The Inevitability of the Improbable
"She is silent with her eyes downcast; she has left her home behind her, from her home has come that wailing in the wind. But the stars are singing the love-song of the eternal to a face sweet with shame and suffering. The door has been opened in the lonely chamber, the call has sounded, and the heart of the darkness throbs with awe because of the coming tryst." ~Rabindranath Tagore
May 2012. Washington, D.C.
Even as a child, Erin Elaine Breyer Strauss possessed a strange fascination for playing with fire. She and Peter used to have contests, holding their fingers over candles and seeing how long they could stand the heat. Whenever they were teenagers, she'd do this at bonfires, and even now, decades later, she still occasionally zipped her finger across an open flame, just to know she still had that daringness in her.
Over the years, she had learned that some fires were metaphorical, and she'd also learned that she still held the same attraction to seeing just how long she could withstand the flames.
Which was exactly what she was doing right now. She was currently seated in the lobby of a lovely hotel, with its white-washed walls and deep crimson carpeting and Jacquard-weave upholstered furniture with polished cherry wood legs, just a few yards away from the dimly-lit hotel bar, which was already humming with the soft sounds of conversation, though it was barely after five o'clock.
If she could last here for another thirty minutes, then she'd slip into the bar itself, sit in a corner booth without ordering a drink, and simply soak in the atmosphere. Whenever the pounding need for just one more drink finally started knocking at the back of her head, she'd get up and leave.
It was a dangerous game, especially with so much to lose, especially with so much that had been fought for and won, but it was something to prove that she was still strong in some ways, something to prove that she still had some kind of control, something that required every ounce of her concentration and determination, which made it a welcome distraction from her current reality.
She'd been back at the Bureau for weeks now, and they still weren't letting her work—sure, they'd given her reports to file and transfers to approve and other little pieces of paper to keep her busy, but she still hadn't been allowed to return to full status or oversee any current cases or do any of the things that she was actually qualified to do. It was frustrating and a complete waste of time and resources, but she knew that this was simply part of her penance, the things she must do to re-prove herself. But gods above, hadn't she jumped through enough hoops by now?
She knew the answer—yes, she had, but she'd forfeited all those past accomplishments the instant she had stepped out of Derek Morgan's truck and onto the parking lot of the Riverview Treatment Center five months ago.
She actually didn't miss alcohol as much as she thought she would—not mentally, at least, because her body still physically ached with feelings of withdrawal from time to time, although those instances were becoming fewer and farther between.
She did, however, miss being in bars. There was something deliciously comforting about slipping into a low-lit room, seeing her own skin change hue and tone under the blues and greens and reds of the neon lights, settling back into a well-worn seat and allowing herself to simply absorb the generally subdued energy around her, the soft intonation of conversation, the occasional warm laughter, the solid tap of well-weighted tumblers on the bar and the light musicality of beer bottles clinking together. There was something relaxing about moving through the haze of cigarette smoke and feeling as if she were passing into another world, her own version of Avalon, where she was simply Erin. No succeeding Breyer or Strauss, no preceding Section Chief or Mrs.
Just Erin. Erin Unattached, Erin of No Consequence, Erin Anonymous. Erin in her truest, most distilled form, without the weight and hassle of the world around her.
The problem was that Erin always (always) had to return to the world of others, to the world of legally separated mother of three with a day job that often kept her long into the night, the world of uncertain and unloved and weak and overwhelmed.
Her mind returned to that world as she glanced down at her cell phone. Paul was still at their home in Vienna, having spent the past few weeks at her side, ensuring that she was still on the straight and narrow as she reintegrated into reality. She would be forever grateful to that man for once again going above and beyond, adhering to a commitment that was technically no longer his to keep (after all, their divorce would be finalized soon, he wasn't her husband, he didn't owe her loyalty and fidelity and devotion anymore, and yet he was still there, still holding her hand as she tried to stand on her own two feet again). She'd been back home since March, and though he was so kind and helpful, things were still strange and stressed between them, so she'd extended her leave of absence from the Bureau to travel back to Massachusetts, using Andrew as an excuse to give Paul a break from being her keeper (she needed to learn to live without his help). Erin had spent almost three weeks at Andrew's side, helping Lina in any way that she could and silently shoring up her emotional defenses for the impending hit of losing her baby brother.
Andrew. Oh, Andrew, her beautiful, shining boy, so pale and sickly and unlike himself. He was still alive, but he had already informed Erin that he felt he would not survive the summer (I always hoped to die on the beach, so at least I'll go before the water gets too cold—not a bad idea, right, RT?), and when she looked at his haggard face, his skin as worn and brittle as old paper, she knew that his prediction would probably prove true.
Unfortunately, she couldn't stay away from the Bureau indefinitely—at least not while still drawing a salary and holding the title of Section Chief—although, after her embarrassing actions on the Somerville case, she would have been happy to never have to face any of those agents again. Still, part of the program involved learning how to make amends for past actions, owning up to past mistakes, and so she'd shoulder this command just like every other one that she'd received in her life. She'd packed her bags again, left the wonderfully quiet guest room in Andrew and Lina's house, and returned to life in Virginia as Section Chief Erin Strauss, owner of many heartaches and bad decisions, fucker-upper of life extraordinaire.
She'd been back for over a month now, and things were still strained and awkward as she and Paul learned to move around each other again, in a new and uncertain way. When she had returned, she simply started sleeping in Jordan's old room, because honestly, she couldn't stand the thought of sleeping in the bed which had held them for so many years, in the bed that had always been meant for two (it was a stupid, sloppy, sentimental thing, but she would eventually have to throw out the old mattress whenever he left, because it held too many ghosts, which kept her awake at night). It certainly didn't help that Christopher and Anna were still there, too, still watching their every movement with soft, sad eyes (they were little ghosts, too, reminders of all the ways that Erin had failed her husband, her family, her self, little ghosts with no earthly idea of how they haunted their mother with the truths about themselves which they could never know).
On sheer impulse, she dialed the house number.
"Hello?" Paul answered on the second ring.
"It's me. I…I think I'm gonna stay in a hotel tonight."
"You sure?" There was a softness to his voice that was something between pity and consternation—he knew why she wanted to stay in a hotel, and he knew that he was the cause of it.
"Yes," she gave a curt nod of her head. "I just….I need some time to myself."
"I understand," he admitted quietly, and she knew that he truly did. With a hopeful note, he added, "I got the call today—the apartment will be ready by next Wednesday."
"That's good." She tried not to sound quite so pleased by his imminent departure, yet she didn't want to sound upset, either. This was how every conversation was between them—a precarious fine line, a tight-rope walk over the widening chasm of what they had been and what they were trying to become.
"So…you'll be back home tomorrow?"
Home. The place and the word were still the same, but the meaning was totally different now.
"Yes. See you tomorrow."
Gods, life was a curious thing. She couldn't even remember how hers had gotten to this point (well, she probably could, if she graphed it out and pinpointed all the major events on a timeline, but real life wasn't a graph, it was a moving, shifting thing that you weaved and dodged through, and it wasn't until later that you looked back and realized that every step had a consequence, whether good or bad).
Tossing her cell back into her large leather purse, she rose to her feet and promptly clipped her way across the thick carpet to the front desk. Forget testing her limits with the bar—she'd get a room, draw a nice hot bath, order room service, enjoy the silence and the complete lack of awkwardness, spend the evening pampering herself and perhaps even get in a few rounds of stroking to ease the stress (gods, she'd forgotten the effect that staying in hotels had on her, because they always smelled exactly the same, because the sheets always felt the same, they always triggered the same responses as her body drifted into warm memories of times spent with a certain individual).
"Rossi. R-o-s-s-i."
If the name didn't catch her ear, that unmistakable smooth voice certainly did. She looked further down the marble counter to see David Rossi smiling at the young concierge clerk as he waited for her to find his reservation in her computer files.
Speaking of metaphorical fires and withstanding temptation….she merely pursed her lips in amusement at the absurdity of it all. Had it been anyone else, she would have considered such a situation completely improbable, but she'd learned long ago that David Rossi (and her relationship with him) never fit under the labels of logical or probable.
She turned her attention to the young woman smiling at her, reserving her own room for the night. Although there was now someone else standing between them, talking to a third desk clerk, she could still feel David suddenly shift, alert at the sound of her voice.
Sweet Jesus in Short-pants, what on earth was Erin Strauss doing here? David craned his neck around the person next to him, though he didn't need visual confirmation to know that the low voice booking a room did indeed belong to a certain blonde section chief.
He hadn't seen her since they'd deboarded the plane after the Somerville Military Academy case. That was five long months ago. And though the higher ups (Hotch included) had been notoriously tight-lipped about her absence, David had been smart enough to piece together a fairly accurate narrative. Hotch had quietly informed the team that their section chief would be gone for approximately three months, and David knew what that meant—the big time, three step detox-rehab-integration (he hadn't realized that she'd gotten that bad off, but suddenly, little moments and actions from previous encounters over the past year had made sense). She'd been back for a very short time, then she was gone again for a little while, and now she was back again, though he hadn't actually laid eyes on her until this very moment.
He'd wanted to go up to her office several times, just to say hello and see how she was doing, but he hadn't acted on those impulses. A small, sad voice had told him that he didn't have the right to know how she was doing, didn't have the right to ask, not after all the bad blood which had built up between them over the past five years, not after all the times he'd been so scathing and cruel towards her (she had always pretended that his words never hurt, but he knew, he knew because he knew her so well, that so many times his marks hit their targets with such easy precision).
But now she was here, just a few feet away, and he had every excuse to make small talk with her (he tried to forget how many erotic memories started with a simple conversation in a hotel lobby). So he slipped a little closer and waited for her to finish checking in.
She looked good. Brighter. Solider. More present. She didn't have a bag, which meant this wasn't a planned thing, and that piqued his curiosity. After all, Erin lived in the suburbs (he probably shouldn't know that), and it wasn't more than a half-hour's drive from the District.
The clerk set a pen on the counter, next to Erin's confirmation receipt, and it rolled over the edge and onto the floor. The blonde easily stooped to pick it up with her left hand (God bless whoever invented high heels and pencil skirts), and that's when David noticed something even more curious.
Erin Strauss wasn't wearing her wedding ring.
For as long as he had known this woman, she'd always had a band of gold around that oh-so-symbolic finger (even during their nights together, that ring had still been there, a silent reminder of all that they weren't and all that they were). This was the first time in 27 years that he'd ever seen that finger bare.
Damned if his stupid little heart didn't actually skip a beat at the realization, though he told himself that it didn't mean anything.
But it did. It meant something, it meant everything, because it meant that for the first time ever, the playing field was level. For the first time ever, he and Erin Strauss were on the same page. No other spouses or lovers, simply two single people, free to do whatever they pleased.
But what if that wasn't true? He hadn't seen Erin in almost five months—how long had she been away from her husband? Had she already taken a lover, a boyfriend, a guy on the side?
The thought filled him with a dark heat—he'd waited so long for a moment like this, he'd never be content to just let it slip away (to let her slip away, to let go of a chance to truly see what this could be between them, to finally look for something more). God as his witness, he'd sweep her off her feet, he'd steal her away from any other man who dared to try and take away this blessed opportunity.
David surprised himself with the intensity of his own emotions. For years now, he'd been honest enough with himself to admit that he truly cared for Erin Strauss, but he'd always pushed those thoughts away, had always gently reminded himself that those feelings could never be expressed, because he never wanted to ruin the perfect, peaceful life that she'd built for herself over the years.
Apparently she was creating a new life now. Which meant that David Rossi had his first and final chance to make himself a part of that life—a chance to be on the inside looking out, to be the opposite of everything they'd been before, to finally be able to acknowledge all that had happened between them.
If that was what she wanted, of course. Suddenly, he felt a rush of fear at the thought that perhaps Erin wouldn't want to explore the strange thing that had grown between them all these years, perhaps she wanted a truly clean slate, not something built on lies and darkness and blood. He realized, with absolute clarity, that if she didn't want something more, then he wouldn't pursue it. And with that realization came the inevitable acceptance of the fact that he truly loved this woman standing before him—there was no other explanation for this painful sacrifice that he was willing to make, at a moment's notice, for her own happiness and well-being. But he wouldn't know if he didn't first ask, and he was certainly going to know, one way or another.
Erin had already begun to feel the familiar ripple across her skin as soon as David moved closer. She finished signing her receipt, took her room keys, and turned around to face the man who was watching her with an odd mixture of wonder and amusement (and something else, something a little more feral, something darker that made her stomach flutter).
"Erin. Are you here for Big Smoke?" His grin informed her that he already knew the answer to the question. He was trying to remain upbeat and playful, trying to cover up all the deeper, ripping, rolling emotions that were hammering through his chest at the realization that so much could hang in the balance at this particular exchange.
She glanced around the lobby, her eyes alighting on the large sign advertising the cigar aficionado event. She merely grinned in response, giving a slight shrug, "Well, I can't give up all my vices, Mr. Rossi."
That was something she'd regained during her time in the drink tank—her ability to think clearly and quickly, her razor wit that had been dulled by so much alcohol.
Apparently, David didn't share her sense of humor, because an unreadable look passed over his face as he stepped forward, gently asking, "Is everything OK?"
She wasn't sure how he knew, but she wasn't really surprised. He always seemed to know all the things that she didn't want him to know.
"I'm…everything's fine," she blinked quickly, still taken aback by his sudden softness. "I just…Paul's moving out next week, and we've…we were separated before, before I went into treatment, and I….things are just weird, so I decided to spend the night here."
She honestly had no idea why she was telling him all of this, why she was spilling her guts in the hotel lobby to a man who hadn't been anything close to a friend to her for over a decade—but here she was, doing exactly that. That was another miracle wrought by detox and rehab—she'd learned humility, and with that came the ability to be completely honest.
David was shocked at how brutally open she was being, because they'd been nothing short of adversaries ever since he'd returned to the BAU (that was his fault, he knew, because on his first day back, he'd been so gruff, so cruel, and he'd set the tone, which she dutifully followed). Her honesty was the sort of thing he would have expected from her twenty years ago, when they were both just agents, working the case together. It was the part that he'd missed for so long.
"I'm sorry. I had no idea." Without even thinking, his hand automatically went to her arm in a gesture of comfort, and she instantly froze at his touch. He quickly dropped his hand, "I'm sorry."
She reached forward and grabbed his wrist, trying to reassure him that he hadn't upset her with his touch (well, he had, but not in the way that he thought), "No, no. It's fine, David, really."
"Is it?" He asked quietly, his dark eyes searching her light ones. She knew the question wasn't just about the current state of events—it was about them, about where they stood. He wanted to say so much to her, but he didn't want to push, not if she was in a fragile state. He wanted to love her, not break her.
"Yes," she nodded, offering another smile.
"Good," he smiled as well, the relief blossoming across his face. Despite his previous thoughts of sweeping her off her feet, his main priority was making sure that she truly was alright—he'd wondered and worried about her for months now; he couldn't pretend that he didn't care about her well-being.
There was a line forming around them, so she gently guided them away from the front desk, back into a less populated section of the lobby. He turned back to her expectantly, "So, what are your plans for the evening?"
Oh, what a loaded question. Still, she remained nonchalant, "A hot bath and glorious silence."
"Seriously? That's it?" He obviously didn't approve.
"It's what I want."
"It's not what you need."
Oh. There was definitely a spark at that insinuation. And Erin didn't shy away. Instead, she took a step closer, looking dead into those dark eyes as she asked, "And what, exactly, do you think I need?"
Erin Elaine, what in hell do you think you're doing? The mother-voice in her head was practically shrieking, but a smaller quieter voice reminded her that there was nothing wrong with this (not anymore, not since they were both free, not since there really wasn't anything more to lose).
David Rossi's blood was already stirring with possibility (he didn't believe in chance, not when it came to Erin, not when it involved their too-often-to-be-sheer-happenstance meetings), but her low question and her burning eyes seared his flesh like a branding iron, and he knew instantly how this night was going to end—the only way it could end, the only way it ever would end between them.
Match. Set. Fire.
Of course, that didn't mean that he shouldn't enjoy every second of the delicious foreplay that Erin Strauss always provided (she'd always been like a master conductor, leading a symphony, building and receding and unraveling every minute, every glance, every breath in perfect tempo—hell, the first time in Seattle, foreplay had lasted three days before they even so much as kissed). The sun hadn't even set, so there was plenty of time to pretend that they weren't going to end up in bed together. Besides, this time was going to be different—this time, he was out to prove something (I can be more, we can be more, so much more than just a quick roll in the sack every ten years, more than we've ever been before).
He took a step closer, too, his body brushing against hers, his voice matching her low, seductive timbre as he asked, "Do you trust me?"
The corner of her lips curled into a smirk before she answered, "Not any further than I can throw you."
Interesting imagery. Still, he couldn't deviate from his current course of action, because he suddenly had a plan for his grandest seduction of Erin Strauss yet. If only she'd play along.
"I want to make a deal with you," he shifted forward again, relishing the slight brush of her chest against his own (he knew how responsive the flesh was underneath those layers of fabric, and from the slight flutter of her eyelids, he could easily imagine the ways in which she was already acquiescing to his request).
"Which is?" She kept the breathiness from her tone, counting it a small victory against the man who could topple her like the walls of Jericho with a single touch.
"Tonight I'll give you exactly what you need." Fortune favors the bold, and that was what David Rossi was banking on as he laid on his cards on the table.
"I'm going to need a little more detail than that before I agree to anything," her tone was wry, betraying the fact that she knew exactly what this deal would entail.
Ever the dramatic bastard, he gave a slight glance around the room (I couldn't give you those kinds of details, not in public, not in front of other people), and he knew that it had its intended effect, because there was the faintest blush across that lovely freckled chest (it was so funny, she had a cast-iron poker face, but whenever she was embarrassed or aroused, her flesh always gave her away).
"After all, for it to be a deal, there must be something you get in return," she added, and this time, she couldn't keep the breathless tone from her voice (though she didn't really try to, either, because he was being wicked and two could play that game).
He didn't shy away from her question, looking straight into her eyes as he calmly stated, "Your complete compliance and trust."
She laughed at this, her sharp pitch echoing in the high-vaulted ceiling and reverberating back down to them as she looked at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in amusement as she queried, "What is this, David—a modern remake of Dangerous Liaisons?"
He gave a grin at the quip (she'd make a stunning Marquise, with that regal bearing and that wicked tongue), but he returned to the matter at hand, his voice dipping lower as he explained, "You need a break from reality. I'm offering you that—but I'm asking that you simply allow me to work my magic, without question."
Work my magic. Oh, she knew exactly what kind of magic that man could work—and she couldn't (wouldn't) deny that it was also exactly what she wanted, what she needed.
Still, one can't be so easily won. It lessens the savor of victory.
"That's still too vague for my tastes," she informed him.
"Take it or leave it, kitten."
It had been ages since he'd called her that, but oddly enough, it still held some weight.
"A break from reality?" She looked down the full length of her nose at him (which seemed impossible, since she was shorter than he was, but somehow, she made it seem like she was towering over him as she contemplated the question).
"Yes."
"Not all breaks from reality are pleasant."
"This one will be."
"Very sure of yourself, Mr. Rossi."
He leaned forward again, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear as he whispered, "Because I know you, Erin Strauss. I know you better than you care to admit."
The heat of his breath on her skin sent a shiver down her spine, and a smile involuntarily slipped onto her lips as she silently acknowledged the truth in his words.
There. David had landed his first true volley of the evening—the mantra that would be his running theme, his point to prove over the next few hours.
It still wasn't enough, because Erin Strauss was simply staring up at him with those big grey-green eyes (God, if she knew just how powerful those two orbs were, she'd rule the world), waiting for him to expound upon his statement.
His fingers lightly followed the outline of her arm, gently trailing across the fabric of her sweater as he huskily informed her, "It's been stressful. You're feeling distanced, off-balance, like you're floating away with nothing to tether you back to earth. But maybe that's exactly what you need, Erin—maybe you need to drift away, just for a little while, just for a few hours. You need to remember what it's like to simply enjoy the finer things in life."
"I'll remember that, whenever I slip into my lovely hot bath alone," she returned smoothly, pivoting on her heel and moving towards the elevators.
Oh, so he was going to have to work harder. That was quite alright. It had been so long since he'd played this game with her, he relished the chance to stretch his muscles.
In a few quick bounds, he was at her side again, his hand easily resting on the small of her back.
"Wouldn't it be better if you had someone to massage your feet as you sit in your lovely hot bath?" He asked, his tone so casual that she couldn't believe her ears. In all the years that they'd known each other, he'd never propositioned her so blatantly.
She gave a small hum of agreement, her tone laced with wry amusement as she pointed out, "But you would never be content with a simple foot massage."
"True. Then again, neither would you."
She had to admit that he had a very valid point.
The elevator arrived, the doors slowly opening with a light ding, and his fingers gently gripped the curve of her elbow, pulling her back as other people boarded the elevator, which was too full to take them both, so he simply waved it on.
She didn't speak, although she was gazing up at him with a soft sense of wonderment (he'd never been this aggressive, she'd always been the one to make the first move, to call the shots, to push and pull until he capitulated). This was a new game.
"What do you think you're doing?" She asked quietly, still unsure of whether to be amused or angry.
He was leaning over again, whispering in her ear, "Say yes, bella."
That endearment got her every time. Say yes. He didn't promise that she wouldn't regret it, because they both knew that neither one would (never had, never will). His hand was still at her elbow in an oddly possessive gesture, in a way that he'd never touched her before, and she couldn't deny the dark thrill that it stirred within her. This first time, in New York, it had been a mutual thing, but every time after that, it seemed that Erin was the one who had been the hunter, the one seeking him out, and now…now their roles were reversing.
David Rossi wanted her. They were both stone-cold sober, with no extraneous events weighing down on them, with no reasons or excuses other than simple desire, and he wanted her, not because she was upset and he wanted to comfort her, not because she'd thrown herself at him or because they were trying to push away the sad remains of the day, but simply because he wanted her.
She'd never let him take full control of anything, much less given him free reign in seduction, and after all those years of hearing tales of the nefarious Casanova of Quantico, she'd never actually known what it was like to truly experience being a conquest of David Rossi.
Conquest. Gods, she certainly must be a raging masochist, because that simple word only deepened the heat seeping through her blood.
One night. That was all he was asking for. And she'd already decided, long before he arrived, that she was going to spend the evening checking out from reality. What harm could possibly come from letting him have his way for a single night?
He was watching her with those deep dark eyes, looking as if he could devour her whole, right here in the elevator lobby, and she had to force herself to swallow, to remember how to speak.
"Yes," she breathed.
"Full compliance?"
Gods, though she knew that he'd never hurt her or place her in any real danger, those two words still held such weight. Still, she gave a slight nod, "Yes."
"If you have any more reservations or questions, voice them now," he kept his gaze locked onto hers. "Because once we step on the elevator, it's a no-questions-asked policy."
"Jesus, David, you sound like you're reliving your Mafia days."
Her retort made him laugh—of course she would bring that up, because nothing was sacred to this woman, she pulled no punches and she expected none softened in return.
"I just want you to trust me," his expression became tender again, and she understood the emotions behind the words (I'm not gonna hurt you, bella, I want you to trust me, to love me, to let me take care of you).
She smiled up at him, pushing down another strange wave of uncertainty and arousal as she quietly answered, "I do, David. I trust you. No questions asked."
He grinned and gave a curt nod of approval. Then he held out his other hand, "Room keys, please."
She handed over her key cards, and he glanced at the room number, "Sixth floor. I'm on the tenth. The Regency Suite."
"Very nice."
"It is. You should take a look. Lovely view of the city."
"I suppose I have the time." She was playing along (though he was still letting her choose, still not ordering her to do anything, and that lessened the uncertainty, because it meant that the old David, the one who truly cared, was still there, just playing a new game). They stepped onto the elevator and David didn't even crack a smile at this small capitulation (there was too much on the line here, this seduction was a culmination of over twenty years' worth of emotions and pent-up desires, and he would not lose focus).
She gave an appreciative hum at the sprawling room with the large windows and the lush bedding, already feeling the heat between her legs as she envisioned sprawling across that rich comforter with David beneath her (or beside her or above her, she really wasn't too picky on the details at this particular moment). She moved to the window, looking down into the street below, at the horizon that was slowly becoming a lovely dusky rose.
He was standing beside her again, his hands tucked innocently in his pockets as he nodded towards a restaurant down the block, "Ever been there?"
"No, I don't think I have."
"We should go." He spoke so easily, making it sound like a suggestion when they both knew that, according to the rules of their agreement for the evening, it was technically a command. "Consider it my 'welcome back' gift."
"I've been back for weeks now, David."
"And I've been busy catching bad guys, Erin. Cut me some slack."
She grinned at this, giving a slight shrug of acquiescence (he did have a valid point, after all). "Fine. I accept your gift."
He turned to her, slipping her purse off her shoulder, "This can stay here. You won't need it."
"But my wallet—"
"You won't need it. My treat, remember?"
"At least let me get my phone—"
"Absolutely not—"
"David, I need my phone, I can't just—"
His finger on her lips stopped her instantly, and those beautiful doll eyes flew open in shock at the simple touch. He had to remind himself to breath before he spoke again, and his expression filled with a mixture of amusement and exasperation as he pointed out, "It's been less than ten minutes, and you're already breaking the rules."
"Oh." She blushed slightly, and he found it endearing. "I'm sorry. It's just, I can't—"
"Full compliance, bella." He reminded her in a low tone, one that sent a shiver dancing across her skin. The only light in the room was the lights of the city, which made his eyes glitter like some modern-day Mephistopheles, dark and entrancing and mind-stoppingly seductive.
However, her Mephisto was a compassionate one, because he quietly added, "Just for dinner. Two hours. Then we can come back for your phone."
She nodded in agreement and he moved away, setting her purse on the dresser. He took his own cell out of his pocket, holding it up as he set it next to her things, "See? Level playing field. I'm leaving mine, too. No distractions whatsoever."
She wanted to retort, to ask what if we get called out on a case?, but gods help her, she actually wanted to play by David's rules, to give him something after all those years of following her every whim. So instead, she simply smiled and headed back to the elevators.
Erin was surprised that David Rossi's ability to seduce a woman had nothing to do with low teasing remarks or languorous caresses or any stereotypical Lothario activity. Instead, he was simply attentive throughout the evening, placing his hand on the small of her back to steady her whenever they walked across the street (high heels and uneven pavement were not a good mix), deciding to simply order water at dinner (Paul would have gotten himself a glass of wine anyways, just as he had done even after her first round of rehab), listening and asking truly thoughtful and caring questions about her readjustment to life after detox, about her brother, about her children, about returning to work. He noticed her hesitancy to talk about her alcoholism, and he graciously didn't press the subject.
By the time they had returned to the hotel, she had decided that she really did enjoy being unplugged from reality, although David still went upstairs to retrieve their phones and her hand bag (because, really, they could get called out at a moment's notice, and she had children who might need her, and she'd done so well by agreeing to leave the phones behind during dinner). Of course, his original reason for being here was the Big Smoke event, which was now in full swing in the hotel ballroom—this would still be something new for Erin, something to keep her distracted from reality, something to prove that he could be patient, so they went back downstairs.
They wandered through the crowd, and she actually found herself smiling at how seriously he approached the acquisition of cigars, his knowledge and expertise making him seem like an Italian Hemingway (a writer, a warrior, a lover of fine things, a man of so many tastes and cultured habits). Erin knew absolutely nothing about cigars, and he explained things in a way that was never patronizing or overbearing (though sometimes he teased her, because some things never change).
Dinner had been quieter, more relaxing and serious, but this was something more playful—this was the second act of the seduction, after he'd made her all starry-eyed from his respectful behavior at dinner, he now reminded her that it was quite alright to laugh. This camaraderie and respect reminded her of how they used to be, back in the 80s, back when they were both simply agents, and surprisingly, this was what made her want him (though perhaps not too surprisingly, because really, the only times they'd come together was when he was being kind to her).
And also, oddly enough, it was all the things he wasn't doing that made her want him, too—he wasn't touching her, wasn't whispering in her ear, wasn't treating her as anything more than a friend, and right now, she wanted to feel his arm around her waist, wanted to feel the possessive weight of his hand on her skin, to feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, wanted everyone in the room to know that they were here together, and that they would be leaving here together. David was still an attractive man, and he had always possessed that strange magnetism, that easy cat-like movement that made a woman want to watch his every move, and Erin saw the other women in the room who were doing just that—their eyes following him with barely-concealed attraction, the younger ones who sidled up and asked wide-eyed questions about this set or that cigar, or the ones who tried to impress him with their knowledge. She had never been the jealous type, but gods, there were several times when she very quietly wanted to walk up to David and slip her arm around him while staring dead into the eyes of whichever perky-breasted twenty-something was currently speaking to him, silently informing her, This one's mine, sweetie, move along.
However, she didn't act on these impulses. First of all, because David wasn't hers. Secondly, because tonight, he was the one who was supposed to make the moves; she was simply taking whatever he gave her, no questions asked. Unfortunately, right now he wasn't giving her anything.
David Rossi had a point to prove. He needed, more than anything, to show Erin Strauss that he could be more than just a lover, more than just a friend—he could be a partner, a strong combination of the two, he could be the man who fucked her senseless and still listened to the minute details of her day, the man who could simply walk beside her without needing anything more than the simple joy of her presence, yet who could just as easily make her weak in the knees with a single whisper, a single glance, a single touch.
Of course, that wasn't an easy task, not when Erin looked so deliciously relaxed, not when she was leaning over the tables to inspect various cigars with a childlike curiosity (God, didn't she know what that skirt did for her ass when she leaned forward like that?), not when she was floating through the room, so completely unaware of the men turning around for a second look, the ones who looked at David with respect for being able to hold on to a woman like that (they think she's some corporate secretary type, some bubbly and cuddly fuck-bunny, if they only knew that she could probably outshoot every person in this room and double-tap most of them before they even saw her draw a weapon). It was so hard to simply smile and answer her questions when the lovely exposed skin on her collar bone was calling softly, don't you want to remember what I taste like?
Ten years. Had it really been ten years?
He tried to keep his mind focused, to prove that he could see her as something more, that he wasn't like every other man in this room, who simply wanted to peel that skirt off those lovely hips (though he couldn't blame them), that he wanted more than just her body—he wanted her mind, her character, her personality, her past, her present, her future, every-little-thing-in-between.
Of course, he couldn't tell her that, either. During dinner, she'd told him about how horrible the end of her marriage to Paul had been—he sensed her relief at finally being on her own again, at finally feeling like her decisions and her destiny were not partially in someone else's keeping. How could he turn around and ask her to leap back into the same kind of relationship with him, with a man who was much less stable and dependable than the golden god Paul Strauss?
He shouldn't be jealous of Paul (especially not since the man was stupid enough to walk away from this woman), but he truly did feel resentment towards the man who had the chance to experience every facet of Erin Strauss for three full decades, who squandered such a thing by trying to tame and redefine what was obviously a wild creature (these were things he knew, based on little comments Erin had made over the years, little things she'd said when she thought he wasn't listening, little things she thought he'd never remember), who had never tried to understand or to be what Erin needed in life.
Well, Paul's loss was certainly his gain. At least for tonight.
By the time they left the event, Erin felt truly confused. She'd started this evening with the very distinct feeling that she knew exactly how it was going to end, with the hot and heady knowledge that David Rossi wanted her with a dark desire that only added to her own, and now…now she wasn't so sure.
David hadn't touched her since he'd helped her across the street after dinner, and even then, it had been a polite touch, not the kind that seeped into her skin with the heated certainty that she'd felt in the elevator lobby earlier that evening.
Of course, she'd also revealed way too much about her current issues with her soon-to-be ex-husband over dinner, and perhaps that was why things had changed—maybe David had finally realized how screwed up she was, maybe he didn't want to mess with a damaged chick, not even for a single night (she'd always wondered what he saw in her, maybe her allure wasn't strong enough to overpower the obvious baggage that she carried).
She wouldn't ask. That was part of deal, and she didn't want to beg (though, gods, her body was already begging, already aching for the simplest of touches, anything from him). If he decided that he didn't want her anymore, then she'd take it on the chin like a champ and walk away. She could do that….couldn't she?
It was a good thing that there were other people getting on the elevator, too, because that was probably the only thing keeping David Rossi from launching himself at the soft skin on Erin's neck, which had been calling to him all evening, or those thin and lovely lips that had taunted him with little smirks and quips throughout the night. He wanted to show her that he could enjoy a slow seduction, that he didn't have to come at her with the animal ferocity of all their past encounters, that he could consciously choose to be with her.
Suddenly, he was certain that he couldn't wait for the elevator (which seemed to move at a glacial pace now) to make it all the way up to the tenth floor, so as they boarded, he easily punched the sixth floor button.
Erin's heart dropped when she saw David hit the button for her floor—so he really was going to bow out of this little game between them. He really was done with Erin Strauss. He was going to walk her to her door, say thanks but no thanks, kitten, and waltz away. She didn't blame him.
David felt the sudden shift in Erin's demeanor, and he was immediately confused. Had she decided that she didn't want to go any further? Almost every other time, there had been alcohol involved (except for the last time in Seattle, when she might as well have been drunk, so shocked and unbalanced she was by her mother's sudden death), and maybe this time she was too clear-headed to fall into his arms again. He wouldn't blame her for not wanting to get involved, for wanting a new start, for wanting to keep the lines that had separated them for so long now.
He wouldn't push, and he wouldn't beg. But he also wouldn't throw it all away on an assumption—he wouldn't walk away until she asked him to, and when she did, he'd graciously step aside and give her the chance to find a new life for herself.
They arrived on the sixth floor, both suddenly off-balance and lost in their own depressing thoughts, both feeling so saddened by the imaginings of their own love-starved minds, each feeding off the other's odd energy and interpreting it for the worst.
They reached Erin's door, and she studiously kept her face turned away from him, because she knew that the moment he started speaking, she would start to cry, and she didn't want him to see that. She found her key card and turned her back to him as she tried to unlock the door.
Erin was completely shutting him out, and David's heart actually felt a pang. She was fidgeting with the door handle, trying to get her key card to work—her head was bent, giving him a perfect view of the smooth, soft skin at the back of her neck. He honestly wasn't sure that he'd ever kissed her there, and he realized that after tonight, he may never know what it felt like.
He couldn't stop himself—he reached forward, placing his hands on her upper arms and stilling her as his mouth came to rest on that thin strip of skin with the lightest, softest of brushes.
The touch of his lips was like the hand of God from Michelangelo's The Creation of Adam—beautiful, simple, full of promise, a sign of redemption and fulfilment that surpassed all explanation. Erin let out a skittering breath, the key card suddenly forgotten in its slot as she closed her eyes and prayed that he would continue.
He took her response as a sign of encouragement, so his mouth increased its pressure, actually tasting the skin beneath it. Erin hummed, shifting and bracing her hands against the door, resting her head against the metal as well, granting him better access. He stepped closer, his chest pressing against her shoulder blades as her hips automatically shifted closer to his own, seeking him out, pressing against him. He leaned forward, his hands coming to rest over her own, which were still firmly pressed against the door, his fingers threading through hers with a slight squeeze as he relishing the simple feeling of her hand in his (ten years, a decade since they'd even held hands). His chin slipped over the curve of her shoulder and she rolled her head in response, giving another hum when his mouth latched onto her skin again. Then she turned her head, her mouth seeking any piece of him that she could reach at this angle—his chin, the tip of his nose, his own mouth, it didn't matter, so long as it was him, it was him after so long and cruel an absence, after such terrifying uncertainty.
"I was so afraid," she breathed, keeping her eyes closed. "I was so afraid you'd changed mind, that you didn't want me—"
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at how similar their thought patterns were at times, so he decided on the third option—simply showing her how wrong they both were. He grabbed her hips, roughly pulling her into him so that she could feel just how much he wanted her. She gave a small gasp that devolved into a moan as she kept pressing, kept rubbing against him, kept asking for more.
It was then that David remembered that they were still in the hallway. "Don't you think we should take this inside, bella?"
"It's your call, Mr. Rossi. I agreed to full compliance, remember?" Her voice bordered between taunting him and being completely serious, and he found himself chuckling again at this spitfire woman who knew exactly what cards to play and exactly when to play them.
He reached over and pulled the key card from the slot, and the door light flashed green. Erin opened the door and barely had time to turn around before he was pulling her back into his arms. For the first time in an entire decade, his mouth fully covered her own, his tongue returned to the place that still seemed so familiar and welcoming, and she moaned again, melting against the wall and pulling him with her as she fought the urge to laugh and cry in sheer relief. Her purse was dropped somewhere on the hotel room floor, and his jacket followed suit, quickly joined by her cardigan and her silk crème blouse.
Dear gods, they were less than three feet inside the door and she honestly wasn't sure that they'd make it to the bed—his shirt was coming off and her skirt was already at her hips and they were both fumbling, panting, searching for more.
David had his hands on her hips again, pushing her towards the bed, and she was stumbling backwards into darkness, because they hadn't taken the two extra seconds to turn on a light and there were only a few dim rays seeping through the windows from the city below. Suddenly, one of them tripped over a discarded item of clothing and they both fell back on the bed, laughing breathlessly.
"We're like two kids on prom night," he informed her, and she laughed at the quip, because they were so far removed from the bright-faced youths of yesteryear.
"Luckily for you, my skirt has less layers than a prom dress," she grinned.
"And this bed is a whole lot bigger than the backseat of my dad's car." Then he sat up, suddenly serious, "Are you still on the pill?"
She laughed at the question, "David, I'm way past needing birth control."
She didn't allow her mind to think about the fact that they had already made that mistake. She sat up, too, trying to phrase the question gently, "Have you…have you been with anyone…"
"Not for a long time. And all my tests are clean and up-to-date. You?"
"It's been a long time for me, too. And clean bill of health as well."
David found the conversation amusing, because it so closely mirrored their discussion the very first time that they'd ever been together—it was New York in the 1980s, and the fear of HIV-AIDS still ran at pandemic proportions, and suddenly, knowing your partner's sexual health status became a vital part of foreplay.
She misinterpreted his expression, because she blushed, "I'm sorry—I'm never good at being romantic, I always get so practical and pragmatic and—"
"And it's what makes you Erin, and therefore it's perfectly wonderful," he interrupted, pulling her closer to kiss her forehead.
The room suddenly got very still again as she simply looked up into his eyes. Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers, which opened so obligingly, silently encouraging him to come in deeper. The sheer relief of feeling his mouth again was enough to melt her entirely, the same heavy joy that one feels after being deprived of oxygen for so long, the same pulsing need for more, more of that glorious substance that brings life and color with it. Still, she let him set the pace, let his hands wander and dismantle her however they chose, let him take control of the moment, perhaps for the first time ever in their relationship.
David felt her compliance, and it only increased the ferocity of his caresses. Oh, his kitten, he knew her so well—he had only to push her far enough, and she'd finally respond with equal force. Still, she was trying to hold back, trying to adhere to the rules of their game, and that filled him with something deeper than lust (because it meant more, it meant that she was trying to give him something, trying to reach for him, perhaps even that she was trying to make this something more, too).
Now he was on his feet again, slipping her skirt off her hips and down her legs as she lay quietly on the bed, simply awaiting his next move. Her panties and pantyhose soon followed, and she bit back a grin when she realized that he was slipping her high heels back onto her feet. His mouth landed on the inner ankle of her left leg, slowly making its way up the curve of her calf.
She happily turned her face towards the ceiling as she closed her eyes with a smile.
Fire: 1, Erin Strauss: 0, but still somehow feeling like the winner in this little game—after all, ten whole years was a long time to hold your hand over an open flame.
*Author's Note: I had to add the bit about Erin going off to see Andrew in an attempt to correct some more continuity issues. In 7.14 Closing Time, in the scene where Morgan reminds Hotch that it's Valentine's day, Hotch mentions that "Strauss comes back next week", yet in 7.23 Hit/Run, Erin tells Morgan that she "hit the ground running", implying that she hadn't gotten a chance to apologize to him because this was her first case since she'd returned. Also, if Strauss has entered rehab at least once before (season six), and had struggled with alcoholism for most of her life (mentioned in season eight finale by Rossi), then she probably would have been in a program that lasted longer than 28 days, generally a 90 day or 14 week program….I realize that the air-date timeframe doesn't match the CM universe specifically, but there had been 7 cases (at least) in-between those two moments, so I tried to find an excuse for why Erin would not be involved in overseeing BAU cases, even though she'd technically been back for a while. So, I shipped her off to Massachussetts. Also, the morning after this scene is technically detailed in my other short "Mulligan", which started this whole journey.*