she heard David softly telling Chris that everything was going to be OK.
Then he was in the room with her, quietly shutting the door and sitting on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off. She set down her book and crawled towards him, sitting up on her knees and lightly tracing the lines of his shoulders as she quietly asked, "Y'okay?"
"I'm better than OK, bella," he returned softly, swiveling to reach for her and pull her closer. She took off her glasses before meeting his mouth with her own, leaning forward a little when she felt the strength of his arm still supporting her.
"We have to be quiet tonight," she reminded him. He gave a slight chuckle and she sat back, "What?"
"It's just so domestic. Very unlike the Erin I know."
She shared his wicked grin, leaning forward again as her voice dipped into a taunting tone, "It looks like I'll have to teach you something new yet again, Mr. Rossi. There's a difference between being quiet and being tame."
"That is one lesson I am very eager to learn, kitten."
David Rossi was a very fast learner, Erin could not deny that. She gave a grin at the thought as his mouth covered her own again, muffling their mutual moans as he pushed further in and she welcomed him, wrapping her legs tighter around him.
When it came to passion and sex, her dark-haired lover had always been very intense, very committed to the moment and the feeling and the breath and the heat (it had scared her, the first time she'd been with him, how quiet and concentrated he'd become, how attentive and slowly scorchingly focused, how grounded and present he'd been, but now it was something she loved, something she appreciated and tried to reciprocate), but tonight, there seemed to be something further, something stronger and more direct behind his gaze. She tried to read the deep brown eyes that never left her own, but she found herself drowning in their dark depths, all coherent thought escaping her mind as she filled with more heat, more longing for the man who was already so deep inside of her. With a soft sigh, she raised her head to kiss him again. This time, she didn't close her eyes. Neither did he.
"I meant what I said last night," he whispered hoarsely, his mouth still so close to her own that his lips brushed across hers as he spoke.
"What?" She tried to clear the haze in her mind, tried to decipher his meaning.
"I won't ever let that bastard hurt our son," he answered, his movements changing and matching his fierce tone.
"I know," she answered simply, her arms slipping around his back as her fingers pressed into the flesh of his shoulder blades, encouraging him. "And I won't, either."
"What if I'm not the one who gets to him first?" David asked, though he already knew the answer.
His skin was set on fire by the determined look in those green eyes as her voice dipped into a lower, darker shade, "If he makes it back into FBI custody, I'll find a way to kill him myself. Let them charge me with murder; I'll take the stand as an emotionally distraught mother. No one in the world would blame me."
She was serious, deathly so. She was his hard and shining lover, not a mere queen but a calculating tactician in a bloody battle, one with the cool intellect to formulate such a strategy and the adamantine resolve to see it through.
They had just truly made a pact to kill a man, but it certainly wasn't in cold blood—no, their blood was hot and alive with fury and fire and determination, a thing of sharp edges and unyielding determination. It was yet another new plane in the strange journey of their relationship, another line that was crossed, another point of no return, another Rubicon crossed, another bridge burned, and yet for the first time, this burning bridge did not weaken their bond, but rather strengthened it. They were forever united in this cause, forever bound by this crusade.
They were fighting an unholy war, fighting side-by-side (so different from the years spent turning their spears and shields on one another) against an unknown foe with the heated fervor that all creatures feel when their survival is threatened—but they were fighting for something so much more important than their own pride or survival, they were fighting for their son. In that moment, in the mutual acknowledgement of their irrevocable agreement, in the final tying of their fates to each other, David felt Erin's climax rumbling underneath him like the foreshock of an earthquake, though she kept her eyes locked onto his, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she tried to suppress the cry building in her chest. She held on for as long as she could, finally pulling his mouth onto hers with a sudden ferocity as she breathed into him, something between a growl and a groan as her body froze in a moment of ecstatic agony.
As he found his own release, moaning into her open and pulsing mouth, David was certain that he tasted the coppery tang of blood. An oath was given, a compact was made, and now it was sealed in deepest, darkest bond of all—the bond of blood.
"And as the world comes to an end, I'll be here to hold your hand, 'cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart." ~Of Monsters & Men, 'King and Lionheart'
*Author's Note: Yes, I totally named this chapter after an Amy Winehouse song. Also, for the next two weeks, please expect fewer updates than usual—I currently have a project entered in a film prize competition, and we go into post-production this week (almost two weeks behind production schedule, gotta love filmmaking), which means all of my energy and time will be spent in the editing bay or with my score composer, since we are working on a very short deadline. I humbly ask for your patience and understanding…and I promise that it will be worth the wait. Thanks again for all the wonderful reviews and encouragement.*