From the Mouths of Babes

"[E]verything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that—a parent's heart bared, beating forever outside its chest." ~Debra Ginsberg

June 2013. Midlands Mall (formerly a small wooded area, where Bristol Evatt's body was originally found), Colorado.

Mommy always said never to take things that didn't belong to you. But Sarah couldn't help it—it was so pretty, so shiny, so exotic. It was a princess crown, with jewels and flowers carved into it, and it was the color of the sky just before the rain, and it was so smooth under her fingertips.

So while Mommy was fussing with Bobby's stroller, Sarah simply reached over and plucked up the odd object from the edge of the fountain.

Really, she wasn't taking it—it had been left all alone, abandoned, so it didn't belong to anybody else. It was hers now.

"Sarah, what do you have?"

Of course, Mommy noticed now that Sarah didn't want her attention.

"A crown." She answered simply. "I didn't take it—it was left here."

Mommy stooped down to inspect the new trinket. "How odd. It's a chess piece. A queen."

"Can I keep her?"

Mommy looked around, her face scrunching up in the funny way that it always did when she was confused or thinking very hard about something. She stood up and looked around again. Then, with a shrug, she handed the piece back to Sarah, "And what will you do with a chess piece? It's supposed to be a part of a set, that you use in a game."

"Please? I'll take very good care of her, I promise."

Mommy was smiling at her—that always told Sarah that she was winning whatever argument she was making, and the little girl put on her best, brightest, most winning smile. That made Mommy laugh, and Sarah knew that she was victorious.

"Oh, fine."

Sarah let out a cheer of joy, looking down at her newly-discovered treasure as if it were the greatest thing she'd ever seen.

Sarah's mother simply shook her head with a wry smile. Kids. Strangest things.

Quantico, Virginia.

David Rossi gave a frustrated sigh as he rubbed his forehead, forcing himself to refocus his attention on the papers strewn across his desk. He glanced at his watch and inwardly growled at the realization that it was barely afternoon—this day seemed to drag on forever.

He wanted to call Erin. Again. However, he didn't want to increase her anxiety by constantly calling, constantly asking is everyone ok?, because he knew that she was already high-strung as it was.

Christopher was safe. Even if he wasn't under the constant watch of a protective detail, he was with his mother, who actually was one of the best shots David had ever seen—if she could get to her gun in time. He pushed that worried thought aside with the knowledge that the Replicator wasn't a common stalker, he wouldn't simply break into their homes, no, not when he could be even cleverer by sending a bomb or an anthrax-filled letter...David shook his head, trying to physically eject such thoughts from his mind. He couldn't consider the negative. He couldn't.

This was his weakness, his Achilles heel. Normally, he could look at a situation from all angles, could consider the worst-case scenario with a sense of detachment that was necessary to his ability to think clearly and logically. However, when it came to Erin and Christopher, he found that he couldn't do that, because he couldn't contemplate the worst-case scenario. This realization actually frightened him, because he felt that it hindered him, kept him from seeing the whole board when it came to this sick bastard's game, created blind spots which would allow this UNSUB to slip in and harm those whom David cherished the most.

David's inner conflict was interrupted by a quick rap on his door—he looked up to see Aaron Hotchner leaning into the doorframe, his dark eyes filled with concern.

"How's Jack?" David asked, speaking before Aaron had a chance to do the same.

"He's fine," the younger man gave a curt nod. After a beat, he added, "I still have a four-day weekend scheduled next week—I'm taking him up to New York, so that we can spend some time with Beth."

Aaron didn't have to add the big if—if nothing happened today. David simply nodded, "You guys need a little break. It'll be good to get away."

"I think so."

"How's Beth?"

"She's...Beth." There was a soft, warm smile on Aaron's face that David hadn't seen in a very long time. Aaron clarified, "She has created an itinerary for the whole weekend. I think she may even have her entire wardrobe lined up as well."

"She's a planner?"

"That would be an understatement. I think she might have been a military tactician in a previous life."

David chuckled at the comparison, trying to reconcile the memory of the sweet, funny woman he'd met with Aaron's description of her.

"How are Erin and Christopher?" Hotch asked quietly.

"The last time I checked, they were fine."

"The last time?"

"I may have called a few dozen times."

"I see," Hotch was amused, but there was understanding in his dark eyes.

"I don't know how to do this, Hotch," the older man admitted with a sigh.

Aaron didn't have to ask what Dave meant by those words, because he understood—he understood, he lived those same fears and uncertainties himself. He simply remained silent, allowing his friend to continue at his own pace. Hotch was more introverted, preferred keeping his own thoughts closer to his chest, but Dave was his opposite—an extrovert, someone who needed to talk things out, who needed to voice his thoughts in order to understand them.

"I can't find distance." David leaned forward, his eyes focused on his hands, which were clasped in front of him as he continued, "In all these years, I've never had to learn how—it's just always been something that I could do, without even thinking about it, really. I can do it with other victims, in other cases...I thought I'd done the same thing with this one, but today...today I'm unraveling."

Now his eyes turned back to his unit chief, seeking some kind of guidance as he simply asked, "How, Aaron? How do you do this?"

There was a beat at Hotch truly considered his friend's words (Dave deserved the full measure of his consideration, deserved an honest, thoughtful answer, deserved the best that Hotch could give in this moment). Then he took a deep breath, "You just do it, Dave. There isn't any other choice. Because you have to do something to keep from going completely out of your mind. But the fear's always there, the fear and the not knowing and the sense of...helplessness. It's all still there, and you don't really deal with it, so much as you just push it back down, because it's not useful. Because someone you love is on the line, and you can't afford to make a mistake. The stakes are higher and the fear is greater, but somehow you just work through it—you can't box it away, you can't compartmentalize it or move around it, so you just learn to move with it. You just keep moving."

With a slight sigh, Aaron shook his head, "I know that doesn't sound like much of an answer, but it's the only one I've got. I wish I could say that it gets easier, but it doesn't."

There was a heavy beat of silence. Then David shrugged, "Well, at least you're honest."

Aaron's voice was quiet, "Sometimes honesty's all you've got."

Dave nodded in agreement. Then he glanced down at his watch again.

"Call her," Aaron said. "She'll be glad that you're thinking about her."

"You think so?"

Now Hotch's somber expression melted into a teasing grin, "I thought you were supposed to be the one who knew all about women, Dave."

The older man merely laughed at the quip. Then Aaron became serious again, "We're having one last briefing in fifteen minutes. Then I'm going to start sending people home. As much as I would prefer to keep everyone here until we're certain that the danger has passed, I can't justify paying my entire team to work this case on their official day off."

David nodded in understanding, feeling his friend's unexpressed frustration at the day's events (or lack thereof), frustration that even in a moment like this, they were still bound by red tape and regulations. With one last rueful look, Aaron Hotchner disappeared again, leaving Dave with his thoughts.

You just keep moving. When Carolyn was pregnant with their son, David had felt the heavy weight of expectation that comes with being a parent, with the realization that he would actually be responsible for another life, another soul, another future citizen of the planet. It had been scary, to the point of wondering if they should have even embarked on this journey, but when it ended (all too soon, cruelly too soon), he had suddenly realized that he would have preferred the journey to simply never knowing. He remembered working on a case with Erin during the last few months of her pregnancy, remembered her uncertainty, her fear of not being a good mother. He also remembered three years later, when they met again in Seattle (twenty years ago, had it really been that long?), how Erin had talked about being a mother to a toddler, how she'd told him that the fear had never really gone away (it's a fear that stays with you the rest of your life—the basis of the fear changes, but it's always there, asking will I be able to do this, will I be able to protect my baby, will I be a good example, will I be able to mend her broken heart, will I be able to provide for her all the things she needs to be successful and balanced and not-too-bruised in life?). On some level, he had understood her concerns. Now, he truly empathized with Erin's angst.

Everyone tells you how having a child with change your life. They mean it, every word of it, with a deep conviction that goes beyond understanding. What they don't always tell you is the simple fact that no matter how old your child gets, you never stop being their parent, and they never stop being your child. Though David had missed Christopher's childhood, whenever he looked at the young man, he saw the bright-eyed toddler from all the photographs that Erin had given him, staring back at him with such quiet expectation.

Everyone tells you that children are resilient. They forget to point out that your feelings for them aren't, that the fragile fears of your heart and soul and something deeper will always remain rooted in a terror too great to voice, for fear that you may speak some evil into existence. Love and fear, fear and love.

How easily they went hand-in-hand.

April 2011. Vienna, Virginia.

Jordan Elaine Strauss took a deep breath to steady herself as she looked up at her mother. Her left leg seemed to have a mind of its own, because it kept nervously bouncing its heel against the floor, no matter how hard she tried to stop it. But it kept her hands from trembling, so she guessed that she should be grateful for the nervous tic.

She ducked her head and went back to scrubbing down the kitchen countertop as her mother continued removing the clean dishes from the dishwasher, the moment so calmly domestic that Jordan wanted to hold onto it for as long as possible. But deep down, she knew that it couldn't last—there was too much at stake, and she had to act now, before all courage deserted her. She stopped again, opening and closing her mouth before she even uttered a sound, taking a tentative step towards her mother, but pulling back. The movement caught Erin's eye, and she looked up, and a full beat passed as mother and daughter simply stared at one another.

She's going to hate me forever. The realization ran like a mantra, like a constant flash of white-hot lightning through her mind as she observed her mother's cautious expression (the one Mom wears when she's certain that she won't like what she's about to hear).

"Mom," Jordan started gently, her courage faltering as her gaze dropped to the ground. Erin's mother-heart felt a pang at the thought that her own child would be so nervous to talk to her (about anything, because Erin still wasn't sure what this conversation was about), but Jordan was someone who needed to think through her thoughts, to organize them logically before expressing them, so Erin let her daughter take the time and the silence that she needed. Still, she couldn't resist the urge to simply take Jordan's hand between her own, silently reassuring her daughter that she was here, listening, ready and open to whatever she had to say.

This simple act gave Jordan the push she needed, and she quickly continued, "Mom, I think you need to get help."

There was a beat before Erin asked, "For what?"

Jordan looked up and realized that her mother truly had no idea how bad she'd gotten. It was four o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, and already those light green eyes (so much like Jordan's, the only thing she'd gotten from her mother) were bloodshot and slightly hazy. It was like her mother was a desaturated version of her self, with less color and less laughter and less spark.

So Jordan clarified, "I think you need to get help for your alcoholism."

"My...what?" Erin felt the breath trap in her lungs. She blinked, as if trying to clear her head, taking a moment to regard her daughter, waiting for her jovial trickster to laugh and say that it was all a joke. But that serious young face was not laughing. She let go of Jordan's hand, and the action stabbed the young girl's heart like a knife.

"It's gotten bad again, Mom," Jordan's voice quavered, her eyes following her mother's movements as she went back to her task at the dishwasher.

"Have I ever been too drunk to go into work?" Erin asked quietly. She continued to build her argument with each dish that she set on the countertop. "Have I ever been too drunk to take Anna to school, or to meet you for lunch? Have I ever let alcohol interfere with my day-to-day life in a way that debilitates me or takes away my ability to function?"

"No," Jordan answered meekly.

"Then how, exactly," her question was punctuated by the solid sound of the dishwasher shutting, "could my drinking be a problem if it doesn't actually create any problems?"

Her tone was low, even, restrained, but Jordan could feel her mother's tense muscles from across the room, could sense the anger and hurt radiating from her at the inferred insinuation behind Jordan's statement (you're failing us as a mother, you're turning into your own mother).

"Mom," Jordan knew that she'd hit some emotional land mine, though she wasn't sure what it was, and she immediately rushed to fix it. "I love you. I'm...I'm not saying...you're a good mom, and I'm not trying to—I just...you're not here."

"What?" Erin turned back to her daughter, trying to make sense of her tumbling words (gods, she was like Erin in so many ways, in the way that she was never good with words, in the way she bravely pushed forward anyways, in the way she hoped that the love behind her mangled verbiage would shine through, in the way she believed the power of love would conquer all, even her own awkward fumblingness).

"You're not here," her eldest child repeated, her lips quivering as she took a deep breath to explain. "You're here, and you're functioning, but you're not with us, not really. It's like you're in a glass box—it doesn't look like there's anything between us, but there is, and it's keeping you from truly being here, in this moment."

Erin couldn't argue with that. Sure, she was still functioning, still moving through her life without any real difficulty, but the alcohol did create a detached haze, a veneer over her emotions (which made life easier to bear, which was exactly why she drank, so that things would be more tolerable). But the thing that made her life more bearable was also the thing that created a strange veil between her and her children. The realization hit her in the gut like a sledgehammer.

"I'm…I'm so…." Now it was Erin's turn to fumble for words, as she fully digested the freshly-revealed truth. She blinked several times, unsuccessfully trying to push back the tears that swelled in her eyes. She stood there, suddenly humbled and completely broken as she quietly conceded, "You're right. And it's unacceptable. I'm—I can't—I'm sorry."

She turned away slowly, as if in a daze, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. This was really happening. Her daughter was actually standing here, crying, telling her that she was slowly killing herself, slipping away just as surely as her own father was slipping away, but at least Jameson had the excuse of not choosing his own demise. She had been doing the same thing to her own children that she was experiencing with her father, and had been too selfish to even realize it. Suddenly, reality snapped back with a jolt, and she felt as if her legs might give away from the sudden weight of blame and guilt and shame that hit her back like the lash of a whip, and she leaned forward, trying to push back the sob that skittered through her chest. How had it come to this?

Jordan had never seen her mother look so small, so vulnerable and filled with pain, and the small strangled sounds coming from Erin's chest ripped her daughter's heart into a million bleeding pieces as she realized that she had truly hurt her mother. She moved forward slightly, "I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to—"

Erin turned back to her daughter, and the sight was another stab to her heart—Jordan's hands were outstretched, silently pleading, as if she wanted to run into her mother's arms, but fear stopped her. Erin thought of all the times she'd physically ached for her own mother's comfort, all the times that she'd been too afraid, too well-conditioned to dare or hope for such a thing, and she hated the fact that her own daughter felt that same fear, even for a second.

She was not her mother. She had spent her life trying her damnedest not to be the cold and distant woman that Elaine had been to her own offspring. And though apparently she'd allowed herself to clock out via alcohol, she'd never intentionally put her children through such psychologically-damaging harm.

Her own pride was long gone.

"Oh, no, darling," she moved across the kitchen, pulling Jordan into her arms, her own tears renewing themselves when she felt her daughter sag against her chest in relief and tears. "No, no, don't be sorry. You were trying, I know you were. I love you, you know that. I love you and nothing could ever change that. Nothing, nothing, nothing."

Jordan was still murmuring apologies into her mother's shoulder, her hot tears soaking through the fabric of Erin's linen top, seeping into her skin and finding their way to her heart.

They stood there for quite some time, quietly crying and holding each other as Erin swayed gently back and forth, making small noises to comfort and soothe her daughter's tears, in so many ways reminiscent of so many sleepless nights that she'd spent cooing and rocking her first baby, so deathly afraid of somehow ruining this fragile life that was miraculously entrusted in her keeping.

The next morning, Erin Strauss quietly sat down with the director and informed him that she was going to take an extended leave of absence—first to seek treatment for her alcoholism (which everyone seemed to know about but no one ever mentioned), then to devote her time to caring for her dying father. He gently nodded in understanding, telling her to take as much time as she needed. Then he asked her if she'd thought about whom they should consider for her temporary replacement.

Wonder of all wonders, she found herself not even hesitating as she calmly stated, "Aaron Hotchner."

She realized that despite his obvious disdain for protocol and their mutual dislike, he was an honorable man and a competent leader. He was also someone whom she trusted (how that had happened, she would never know, because that still surprised her), and unfortunately there weren't many names on that list.

When she informed Agent Hotchner of the decision, he'd cautiously asked if she wanted to talk about it, his dark eyes filled with a sense of gentle concern that she wasn't accustomed to receiving from the generally hard-edged agent. Naturally, she'd declined his offer with a wry smile, still somewhat amused at how tragedy on any level seemed to bring out a sense of camaraderie between even the direst enemies.

Of course, he was also telling Erin that he was aware of her drinking habits, in a gentle, subtle way, and she respected him for it. Here was his chance to tear her apart, and yet, he'd chosen kindness instead. For that, she would always be grateful.

June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

If Erin Strauss could have ripped apart a human being with her bare teeth, it would have been the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Right now, she should be home with her son. Instead, she'd been called onto the carpet, and here she was, standing in front of the director like a belligerent student being called into the principal's office. She kept her gaze focused on the floor, so that she wouldn't have to look him in the eye, so that he couldn't see the pure anger seething underneath (he could have simply called her on the phone, instead his secretary had called to tell her that she would be expected in his office in an hour, forcing her to dress up and drive all the way over here, a spiteful, bratty power-play that certainly didn't endear him to his section chief).

He hadn't helping the situation by his tone, by his casualness as he tossed another report onto his desk, as he asked about the latest details on the Replicator case. He'd expressed feigned concern, then quietly informed her that the Bureau could not continue to pay for round-the-clock security for the seven members of the BAU plus the three boys, and if the team did not receive a communication from the Replicator today, then the details would be dismissed by Monday morning.

The director had been so calm, so pragmatic and practical, and Erin had gritted her teeth to keep from shooting off a retort that would likely end her career.

And again, he had the gall to inform her that the team should be in the field—regardless of the fact that they hadn't been formally asked by anyone to come into the field. Really, did this man not understand how things worked?

Fortunately, Erin Strauss had spent many years in this ring of bureaucracy, which trained her to hold her tongue, duck her head, and say Yes, sir, without ever revealing her true thoughts or her dislike for the man standing before her. Directors would come and go, but in ten years' time, she would probably still be here, still holding her tongue and contenting herself with the knowledge that soon she'd have someone else to deal with, perhaps someone with a better idea of how things should actually be.

However, she could only contain her anger for so long—as soon as she was dismissed, she barreled down the hallway like a bat out of torment, her brows set in a harsh line that heralded her displeasure long before she opened her mouth.

Penelope Garcia took one look at that formidable mask and instantly considered ducking under her own desk for cover (and possibly to hide until Strauss left), but unfortunately, the older blonde had already spotted her.

Erin let the door to Garcia's lair slam shut before she announced, in a flat tone which belied the pure violence coursing underneath, "The director has ordered the team into the field."

"But…but we haven't—"

"I know, Penelope." Erin gave a frustrated sigh as gestured futilely to the stack of folders on the desk, "Can you just…find something?"

"I, um, I could…," Penelope rolled her chair over to the section of her desk which was laden with files. "Actually, I have two that came in this afternoon, I'm compiling all the information for Hotch—um, Agent Hotchner—"

Erin moved forward, practically leaning over the younger blonde's shoulder, and Penelope offered her the folder, which only held a few pieces of paper. The section chief quickly scanned the file, holding it at a slight distance (in her haste, she'd left her reading glasses in the car). Then she handed it back to Penelope, "And the other?"

"Here."

A few more seconds passed as Erin scanned the second folder's contents. She gave a curt nod, "Get these to Agent Hotchner as soon as possible, though I'm pretty sure he'll take the one in Tucson. The director wants them on a flight today."

"But—"

"I know. I know, I know, I know." Erin could not keep the growl from her voice, though she tried to curb her anger. With another sigh, she conceded, "I tried, and I know I asked you to keep them here, but...but I can't butt heads with the director any further on this issue. Not if I'm going to...Nevermind. Just get these to Agent Hotchner. And strongly suggest that he go with the case in Tucson—it's a ticking time bomb and they need our help the most."

Turning smartly on her heel, Erin Strauss exited, leaving behind a confused Penelope, who tried to figure out the meaning in her words.

As she headed back to the parking garage, Erin cursed herself for letting her emotions win, for not only breaking the rules but pushing Penelope Garcia into it as well, for being so weak and so easily undone. Her cell beeped, and she pulled it from her jacket pocket, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration when she saw David's name on the caller ID (relief because she needed to hear his soothing voice, frustration because she wanted more than just his voice, and she knew that she wasn't going to get that, not tonight, not when she was sending the whole team out into the field).

"Hello, love," she tried to keep the frustration from her voice (and failed spectacularly).

"What's wrong?"

"I got called in. To the director's office."

"Why?"

"Because he's an ass with the emotional needs of a two-year-old, that's why."

"Please tell me that you're not within earshot of anyone right now, bella."

"I've played this game for quite a while—I know how to be aware of my surroundings."

"Of course you do."

"Don't patronize me, David Rossi. Not right now."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

"He wanted to know about the Replicator case?" David already knew the answer to that question, but he wanted to keep talking, wanted to simply hear her voice, even if it was tinged with the beginnings of Really Angry Erin.

"And he wants me to push the team into the field. Tonight."

"It's the job, bella."

"I know."

He knew that she truly did. He heard her give a frustrated sigh.

David decided to switch gears, "Are you still at Quantico?"

"Yes. Walking to my car right now."

"So…you could meet me in the north stairwell in ten minutes?"

Suddenly she was laughing at his roguish ways, "David Rossi, absolutely not!"

"You sure? You sound like you need to blow off a little steam."

"You are incorrigible."

"I'm just trying to be helpful," he said with the air of a selfless martyr. Then he became serious again, "You need to be home with our son anyways."

There was a tenderness in his voice that melted her heart all over again (and for the briefest of moments, she allowed herself the fantasy of what life should have been, how they should have been raising Christopher together, from the very beginning, out in the open). She gave a soft smile, "I do love you, you know?"

"I do. But I still like hearing you say it."

"How's it going?"

"It's going nowhere, really." She could hear the aggravation in his voice. "I'm stuck at my desk, waiting on calls that never come. And I...I can't stop worrying about you, both of you."

She could also hear the tears in his voice, his fear at his own weakness, and if she had wings, she would fly to him and take him in her arms in a heartbeat. Instead, she fought back the urge to turn around and go back into the building, through the maze of hallways that would lead to his door—because as much as she wanted to comfort him, she also felt the clawing need to be back at Christopher's side as soon as possible.

He cleared his throat and shifted the conversation, "Well, if we do get sent out tonight, I just want you to know that, no matter what, I'll be back by Tuesday."

"David, I told you, if something happens, it's OK—"

"And I told you that I would be there."

"David..."

"Erin, don't even try to fight me on this one."

She was grinning again at his endearing determination—this was what it meant to truly be loved by David Rossi, to feel the full measure of his devotion, not just in the bedroom, but in life, in all the ways that deeply mattered.

"OK."

"OK?" He seemed surprised. "That's it? You're conceding the field that easily, kitten?"

"Miracles happen."

"They do." There was a sudden softness to his tone, and suddenly, she felt herself blushing (how did he do that, how did he flip from humor to tenderness so easily, how did he always have a caring romanticism that was supposed to only exist in sonnets and fairy tales, how did he call her love a miracle and how did she wholeheartedly believe it?).

"Be safe," her tone matched his, low and warm and filled with so many unspoken things. "I'll see you when you get back. I love you."

"I love you, too, bella. If we leave—"

"It's not if, it's when—"

"Would you let me finish my sentence?" He gave a slight huff at her impatience. "If we leave before I get the chance to see you again, then I'll see you by Tuesday."

After a few more professions of love and several off-color comments in Italian, the conversation ended, and Erin was headed back to Vienna, still smiling on what was probably the most worrisome day of her life. And she silently thanked whatever twist of fate or karma or destiny or divine intervention had given her this chance, this chance with this man, this man who understood her above all others, this man who calmed her soul and made her laugh even in the darkest times.

Suddenly, she wondered how she could have imagined their story ending any other way. From the very beginning, it had always been David Rossi. Always, always.

Always.