Bashert
"Important encounters are planned by the souls long before the bodies see each other." ~Paul Coelho
*Author's Note: The second section of this chapter is dedicated to Annber03, who so wanted for Jordan and Spencer to become friends.*
May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.
"Not so fast, Mister. You have to call it, or else it doesn't count."
"Fine. Far left pocket."
David motioned to the pocket in question with his cue stick before returning his attention to the eight ball which was patiently waiting to help him and Christopher win the game of billiards that they were playing against Anna and Erin.
His blonde opponent moved to the far left pocket, made an X across the opening with her index finger and then knocked her knuckles twice on the spot.
Christopher groaned in response, "Aw, Mom, you didn't."
"I believe I did."
"What'd she do?" David was confused.
"She hexed it!" Anna gleefully informed him.
"Once Mom hexes a called pocket, you won't make the shot," Chris added.
"Are you serious?" David looked around the room incredulously. "Is the House of Strauss filled with a bunch of superstitious little wimps?"
"It's not superstition if it proves itself on a consistent basis," Erin reminded him with a slight arch of her brow.
"Oh, Sweet Jesus in Short-pants." David rolled his eyes.
"It's true, man," Chris insisted.
The older man simply shook his head as he turned back to his lover, "You've got these poor kids completely hoodwinked."
"Go ahead," she gave a small smirk. "Try to make the shot."
It was a straightforward shot, easy enough for a rookie to make. And yet, it bounced off the corner of the pocket, shooting back to the other side of the pool table.
Anna crowed in delight, "We told you, David!"
"That doesn't mean it's actually hexed—"
Chris gave him a pat on the back, shaking his head in feigned sympathy, "Just accept it, man. You're dating a witch."
"Christopher Paul Strauss—"
"I said witch, Mom, with a W—"
David was grinning, but Erin pointed at him with a stern glare, "And you, don't even add to that comment."
He pretended to be shocked by her insinuations, "As if I would ever think such a thing, my dear, sweet, gentle, darling…."
By now, his syrupy words had Chris and Anna laughing, and Erin tried to retain her disapproving scowl as she turned her attention back to the pool table. She and Anna still had three solids to sink before catching up to David and Chris—she sent the first one zipping into the furthest corner pocket, and then missed with the second.
Christopher stepped up, motioning to the middle pocket. "Front and center, calling it now."
Erin repeated her hex and her son shot her a baleful look.
"Really, Mother? Hexing your own child?" He tried to look pitiful and forlorn, and she merely laughed as she sidled up to David again.
"Hexes?" He said quietly, turning to look at her. The corner of her mouth curled into a sneaky grin, but she kept her eyes focused on the pool table.
"Well, I can't use all my powers for good," she gave a slight shrug of her shoulder.
Christopher missed the shot and Anna gave another whoop of delight.
"See?" The young girl turned back to David with a triumphant smile.
"Baby, there's none so blind as them that will not see," Erin informed her daughter, casting a taunting look at her lover.
Chris and Anna merely grinned at the statement as David rolled his eyes in response. Anna began plotting her move and Chris was standing next to her, whispering quietly, trying to psyche out his little sister. Since they were both distracted, David took the opportunity to move his hand to Erin's ass, giving it a quick squeeze. She lightly swatted her hand at his chest, a half-hearted reprimand which they both knew that she didn't mean.
Anna, who was probably the best pool shark out of the bunch, sank the remaining solids with ease.
By now, David had worked out a plan.
"Far right corner," he called the shot again, and Erin moved away from him, shooting him a challenging look as she hexed that corner as well.
"Play fair, Mom," Chris pleaded.
"Why? This way is so much more fun."
"I agree," David said, taking a moment to line up his shot. "Rules are meant to be broken."
It was that statement that made Erin's shoulders straighten, because she knew something was up. With one easy shot of the cue stick, David sent the eight ball bouncing against the farthest wall and back into the near left corner.
Now Chris was cheering, slapping him on the back.
"You didn't call that corner!" Erin retorted.
"Because you would've hexed it," he pointed out with wide-eyed innocence. "Besides, you said yourself that it's so much more fun when we don't play fair."
She narrowed her gaze at him, and he was certain that he would paying for that remark later on, in a much more intimate setting. And sadly, he actually relished the thought. Over the years, he'd always found Angry Erin intriguing or at least amusing, and nowadays, he'd found an even more appealing version called Angry Erin in Bed, an upgraded and even more enjoyable playmate.
"I agree with Mom," Anna stated.
"Of course you do—you don't want to lose," Chris retorted.
His younger sister took a moment to give him a hard stare (looking so much like her mother that it was uncanny) before speaking in a thick Southern drawl, "Then it looks like we've got ourselves a grudge match."
Erin glanced at the clock on the wall, "Grudge match will have to be postponed. It's getting late and some of us actually have day jobs."
"Tomorrow then?" Chris turned to David with a hopeful expression. "You'll be here tomorrow night, too, right?"
"If I'm not called out on a case," David promised. With a wry grin, he glanced over at Erin, "And if your mother's wounded pride doesn't kick me out."
"Ah, we'll just annoy her until she lets you back in," Chris gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "It always worked with the dog."
Erin laughed at this, "What a very apt comparison, Christopher."
The look she gave David sent the rest of her unspoken message (because you certainly are in the doghouse, Mr. Rossi).
"Jordan will be back tomorrow," David pointed out. "We'll be uneven."
"She can just play on the girls' team." Chris shrugged, taking everyone's cue sticks and placing them back on the rack.
"But then we'll be at a disadvantage," the older man stated.
Chris and Anna exchanged humorous glances before bursting into laughter.
"Jordan isn't exactly a very adept pool player," Erin informed him with a grin.
"Trust me, they'll be the ones at a disadvantage," Chris was still chuckling.
There was a faint beeping from the other side of the house, and Erin disappeared—David knew by now that it was the dryer, signaling that another load of laundry was finished drying (he found an odd sense of comfort in all the little things he knew, like how the dryer sounded and how the upstairs pipes rattled and what book was on Erin's nightstand and how the newspaper boy had horrible aim and how lovely the backyard was in the early morning when they went outside to sip their coffee in peaceful silence).
Before the rules of their relationship were changed last year, David had tried not to think about their lives together, because there really hadn't been much togetherness—just working on cases and the occasional brief hotel room hook-ups, nothing more. Though he had to admit that there had been a few (very, very rare) times when he'd actually wondered what life with Erin would be like—life that was something more than what they'd been, more than what they'd allowed themselves to be.
Now he knew the answer, on some level. He knew how it felt to pull into the driveway and see her car already waiting, or to have her seated next to him, smiling softly in relief (another day done, another battle survived). He knew the warm feeling of sanctuary that he felt walking into the kitchen when it was brimming with smells and sounds and smiling faces, how it felt to hear the chorus of greetings from the kids or the gentle look from Erin that silently informed him that she'd missed him, even though she'd spent most of the day so close to him (but not close enough, not close in the way that she wanted to be). He knew the simple luxury of whiling away the evening playing a game of pool, joking and laughing and hexing.
He liked to imagine, just for a second, that this was some alternate universe, the world of should-have-been, and he liked what he saw—a home full of laughter and love, with daughters that looked like her and a son that looked like him, rooms with little pieces of their life together, photo albums and souvenirs and quilts sewn by grandmothers and other soft, intangible emotions floating through the spaces in-between.
Parts of that world were still true in this world. He was content with that. With a round of hugs and playful goodnights, he left Anna and Chris curled up in the den, watching some late-night talk show, and he went in search of his lover, who was quietly folding the laundry, humming something that sounded like a lullaby. Again, that was a little thing whose knowledge filled him with joy (although, dear God, she was arranging the folded towels by color, a sure sign that the stress of the Replicator was truly wearing on her). And despite the fact that her little color-coding exercise was slightly alarming, he also liked knowing that he could read all of her tells, even the ones that signaled her distress—she'd always done that, arranged things by color or alphabetically (or both), from pens to books to packets of sugar at restaurant tables.
"Since you know you're in trouble, one would think that you would at least try to be more helpful, in an effort to expiate your sins," she didn't even turn around, didn't break the almost rhythmic pace that she'd developed from years' worth of repeating this exact same task.
"How'd you know I was standing here?"
"Perhaps you're not as sneaky as you think you are, Mr. Rossi." Her tone was dry, laced with amusement.
He grinned, returning to the previous matter at hand, "Perhaps I don't want to expiate my sins. Perhaps I want to suffer the full consequences of my actions."
"Ah, yes. I forgot you were a tried and true Catholic."
He laughed at the retort, moving forward as she turned to face him with a sly smile. She handed him a stack of neatly folded towels, rising onto her tip-toes to kiss his smiling mouth.
She didn't have to tell him that particular stack of towels went in the upstairs bathroom, because he knew that each bathroom had its own color scheme and corresponding towels (this was another small thing, another proof that he truly knew every little nuance of life with Erin), and he liked that, liked how they had reached a level that didn't need explanations, because they simply knew.
"Do you really want to know how I knew you were standing in the doorway?" She asked, her tone dipping lower, filling with the softness of adoration and emotion.
"Of course," he answered simply, slightly taken aback by her sudden rush of sweetness.
"My skin tells me. It always has, almost as long as I've known you." She looked down at his arms, lightly trailing her fingers across his own skin with something akin to reverence. "I've never been able to explain it. It just does. Every time."
He needed to amend a previous mental statement about Angry Erin being his favorite version. This Erin, the one with the glowing cheeks and smiling eyes and voice so filled with passion, this was his ultimate favorite, the version that used to be so elusive, almost unattainable, but which appeared so much more frequently nowadays, the one the seemed to stop the entire world with a single touch, a simple sigh, the tiniest of words.
He gently shifted the towels in his arms, so that he could take Erin's hand in his own, bringing it to his mouth and bestowing a tender kiss against her skin. She blinked, almost as if she'd been struck by a jolt of electricity, and he saw the muscles in her throat tighten as he slowly rotated her hand again, placing another kiss on her palm. The pads of her fingertips lightly brushed his cheek in response, but the rest of her body remained utterly still as she let him impart his tokens of affection on her skin, the skin that had always recognized him, the skin that had always called out for his touch, long before it actually knew its sensation.
"Every time?" He asked huskily, entranced by this new knowledge, by the woman standing before him.
She simply nodded, because right now his lips were on her wrist, their softness a juxtaposition to the rough prickle of his goatee, which sent fire rippling down her arm and into the furthest reaches of her being, and all power of speech escaped her.
"Every time," she finally managed to speak again.
"Even when we were fighting like cats and dogs?" He couldn't help but tease, and she grinned in response.
"Even then. Especially then." She pulled him into another kiss before moving away again, "Go put away the towels, please. I'll deal with you later."
He grinned the promise, though his expression softened when he looked back down at the color-coded cloths.
"That bad, bella?" He asked quietly, motioning to the towels.
She was caught off-guard by the sudden change in tone, but she nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat as she admitted, "Yep, that bad."
"He's safe, bella."
"I know."
"You and me, we'll protect him."
"I know." She stepped forward again, offering a small smile of reassurance. "It doesn't stop me from worrying, but I know."
She took a moment to stare up at him, her face and voice so deadly serious as she added, "I don't think I'd be able to do this without you."
"I'd never want you to do this without me," he admitted softly, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. "We're gonna get through this, bella. We've got everything we need, and we're gonna beat this bastard."
She smiled up at him again, her hand lightly tracing the outline of his face as she nodded in agreement. He turned his head, giving her fingertips one last kiss before heading for the door.
As if he'd just remembered something, he turned back to her, and the twinkle in those dark eyes immediately told her that game was afoot, though he put on his most austere expression as he seriously intoned, "When I'm done with all these chores, I do think we need to take a little time to explore this whole skin-tingling theory you've got going here."
"Do you, now?" She arched her brow playfully. "And is that your professional opinion, Mr. Rossi?"
"Oh, no ma'am," he shook his head. "What I have in mind for you is completely unprofessional."
She gave a feigned look of shock at his insinuation, and he merely winked in response before disappearing. Biting her lip as she smiled in anticipation, Erin returned to the task at hand, her skin already humming with the promise of things to come.
That was something that could definitely be said about life with David—it was never without spark or feeling (regardless of whether was feeling was closer to adoration or aggravation), and she never felt anything less than vividly alive in his presence.
She thought that perhaps her soul and her skin had known this long before her head and her heart, perhaps the part of her that had been before all else (before her essence, as Sartre would say) had been quietly and patiently waiting for that same part of him, perhaps her spirit had sensed the journey to be shared between them long before the first step had even been taken.
What a beautiful, delicious concept. A shiver danced down her spine as she felt the solid weight of knowing settle into her stomach. Maybe she'd lied when she had said that she couldn't explain the feeling he'd always inspired in her—maybe she could explain, just not in the way that her logical, pragmatic mind usually worked.
Whatever she'd felt towards David, in all its shades and tones and conflicting intricacies, it had always been beyond the realm of logic, beyond definition and quantification. It was a thing that passed all understanding of the mind, but something that her heart seemed to comprehend without any difficulty at all.
Across the mountaintops, I saw you, and my heart flew across the desert to your hands, my soul went out to you, and I remembered your name because I loved you...before I knew you, before I knew anything at all, I loved you.
Washington, D.C.
There were four days remaining in the countdown. Four. Days.
That thought was on constant loop in Spencer Reid's highly-developed brain as he walked through the halls of the National Museum of Crime and Punishment. Of course, it was really less than four days, because night had fallen and day four was winding to a close. There had been nothing new to report, though the team had stayed busy with consult cases and action reports and other insanely unimportant things. Still, the director had been very clear in not allowing the Replicator case to take precedence over the operation of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, which meant they had to follow orders.
"Dr. Reid!" A familiar voice called out, and he whirled around to see Jordan Strauss moving through the crowd towards him, with a determined gait that mimicked her mother's.
"And so we meet again," she gave a knowing grin, as if she wasn't that surprised. This time, all of her tattoos were concealed and she looked more grown up and reserved.
"You're here for the exhibit opening?" He guessed, motioning down the hall.
She nodded, "I work at the National Museum for Women in the Arts, so I try to make nice by attending all the other museum events. Good way to network."
"You work at a museum?" His interest was immediately piqued (then the saint around her neck was certainly Bede, which made sense). "What do you do?"
"Cataloguing new pieces and general exhibit prep," she answered casually. "We're a little short-staffed at the moment, so I wear a few different hats."
She motioned to a poster on the wall, which advertised the current event. "I'm guessing you're the real-live FBI Agent they're promising us."
He nodded, "They didn't put my name on the posters because I wasn't sure that I'd actually be here for the event, in which case they would have to send a replacement."
"Oh," her expression became serious. "I just assumed that it was because they didn't want to raise a red flag for the guy who's been after the team."
"I don't think the director has much qualms about placing me in harm's way," he admitted, immediately realizing that he probably shouldn't be sharing such insights with her.
She seemed to read him mind, because the corner of her mouth quirked in amusement, "Yeah, he's not my mother's favorite person right now, either."
Wisely steering to safer ground, Spencer asked, "Do you really think that it's a good idea for you to be out in the general public with the Replicator on the loose?"
She gave a slight shrug, "He's not after me. Besides, I'm standing next to a guy with a gun, who also is being shadowed by more guys with guns, in a building that's already swarming with security agents. I think I'm good."
He obviously didn't approve of her nonchalance, but he didn't respond. She started walking down the hall again, and he fell into step beside her. She felt the need to explain, "I've spent the past week and a half living under my mother's roof or crashing on my dad's couch. It has reminded me exactly why I promised I'd never move back in with my parents after I graduated college. And the commute messes with my schedule, and my plants need me—"
"Your plants?" Spencer seemed amused by that statement.
"Orchids," she supplied with a curt nod. "Supposedly one of the most temperamental plants to maintain, but strangely they're the only ones that I can keep alive. I've killed cacti; I've overwatered herbs and underwatered hyacinth, but gods know, I've kept my orchids alive for years now. It somehow makes sense for me, I think."
He nodded, because somehow, it made sense to him, too—the same way Penelope Garcia's unwavering faith in humanity made sense, despite all that she'd been through.
"Anyways," she sighed, returning to the topic at hand. "I'm tired of letting some phantom menace dictate and disrupt my life, especially since I'm pretty sure that's exactly what gets him off, showing how powerful he is to the rest of us mere mortals."
Spencer shot her a surprised look, and she grinned again, "I might have read all of David's books on profiling. I know just enough to be dangerous. An armchair profiler, if you will."
He shared her smile, suddenly understanding. He tucked his hands in his pockets as he surmised, "So, in defiance, you are returning to your normal routine."
"Is that a bad thing?" She looked up at him, her green eyes filled with concern.
"I don't know," the young doctor admitted. "I would think that since you're not an intended target, you're safe, but to be perfectly honest, I'm not really comfortable making such assumptions, given the possible outcome of such a situation."
She took a beat to simply look at him, this strange boy with his odd speech pattern and quick hand movements, so obviously brilliant and slightly-out-of-place in the world, and then she gave a soft smile as she agreed, "I suppose you're right, Dr. Reid. I should be more careful."
"Please, call me Spencer."
Her grin deepened at the small offer of friendship, and she nodded again as they continued their journey down the hallway. Silence reigned between them (though the hallway was still filled with so many people, laughing and talking and shuffling around), but it was not uncomfortable. Neither felt the need to fill the air with words, so they didn't.
They entered a large conference room, where chairs had been set up for Spencer's lecture. With one last encouraging smile, Jordan waved him towards the podium, "Well, good luck, or break a leg, or whatever you're supposed to say to someone who's giving a speech."
He smiled as well, giving a slight, awkward wave as he left her behind, "Thanks. I'll...we'll catch up afterwards?"
There was an adorable hopefulness in his words (Spencer Reid did not seem like the type of person to have many friends, and truth be told, neither did Jordan), and she couldn't help but smile as she nodded, "Sure. We can tour the exhibit together."
Another small smile, another quick gesture, and Dr. Reid carried on, towards the museum staff at the podium. Jordan took a moment to observe him, an amused smile dancing on her features. He was different, in a way that was both intriguing and sad, in a way that she understood and empathized with.
It was funny that they both seemed to view each other in the same light—as strange creatures, adults with so many childish attributes, uncertain and yet so hopeful. They recognized that in one another, in the way that Anne Shirley recognized her kindred spirit in Diana Barry. Despite the fact that they were relative strangers, they had the capability to fulfill a fundamental need in each other's life.
Spencer used to feel that way with Emily (he still did, though she wasn't the constant presence in his life that she used to be), because from the moment they had met, he'd immediately understood that Emily Prentiss was used to being the odd-kid-out, the one who simply stayed on the sidelines, too afraid to reach out for friends because she feared being misunderstood.
Of all his team members past and present, Emily was probably the closest to Spencer in personality and intelligence. Though her IQ wasn't nearly as high as his, she did rate as a high Superior on the Binet Scale, so in some ways, she knew the feeling of being surrounded by people who didn't quite understand her, of feeling as if she couldn't communicate on the same level as others without sounding like a computer or an overbearing ass or some female parody of The Big Bang Theory. She had been better socialized (though her mother had been even more distant than Spencer's), so she was better at masking herself in the cloak of normalcy (Emily had been like a chameleon that way, changing hue and tone to match her surroundings, an odd survival technique that had served her well in life). Still, underneath her ever-changing skin lay a soul that was remarkably similar to his own.
He missed her. He missed walking down the street with her, her long strides matching his own, both quietly comfortable with each other's presence, both softly secure in the knowledge that the person next to them was a true friend, a deep friend, one who understood them perhaps better than anyone else.
He saw pieces of Emily in Jordan Strauss. No one could ever completely replace Emily (and he would never want anyone to), but there were enough elements, enough points of connection between the two women—the dry wit, the quick intelligence, the random assortment of mundane miscellaneous knowledge to ensure interesting conversation, the little signs of compassion and the undercurrent of empathy.
No, Jordan couldn't replace Emily. But she could still be a good friend, a companion to drag along to foreign films and museum exhibits, to debate Kafka and Sartre over coffee, to actually listen with interest to the origins of this archaic word or that odd holiday.
He glanced back to see his newest candidate for friendship sitting quietly next to someone else, who was whispering, using his hands to illustrate some concept or point. The corners of her mouth were turned down in an expression that signaled she was truly listening and concentrating on her companion's words, her arms crossed over her chest as she occasionally gave a small nod to show that she was still following the train of thought (she looked nothing like her mother, but she mimicked her expressions and movements in a way that was almost unsettling).
As if she sensed his gaze, her eyes flicked up to meet his across the room, her expression remaining completely unchanged, though she gave a quick wink, as if they had some inside joke (except Spencer wasn't sure what that joke was). Maybe it was simply a silent gesture of goodwill, since one of the museum staff was stepping up to the podium, letting the audience know that it was time to simmer down and introducing their guest speaker, Dr. Spender Reid of the FBI.
Spencer stepped up to the microphone, offering a small smile to the sea of faces staring back at him as he thanked the curator for the introduction.
He hated giving speeches like this, hated feeling like he was back in school, forced to give a book report to a classroom full of people who bullied him on a regular basis. Still, it was a chance to share his knowledge, and that was something he did enjoy (how could you not love learning new things, or helping others learn new things?).
His first joke to break the ice fell a little flat. This only increased his nervousness (he had no authority here, they didn't respect his opinion or his qualifications the way other agents and law enforcement officers generally did, they simply saw him as a scrawny kid in a crooked tie who couldn't possibly be a real FBI agent). He sought out the one familiar face in the crowd—Jordan's. She simply stared back for a beat before slowly letting her big green eyes wander inwardly, crossing them in a comical fashion. She was trying to make him feel more comfortable, and although it didn't really work, the camaraderie behind her gesture was still very much appreciated.
He gave a grateful smile as he continued. Before his gaze wandered to across the audience, he saw a brief smile flash across her face as well.
She wasn't Emily. They weren't even really friends yet.
But it was a start, and it was enough.
*Author's Note: The concept of a bashert is basically the Yiddish version of the soulmate. However, the word itself simply means "destiny"—the belief is that your bashert is preordained (your bashert is chosen 40 days before you are born), and whether or not your relationship works out, that person will always be the only one who is perfectly created to match and suit you. Although the connection between these two preordained souls is usually seen as a romantic one, the word bashert can be used to describe 'destined' events, situations, or close, instant friendships (the ones L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables would call your "kindred spirit and bosom friend").*