Skeletons on Parade

"But as in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of today, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been." ~Edgar Allan Poe

May 2013. Washington, D.C.

Erin Strauss chewed her bottom lip distractedly, not really listening to the other person speaking as her eyes cautiously scanned the room.

She hated waiting. She was so horribly bad at it.

She had laid her trap for the Replicator, but she couldn't be content just to sit back and wait for him to reveal himself. Her body was filled with a weird pulsing energy, some anxious pounding dread that made her insides quiver with the need to move, to go, to do.

She hadn't told David about changing the report. She couldn't, even though she didn't like keeping it from him (she'd promised that there were no more secrets between them, but this was a necessary thing, a Chinese wall to ensure that her trap was well-set). Last night, after he'd drifted to sleep, she had gotten up, too nervous to lie still, and had re-organized every single book in her study (twice), had swept the floors and dusted the living room, had alphabetically sorted every spice on the rack in the kitchen, had folded every piece of clean laundry and exhausted every excuse to be up and moving. On a positive note, her home hadn't suffered from the fact that she hadn't let the housecleaner come by for the past two weeks (she couldn't have anyone in her home besides her family, not right now, not when the Replicator could be anyone, anywhere). Then she had slipped back into bed and watched David sleep, envious of his ability to simply be still.

Today, she was starting her morning with another AA meeting. Though she didn't truly expect to find the Replicator smiling back at her, she still held the faintest hope that she might spot him there, or that she might notice someone on the street or someone who watched her too intently at the coffee shop. If he stalked the entire team, then he had to have some kind of schedule, certain days when he followed a certain team member—when was it her turn? Would she be able to even know or notice?

Any day could be the day. Any moment could be the moment of discovery, the final clicking of recognition, the falling into place of the next puzzle piece. She must be vigilant, alert, ready.

Of course, attending these meetings was a double-bounty, because she had to keep records of when she attended, as part of her agreement with her superiors (which defeated the purpose of the whole 'anonymous' thing, but it had been a stipulation that had allowed her to keep her job, so she dutifully assented). Right now, the director was so pleased to know that in a time of stress, she was drawing closer to some Higher Power for support and strength (even more pleased because it had been his suggestion and she had followed it, furthering the almost feudal hierarchy that reigned within the Bureau).

Let the director think that she was being a good girl. She needed some goodwill to pad her personnel file, because she was fairly certain that soon, her actions were going to get her into some serious trouble. If she were forced to enact her part of the pact with David (if he makes it back into FBI custody, I'll find a way to kill him myself), she would need to establish an abrupt change in behavior, brought on by the stress of this UNSUB threatening her child. Her near-religious devotion to her AA meetings could be used as proof that she was desperately seeking some kind of help to deal with this burden, and Erin hadn't wasted her life spent around judges and lawyers and men who determined mens rea and actus reus and reasonable doubt and points of evidence—she knew how to build a case, to establish a defense long before it was actually needed.

That was where this bastard had made his deadliest mistake—he knew about David and Erin, but he didn't know them. He thought that he did, and his smug assumption blinded him. He underestimated her. To Erin, who'd spent a good part of her young adult life being underestimated and dismissed without a second glance, this was actually a boon. When someone underestimated her, he gave her the power to surprise him, to overtake him, to slip past his defenses and take out his throat before he even knew what had happened. She would use this to her advantage. She would use his own weakness against him. And she would win.

Now if only he would hurry up and make a move.

September 2012. Washington, D.C.

Killing someone was easier than John Curtis thought it would be. He expected to feel the stereotypical angst over his actions, the need to reason and justify to himself, but surprisingly, that hadn't happened.

It had to be done. So he did it. No remorse, no hesitation, no regrets.

He was proud of himself, for being able to remain logical and rational throughout the process, for being unmoved by the pleas and the sheer desperate humanity of it all. He didn't find any particular joy in it (it was simply a task, a necessary thing that must be done, like washing dishes or taking out the garbage, a vital step in his intricate plan against the BAU), and that was reassuring as well. It meant that he was still in-control. He could do anything that he put his brilliant mind to, and he could do it without being overrun by sloppy human emotions.

Now he was waiting for the oh-so-clever band of behavioral analysts to realize the similarities between his work and the case they'd closed just two weeks ago—the very first case for SSA Alex Blake.

Of course, he wasn't just waiting. No, no, he had so much more to do. And if this were going to be the wonderfully constructed chess match that he'd hoped for, then he couldn't simply rest on his laurels—when it was your opponent's move, you didn't simply switch your brain off while they considered their next advance; you predicted and prepared for every possible move they would make and every three moves after that, too. You played the whole game, saw the whole board.

Right now, he was doing just that—learning the layout of the rest of the board. There were so many pieces, so many players to unravel and understand.

Now, technically, the team as a unit was the king on the chessboard, the thing to be checked and capitulated. But there was one more piece that still held more power, though less significance—the queen. The game could continue without her, but John wanted her to be the last to fall before checking the entire Bureau with his final act of defiance.

Erin Strauss. The shining girl of the Bureau, the white queen. How perfectly fitting—except for the fact that she wasn't quite as pristine as her chess counterpart, with her blood-stained hands and her dirty sins of days past.

Yes, he was learning a lot more about her recently. For example, right now he was quietly sitting in the outer hallway of the church basement, listening to her soft and deep voice echoing through the concrete rooms as she shakingly recounted her booze-soaked history to a group of strangers in the next room.

She'd even mentioned something about having an affair, a one-nighter with a colleague—he knew who it was, because he'd seen the way she'd reached for him, that day at the bank. David Rossi.

He also remembered that when he'd held her hand, helping her over the rubble, her wedding ring had been missing. A quick search of court records had revealed that Paul and Erin Strauss were now legally divorced, though they first separated about a year ago (just before she went into detox for the last time). But the way that Strauss and Rossi had looked at one another—that was not something new, not something that had just sprung into life, but rather something built out of years of knowing, years of sideways glances and other little moments that piled up into a tangled mess of sticky human emotions.

John remembered that the divorce petition had also mentioned a minor child, one Anna Claire Strauss—he wondered how Erin's darling daughter would react to finding out that Mommy dearest had slept around while she was still married to Daddy. With a wicked grin, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and began searching the web (Strauss wasn't speaking anymore, so he didn't have to pay so much attention to what was happening in the other room).

He found Anna Claire on a social networking site (of course, her profile wasn't set to private, because kids never thought about these things). He looked at her profile picture—my, she does look like Erin—and when he flipped over to the next photo, his eyes lit up.

'With the sibs' was the caption. Two more faces smiled back at him from some tropical locale, bright-faced and happy. These two must be over 18, which was why they weren't mentioned in the custody proceedings. The other daughter didn't favor Erin as much, though she still had those eyes.

But the son. Now he did favor someone, but not Erin.

He looked remarkably like David Rossi.

John had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing at this fortuitous turn of events. Surely Fate and Karma had chosen his side in this fight, because, really, how else could such a thing be possible?

Oh, Erin. I'm going to resurrect all the skeletons in your closet, and we're going to have a parade. Just for you.

December 2011. Somerville Military Academy, Oceanside, Florida.

Something was wrong. David's dark eyes quietly observed Morgan and Hotch, who were currently holding a conversation out in the hallway, as he and Prentiss returned to the library to share their latest news—and from Morgan's tense and agitated body language, it certainly wasn't a pleasant discussion.

Over two hours later, the entire team was reassembled to debrief the events of the afternoon. Erin was seated at the table, staring down at her hands with a blank expression (she seemed to do that a lot lately, simply checking out of her body while her mind wandered). However, when Morgan entered the room, her shoulders hitched just slightly, as if she was preparing for some new battle. And despite the warnings that were radiating off Erin's frame like pulsars, Morgan sat next to the section chief as she crossed her arms over her chest in response, as if further shutting him out (God bless you, poor boy, for whatever you've done and whatever hell you're about to receive from Erin Strauss). David took a seat across the table, enabling him to get a better view of this micro-drama unfolding between the two.

Everyone did a quick debrief, each pair of partners informing the rest of the team of the latest events. Whenever it was Morgan and Strauss' turn, the younger man gave a quick, uneasy look at the blonde seated next to him, but she didn't even deign to acknowledge his presence. He turned his attention back to the others, briefly recapping their encounter with Colonel Massey earlier that day (and graciously omitting the way it really ended).

As someone else began to speak, David kept his attention focused on Morgan and Erin—those two didn't exactly have the smoothest working relationship, but normally things weren't this tense between the brash young agent and his superior. And it was a strange turn, because he didn't seem angry at her, but rather concerned (his gaze kept flitting over to her impassive profile, almost as if he was hoping for some new reaction, almost as if he wanted to say something, but didn't dare). However, Erin looked livid, in the quiet, dangerous way that announced the imminent arrival of Really Angry Erin.

And in a horribly childish and selfish way, David Rossi felt a pang of jealousy. He used to be the only one who could inspire such a reaction in Erin Strauss. He'd always seen it as some kind of perverse badge of honor (he was the only one who bore the brunt of her virulent anger, but then again, he was the only one who enjoyed the equal intensity of her passion, whenever everything else between them became overwhelming), and he didn't like the idea of sharing that (especially the flip side of this strange coin) with anyone else.

Right now, Erin Strauss was holding a mental debate over whether she wanted to cry or simply shriek, although neither of those options were appropriate at this particular time, and especially not in this particular place.

Gods, she'd really fucked it up this time. For years, she'd prided herself on being a professional, on never letting her personal life seep into her job, on being able to separate emotion and focus on the task at hand—and now, all of that was gone, ruined by one wrong choice too many.

Andrew was dying, Paul was leaving, and here she was, adding fuel to the fire instead of actually doing anything to contain the situation. But now, it was too late, and she truly felt the free-fall that she'd been spiraling into for weeks now.

Yes, she'd started drinking again. No, she didn't think it was a problem. Other people thought it was a problem, and that was a problem. After her first round of rehab, she'd learned enough of the jargon to know that she was a highly functioning alcoholic (because even she could admit that she fit the technical definition of an alcoholic, although she knew that she was strong enough to quit any time she damn well wanted), and that had been a point of pride for her, a standard by which to judge her need for help—she was still waking up every morning, going to work, doing her job (still quite well, might she add), taking care of her family (though it was crumbling around her, despite her best attempts), and basically maintaining the same pace that she'd kept for years now.

Of course, none of that mattered to Agent Morgan, who no doubt would tell everyone that she was a raging booze-hound the first chance he got. That morning, he'd gotten close enough to smell the alcohol on her breath and he'd spun into a tizzy, claiming that she was going to jeopardize the entire case (an absurd and childish notion, as if she didn't know how things worked, as if she hadn't been in the Bureau when he was still in fucking grade school). Now, he was sitting so close to her that she could actually feel the heat radiating off his body, glancing over at her every two seconds (most likely out of sick curiosity, because he certainly couldn't feel concern for her, because he simply wanted an answer—all profilers were like that, damned curious and needing-to-know but not really caring, because for them it was just an ego boost, just a way of knowing their assumptions were correct), and with each glance, she felt her anger and frustration build, because she knew, beyond all shadow of doubt, that he was going to use this knowledge against her. It was no secret that Derek Morgan was not a fan of Erin Strauss, and they'd butted heads on more than one occasion—oh, he must be dying for a chance to knock down the Ice Queen (yes, she knew what they said about her, behind her back), thanking the gods above for giving him such juicy ammunition against his enemy.

So this was how it would all end. A dying brother, a nonexistent marriage, three children who'd always been pushed aside for her own selfish ambition, and the career for which she'd sacrificed so much suddenly gone, and she was too old and too tired to fight for it, too exhausted to do anything but simply let it slip through her fingers.

This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

And a sip of alcohol, she added dryly, surprising herself with her ability to find humor in the situation. Still, she felt like ripping her own hair out at the thought that everything was falling apart, all at the same time and much too quickly, and she couldn't do anything about it. Losing control meant losing power, and losing power meant being weak. Being weak was as good as being dead.

Breyers are physically incapable of weakness, her father had once proudly informed her. Those that are weak, aren't truly Breyers.

As a child (hell, even as a full-grown adult), that had been something to strive for, a point of pride, a badge of honor, a mark of belonging (I am strong because I am a Breyer; I am a Breyer because I am strong).

That was probably her greatest source of panic and pain. She was letting Daddy down, proving to him that she wasn't truly the beautiful golden girl that he'd believed her to be, in whom he'd placed so much love and hope. Silently, she thanked the heavens that he was gone—she would never want him to see her inevitable fall from grace. The disappointment and heartbreak in his eyes would have been too much to bear.

Now her anger rolled into a mournful sorrow for all the things she'd lost, for all the things she was still losing, inch by precious inch, day by agonizing day. Her brother, her husband, her children, her worthiness (though she never really had that), her sense of self and place and purpose in this world.

Aaron Hotchner finally dismissed everyone, though Erin had been too distracted to really hear what the others had said. At this particular moment, she simply needed to be away from everyone, to breathe and to think of her next move, because this surely would be a battle.

She exited the building, quietly leaning against a pillar of the covered walkway, taking a moment to simply enjoy the weather (so much warmer here, compared to the icy, rainy, depressing mess back home). She used to be able to find comfort in nature; there was a time when she would have relished working on a case surrounded by so much open sky and green rolling hills. Now those things didn't seem to have any effect on her, and she was too tired to even feel saddened at the loss.

She needed another drink.

Shit. Maybe she was an alcoholic.

No, I want a drink. I do not need one. There's a difference.

She heard the door open behind her, and she knew it could only be one of two people. The hesitant, gentle footsteps came closer, and her skin began to ripple with that old familiar feeling. Gods, above, just what she needed—another battle royale with the one man who knew how to push her buttons unlike any other human being. All she wanted was five fucking minutes of peace, time to regroup and regather her thoughts, and here he was, to poke and prod and pry, and she had to throw up her defenses yet again (it was so draining, keeping him at bay, hiding her every nuance because he never missed a single thing, not when she wanted him to).

"What do you want, David?"

David Rossi took a moment to take in the scene before him, to take in the rigid lines of her posture, to fully measure the depth of her mood. Then he spoke, softly, "To make sure you're OK."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Her tone held an edge, a touch of searching (what do you know, what did Morgan tell you?).

"I don't know. That's why I'm here." He answered simply, tucking his hands into his pockets. He wasn't trying to start another row with her, not when she was already so visibly upset, not when he didn't even know why she was so angry. He stepped forward, moving closer so that he could actually see her face, which was set in a firm mask (no, you're not reading me today, buddy).

"Curiosity killed the cat," she warned him, crossing her arms over her chest as her gaze remained firmly fixed at the sprawling lawns before her.

"Stupidity killed the cat. Curiosity was framed," he returned easily, waiting for some kind of reaction.

This earned him the slightest smirk at the corner of that mouth which was set in a hard, thin line. She was squinting in the early afternoon sunshine and suddenly she looked old and so very, very tired. When had his bella become so wan and worn-out?

Bella. He hadn't called her that in years, not even in his thoughts. She was the first woman he'd given that moniker, but she wasn't the last. No, after the beautifully soft night in Seattle (the first time, almost twenty years ago), he'd felt displaced and off-balance, and he'd quickly found a new bella—Vanessa, the woman who later became Mrs. David Rossi Number Three.

Vanessa had been a mistake of the worst kind—she'd been some kind of replacement, a safe haven from all the things he couldn't have or want from Erin Strauss, a poor man's substitution for all the things he felt towards the blonde woman who was standing next to him, who now seemed so flat and devoid of spark.

David had been back in the Bureau, back in Erin's orbit for four years now, but this was the closest they'd been in quite some time. Had those lines around her eyes always been so deep and dark? Had her shoulders always been so slumped and broken, as if the world was pressing on her back? How long had she been like this? How long had he been unaware?

"Whatever answer you're looking for, you're not going to find it," she stated flatly.

"I'm not looking for anything," he kept his tone soft, gentle.

Her expression was something between a smirk and a snarl, "You're always looking for something, David. It's who you are. You never can be simply satisfied with what you have."

He had to smile at this, because it was true on some level. "You know me too well."

"Yes," her voice was quiet and heartbreakingly small. "I do."

He understood the double entendre, though he couldn't possibly know the rest of her thought (I've known you too well, too many times, for too long, and that's why we're in this mess, because you put me here, you and all the pieces you left behind, you and all the things I can never tell you).

The realization that he was (and had always been) the source of her troubles only reignited the anger burning in her chest, and she was surprised to hear her own voice, harsh and clipped, as she demanded, "Why are you here, David?"

"I told you—"

"No. You told me that you wanted to make sure I was OK. You didn't tell me why you wanted to make sure I was OK."

"Erin, I—"

"Because I truly have no interest in simply being another thing for you to observe."

He felt the first prick of indignation at her accusation, at her implication that he couldn't be acting out of genuine concern. "Now, look—"

"I think I've been the brunt of your experimentation for long enough, don't you think?" She turned quickly to him, looking at him for the first time, and suddenly David realized that she was on the verge of tears. What the hell was going on here? What were they even talking about?

"Erin, I have no idea what you mean," he decided to take the path of honesty, because her sudden attack was confusing as hell, because her shift in emotion and her red-rimmed eyes were alarming, because he knew that he couldn't fix this if he didn't know what this was.

Her anger passed just as quickly as it had appeared, like heat lightning on the open prairie, all spark with no actual storm, and he saw those eyes (God Almighty, those eyes would always be the end of him) fill with a deep sadness.

She seemed to age another ten years as she sadly admitted, "No. No, you don't."

He had no idea. He would never have any idea. They would forever be two people having one conversation about two different subjects, two trains heading in the same direction but on different tracks. Nothing could ever change that.

Now she wanted to cry. Of course, she couldn't do that, not in front of him, because that would mean more questions and more frustration and more things that could never be spoken about. She simply turned and walked away.

David was smart enough not to pursue her. Still, his eyes followed her, the woman who'd always tried to be so strong and untouchable, whom he knew to be so much more human and fragile, who was somehow falling to pieces in front of him, and he felt another pang of sadness, knowing that she was intentionally isolating herself from him.

There was a time when she would have let him in, when she would have quietly told him what was on her mind, but obviously that time was long past. In fact, they'd never had a moment even remotely close to their old camaraderie since he'd returned to the BAU.

Their relationship had endured many evolutions. Maybe that was just the newest one, the one where they finally fell apart on every level and reached the point of no return, the point of no repair. The thought was like an ice pick to David's gut.

Surely this wasn't the end. Surely these uncertain silences and vague, pained references to the past were not the final stage of all they would become. Surely this was not how they would always be.

June 1998. Quantico, Virginia.

The only sound in David Rossi's unbelievably tiny office was the furious pitter-patter of his fingers across the keyboard as he tried to keep up with the thoughts tumbling out of his mind. He was currently reliving an old case for a book that he was co-writing with his former colleague turned jet-set author and television consultant, Ruthie Golden, and since technically the office was closed for the day, glorious silence reigned, allowing him to truly delve into his work.

There was a light, timid knock on his door, and he inwardly cursed whatever God-forsaken soul had come to disturb his flow before letting out a tart, "Yeah?"

The door opened quietly, cautiously, and still he didn't look away from his computer screen as he prompted, "Whaddya need?"

"I, um, I was just—Arkaday needed these photos and he's gone, so I was just going to leave them."

That voice. He stopped and immediately turned to face the owner of that soft and uncertain timbre, to the wide eyes that could consume his soul without a second's pause, though they were so unwitting to their power, so naïve in their own allure.

"Erin." He said simply, because he wasn't sure what else to say.

She blushed, obviously flustered by the gentle awe in his tone. However, she quickly recovered, giving her skirt a deft tug (it still seemed so strange to him, to witness the transformation of Erin Strauss—after years of seeing her in jeans and button-downs and horrible shoes, now she was a creature clad in nylons and pencil skirts and heels that did lovely things for her already-lovely legs), clearing her throat as she continued, "I just didn't want to leave this lying around the office—it's…well, it's not exactly something you want the cleaning crew thumbing through."

She stepped forward, extending her arm to give him the stack of crime scene photos. He knew that her statement wasn't a barb aimed at the housekeeping staff, but rather something out of respect for the victims in the photos, who had already been objectified and humiliated enough. He'd forgotten how much stuff like that affected her, how easily she flinched at their line of work, even though she'd been at this for years now.

He looked up again, noticing that she'd stepped back away from him (she was edgy and fidgety like a spooked horse, ready to bolt again at the slightest provocation), and he suddenly realized that he missed her. Even now, when she was standing less than ten feet away from him, he missed her—he missed the easy camaraderie and laughs that had been between them (before, back in Seattle, and even before that, whenever they weren't busy trying to verbally tear one another apart), he even missed fighting with her, missed the little quiet moments that happened while working on a case together, missed other aspects of their relationship that he certainly couldn't ever mention aloud, even missed her long blonde hair and ratty jeans (because those were familiar things, things that made up his Erin—Sweet Jesus, when was she ever his?).

If Erin were totally honest with herself (and she wouldn't be, not about this, not about him, not about them), she would admit that she knew that Alan Arkaday would not be down here at this hour—he was actually one of the few in the BAU who still had a solid home life, and he always left as early as possible to be with his family. She also knew that David would be the last one to leave (he always was, always had been), and after two whole months of studiously avoiding him, she'd found that her stupid curiosity and even stupider heart wanted another glimpse of him.

But her excuse was gone—she'd delivered the photos, and now she had no reason to stay (gods, she found herself wishing that she did), so she gave one last curt nod as she moved back to the door, "Well, I'll let you get back to work—"

"How are you?" His voice was so soft, so filled with longing and tenderness and all the things that he could never say, that they were never supposed to feel, and his simple question stopped her in her tracks.

He might as well have just reached into her ribcage and squeezed her poor little heart, because it literally stopped for a full beat at his tone. Taking a deep breath and quickly regaining control of herself, she turned back to face him.

"I'm well. Thank you."

How polite and precise and distant. How very Ice Queen (yes, he'd heard the whisperings when he returned to Quantico, the little asides that people tossed about whenever Erin Strauss was mentioned in conversation, and he'd begun to realize that she truly was climbing her way to the top, with the amount of toes she'd stepped on and the bad blood she'd stirred up since he'd last worked with her).

But when he truly looked at the woman standing before him, he didn't see a woman of ice. He saw a girl frozen with fear and uncertainty and a deep desire to simply be adored and accepted and praised for being the rule-abiding good girl that she was. Sure, she had grown past some of those impulses, had learned not to care so much, but it was all still there, and right now, it was staring him in the face.

"That's good." He gave a slight nod. A weighted beat passed.

"And you?" Erin's voice went up a notch and she cursed herself for sounding like an idiotic love-struck girl. "How are you doing, David?"

Only she could pronounce his name with such softness that it felt like a caress, as if he could actually feel it slipping across his shoulder blades and settling warmly on his chest (he knew what it felt like, when her hands did just that, and again, that was something he missed but could never express).

"I'm well." He smiled softly.

"That's good," she looked truly relieved, and he wondered if she'd actually been worried about him.

"It's strange, not having you out in the field with us." This was as close to saying I miss you as he could get, this was as much as he could offer her, as much as she would ever allow, and they both knew it.

"Such is life," she gave a small, apologetic shrug.

"I think your desk job suits you, though," he admitted, motioning to her neatly tailored outfit. Normally, she would assume that he was making a pass at her, but he was much too quiet and sorrowful right now.

"I think so, too," she agreed. With a wry grin, she added, "I've always been pretty good at sitting back and telling other people how to do their job."

He grinned in response—a true grin, not one of the shy, sad smiles he'd been giving since her appearance. There was a beat of something clicking back into place, as if perhaps they were going to finally find their footing again, but it was cut short by the harsh ringing of the phone, which echoed loudly in the eerily quiet office.

"Rossi," he answered curtly, now inwardly cursing whoever had ruined what could have been a healing moment between him and the blonde, who'd jumped back closer to the door, as if she'd been caught in the middle of some unseemly act.

"David, darling," a familiar female voice, heavy and laden with a pulsing neediness, came across the line. "When are you coming home?"

Though Erin Strauss couldn't hear the other person on the line, she saw how David's eyes darted to the photo at the edge of his desk—a beautiful, much younger woman with deeply tanned skin and dark gypsy eyes that looked as she could devour the whole world—and she instinctively knew that he was on the phone with his wife (she never could keep track, was this number three or number four?).

"Soon, Nessa," he promised, his voice dipping into a reassuring whisper that was so full of sweetness that Erin's throat closed up with some indescribable emotion, and she was shocked by her own reaction. How could two simple words make her twitter like a simpering fool—especially when those words were directed at another woman? After all this time, after all the stress and panic and heartache he'd caused her, how in hell could she still be so easily taken in?

David, of course, was completely unaware.

"You said that an hour ago," his wife's voice lost her little-girl pleading and took on the hard petulance of a sulky toddler (that was the problem—no matter what emotion Vanessa experienced, she always expressed herself with a childishness that belied her age of thirty-two years).

"I know," he answered simply, because honestly, he didn't want to tell her the truth (I'm avoiding you and avoiding our next fight over how much time I spend at work), especially with Erin Strauss standing in the same room.

In a way, Erin was responsible for this mess. After Seattle, David had found himself filled with a strange restlessness, as if he were rattling around inside the emptiness of his own brain, caught between the fallout of his second divorce and the strange sensation that somehow, things with Erin had changed yet again (because that time, he'd admitted that he cared, though not aloud, and certainly not to her). Desperate to find some kind of solid ground, desperate to forget, desperate to live with the things he couldn't change, he'd quickly fallen into the arms of Vanessa Guidicelli, a woman whose youthful fervor and appetites had proven a welcome distraction from the uneasiness rippling beneath his skin. She was a third generation Italian-American, mocha skinned with deep dark eyes, always overly emotional and direct and needy and obsequiously compliant (all the things that Erin Strauss had never been and would never be), always fervent and passionate (but never as deeply or as truly as Erin was), and always childish and petulant when it came to his affection and attention. At first, he'd found her refreshing, because he never had to wonder how she felt (about anything), and he never had to question her feelings towards him. She had a loving ferocity about her, the way all Italian women had, and that was the quality that made him think that it would work between them, because of their common heritage. But lover and wife soon turned into something more like a sulky teenager whenever she realized that he would never stop his entire life to adhere to her every whim (whenever he realized that her obsequiousness was feigned, a simple attempt at manipulating him into feeling guilty for not giving her everything she asked for in return), and the subsequent fallout had been absolute hell.

"I just have a few things to finish up, and then I'll be home," he promised before he hung up.

Erin was wearing an odd expression as she quietly nodded towards the photo, "Your wife?"

It wasn't really a guess, and they both knew it. She'd noticed his wedding ring the first time they'd seen each other after his return to Quantico, and she'd actually been relieved, because she had felt that the gold band on his finger had been another good excuse to avoid him at all costs (not that it had stopped either of them before, and not that it changed how she'd reacted to him whenever he was near). However, relief was not the thing that she felt stirring in her heart at this particular moment.

"Vanessa," he supplied.

"She's very lovely," Erin murmured as she gazed at the woman smiling back from the frame (gods, she would be forty next year, forty years old with three kids and a husband of almost twenty years, with scars and wrinkles, and David's wife looked like she couldn't be a day over thirty, with perky breasts and a delicious exoticism with which Erin could never compete—what had he ever seen in Erin, with her plain WASP looks and cold pragmatism and defunct passion?).

"She can be," he answered rather cryptically, stamping down another wave of frustration at the thought that her beauty had covered a multitude of petty sins (beauty is as beauty does, his mother used to always say). Since they were on the subject of spouses, he hazarded a query of his own, "So how's Paul?"

"Good." She answered quickly, too quickly (which he noticed but graciously didn't point out). She didn't feel right, talking about Paul, not with David, not when they'd both hurt him in so many ways.

"You have...three kids now?" He tried to remember.

"Yes," she gave a curt nod, her heart suddenly hammering at the talk of children (three are mine, two are Paul's, one is yours). Maybe that had been David's attraction to her—maybe he'd simply never had a boring suburbanite housewife on his list of conquests, maybe she was just another box to be checked. Deep down, she knew it wasn't as simple or as cruel as that, but right now, she didn't want to truly think about it. She needed to be angry, because anger made her harder, and at this particular moment, she was feeling soft and vulnerable, so easily wounded by the slightest nuances of his voice, burning under the directness of his gaze like some poor soul trapped beneath the iron chains of her own personal Torquemada, though he could never truly know the power he held over her.

David Rossi was a master profiler. She was dead-certain that he could see her jealousy, her envy, her disgusting heartsickness, her hidden truths so plainly visible to a man of such acumen.

Oddly enough, when it came to reading people, Erin Strauss had always been David's Achilles heel, the one he never could truly comprehend. Right now, he couldn't even categorize what emotion she was experiencing, though he could spend hours simply watching the slightest shifts and nuances of her face.

There was an awkward, heavy silence, filled with all the ghosts and skeletons and all the things they'd done and felt but could never mention, all the things they said without ever uttering a word, as they simply stared at one another.

He gave a slightly embarrassed chuckle, trying to ease the tension as he quietly (almost forlornly) admitted, "It's...it's been so long, I'm not sure what questions to ask anymore. So much has happened."

Erin gave a small smile in agreement. He was right—so much had happened, their lives had grown much farther apart, yet there were still so many things left undone and unknown between them, and they no longer could simply pick up and move on like they used to do. She didn't belong here, in his little basement office filled with photos of his family and his charming wife. He didn't belong here, asking questions about her husband and her children.

She shouldn't be here. Not here, not with him, not alone, not this late at night, not like this. She couldn't even say that, because it would subsequently bring up all the reasons why she shouldn't be here, and that was just another list of things they couldn't (shouldn't, wouldn't) ever mention, so she simply said, "David..."

Was that wistfulness in her voice? He studied her again, but still, he couldn't even begin to imagine what she was thinking. How did she do it? How did she shutter the shades of her face to hold emotions without every betraying what those emotions actually were?

Again, the telephone interrupted what could have been a wonderful and deep moment.

This time, Vanessa didn't even let him answer properly before launching into her litany, "David, do you have any idea how long I've been waiting? I had dinner ready hours ago. And you know I have to go to bed early tonight because my flight leaves at seven and you know I can't sleep without you next to me, and it's just not—"

"I know, bella," he tried to placate her. "I'm packing my things and heading home now."

Erin felt her stomach clench at his words.

Bella. Gods, that was what he'd called her when he'd kissed her forehead so softly in the parking lot of a little bar in Seattle, the night that he touched her so tenderly and so deeply, that night that he—she couldn't finish the thought, and she couldn't stay there another minute as he unknowingly ripped her heart out with his teeth.

She cleared her throat again, catching his attention before gesturing that she was leaving. He sat up, motioning for her to stay just a moment longer, but she quietly shook her head and tapped her watch (I've got to go home, too).

In the last five seconds, the mood in the room had changed into something off-kilter and heavier than the simple awkwardness of before, and although David couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, he knew that he didn't want Erin to leave on such a note. Still, she offered one last apologetic smile (there was something else dancing behind it, but he couldn't quite read it) as she silently slipped out of his office.

"Nessa, I'll be home soon," he interrupted the other woman, who was still whining about the fact that he wasn't home yet. He hung up, moving around his desk and trying to catch Erin before she disappeared.

He was too late. The little subterranean office was empty again. He considered bolting through the doors and towards the elevators to catch her, but he knew that she was long gone by now.

A day late and a dollar short. That's always how it was with Erin.

Erin bit her lip as she sagged against the wall, closing her eyes as she quietly tried to regain control of her own body, which had been such a traitor—she'd barely made it out of the BAU and into the hallway before for her damn knees began to quiver, as if they were going to give out completely. With another shaky step, she pushed herself off the wall and reached for the elevator button.

She should never have gone down there. She should never have listened to the little voice in her heart that had whispered, It won't hurt just to see him, just to say hello, just for a minute, just one little teensy second.

She couldn't be jealous. She couldn't be angry at David for marrying another woman, for loving someone else, for moving on with his life—after all, she'd done just that (hadn't she?). He obviously viewed the night in Seattle with the same casualness as he did their other nights together, and she'd simply been too blind to notice it. And tonight, when he'd asked how she was doing, so softly and sweetly, she'd misinterpreted that, too, because he obviously cared very deeply for his wife (how could he not be entranced by that young thing, so exotic and thrilling and passionate and all the things that Erin was not and would never be?). She wanted him to be happy, but gods, she hadn't realized how painful his happiness would be for her. She'd never even known how desperately that she'd wanted to hear him speak to her the way that he'd spoken to his wife until she'd heard his voice change and shift with affection (he's never spoken to me like that, never has, never will).

More than anything, Erin Strauss felt an overwhelming wave of panic building in her chest at the thought of what her reactions must mean. She couldn't. She shouldn't. She wouldn't. She'd carve her own heart out and smash it into a thousand pieces before she could ever even think such a thing was possible. Perhaps she'd do that, just to punish the stupid little thing for thinking that nothing bad could come from being around David Rossi again.

Well, fuck you, heart. You were wrong.

He returned to his office, packed his things and returned to the house just outside Woodbridge, where his sulky young wife proceeded to give him the silent treatment for the rest of the evening (though unfortunately not before she informed him of just how painful and heart-rendering his absence and lack of affection had been for her, for her delicate sensibilities and obvious needs).

She returned to her desk, grabbed her bags and drove to her home in Vienna, where her husband rather flatly informed her that their charming children had staged a bed-time mutiny and were refusing to go to sleep until they spent time with Mommy, to which she happily (albeit tiredly) obliged, making the rounds and spending a few minutes curled up with each child, talking quietly about their day and kissing their foreheads before tucking them in for the night.

As they both lay in their separate beds, with miles and secrets and other people and other choices between them, both staring up at the comfortingly blank ceiling, each silently wondered what life would be like if they had come home to someone else—to the person in their thoughts, the person with whom they'd spent a few strange quiet moments in tiny, stuffy office in the basement at Quantico. And both felt a heavy, nostalgic sadness at the realization that they'd never know the answer to such a bittersweet question.

*Author's Note: Lucy, I'm hooooome! Thanks to everyone for being so wonderfully patient. Two quick notes:

The line "this is the way the world ends" is from T.S. Eliot's poem, The Hollow Men. It seemed doubly fitting, because the poem itself is about the 'hollow' men left behind after WWI (among other things), struggling to find meaning and a reason to continue in life, and as an American author, Eliot would've been someone that Erin studied for her American Literature degree.

I've been getting a lot of questions about whether or not I'll stick to canon (re: Season 8 Finale). The answer is…yes. Because I can't not stick to canon, not after I've spent so much time researching and double-checking previous seasons and references, if that makes sense. HOWEVER, we are not going to watch Erin die again, so calm down, chickadees. In fact, I had written the ending to this story way before the season finale, so actually, nothing will change, although I am adding an epilogue to deal with the issue. But we have a few more miles to go on this journey before we reach its inevitable conclusion…will you trust me and just hang on for the ride?*