Still Life

"You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire." ~Lucius Annaeus Seneca

February 1988. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Twenty-nine. Holy fuck. Twenty-nine years old.

Erin Strauss took a moment to stare at her reflection, lightly trailing her fingers over the fine lines under her eyes that seemed to materialize overnight, whose appearance certainly wasn't helped by the harsh fluorescent lighting of the women's restroom in William J. Green Federal Building. She didn't consider herself a vain woman (how can you be vain, when you're not even beautiful?), but she felt a certain tremor of fear at the realization that today, thirty was now only 365 days away.

She used to tease her older friends about their almost-neurotic approach to being thirty, the women who bewailed this somehow-magical age, but suddenly, she understood.

Thirty was the mark of adulthood. You were supposed to have your shit together by thirty, supposed to be a well-rounded mother of two with a perfectly balanced career and a happy husband, and all of your great life goals should already be fulfilled. Thirty was the gate, the entrance to the rest of your life.

Looking back, Erin Strauss realized that she was nowhere near as far along in life as she'd thought she would be at this age. She was grounded enough to realize that her earlier ambitions had been a bit unrealistic, but that didn't stop the clawing feeling in her chest, the rapid ticking of her mind's clock saying: Time's a-wasting, Erin, pick up the pace, go, go, go, before it's too late!

Shaking her head in an attempt to dispel her thoughts, she took one last look in the mirror as she gingerly tried to fix her hair, taming her long blonde curls into a semi-presentable chignon. Work with what ya got, Erin. It'll have to do.

With one last deep breath, she re-entered the world of the Bureau, back to the White Collar bullpen, where she grabbed a thick file from her desk as she moved quietly to the conference room.

Luckily, Goodwin wasn't in the room—the past week had been absolute hell, because his favorite sports team had lost and he was taking it out on her, simply because she was passive enough to allow it. Erin had been pushed to the edge several times, and she wasn't sure that she could contain her temper much longer. However, she beamed a deep, true grin whenever she saw the person who was waiting at the conference table—Rutherford Golden, SAC of the D.C. Office's Organized Crime Unit.

"Ruthie," she leaned forward to offer a quick, solid hand shake. "How are you?"

"I'm well, Erin," he returned her smile with a bright one of his own as he settled back into his chair (because he'd stood when she entered the room, an old-school move that was endearing and effortlessly classic, like Rutherford himself, who always reminded Erin of a silver-screen actor from the days of elegant black-and-white films). "How about yourself?"

"Oh, all's fine here." This time, her smile flickered slightly, and he knew that she was lying—of course, everyone knew what an absolute bastard Goodwin could be, and he had no doubt that Erin Strauss was probably his favorite verbal punching bag. She just had a personality that would incite Goodwin, passive-aggressive with the lock-jaw tenacity of a bulldog, because while she probably never verbally took a stand against her supervisor, she'd stayed longer than almost any other female agent who'd been under his supervision, as if she were simply trying to prove that she could outlast anything that he threw at her.

Ruthie decided that he actually admired her for that.

"OK, so...Glauman," Erin opened the well-worn manila folder with a deep breath. "I'm assuming you want everything we've got, which I honestly could have just copied and mailed to you, saved you a trip—"

"I was already in the area," he informed her easily. She looked up, her light green eyes filled with curiosity, and he smiled (she was always so bright and quick, that was the first thing he'd noticed about her, and this only furthered his confidence in his decision).

Despite her curiosity, she didn't press the subject or ask questions. She simply nodded, "Fair enough. Now, like I said earlier, this is pretty much a complete paper trail of everything he's ever done or thought about doing for the past twenty-two months."

She ducked her head, focusing on the papers as she flipped through the contents of the file, and Rutherford knew that he'd made the right decision—Erin Strauss was an absolute gem of an asset for any department. Usually, you had to choose between having an agent who was intuitive and bright but ultimately brash and unstable, or one who was dependable and good at taking orders but unimaginative and unable to notice minute patterns. However, she was the rare combination of the best of both worlds—in the Philly WC, she was already seen as a bit of a whiz kid at collecting and compiling data from reputable sources, and Ruthie had seen first-hand how well she followed orders, how she never asked unnecessary questions, how she played well with others and always, always stayed between the lines.

"Would you like to know why I was already in Philadelphia?" He asked, interrupting her shuffling. Those big doll eyes snapped back up to his face again, surprised and still curious, so he continued, leaning across the table conspiratorially, "I've come to wrangle a deal with Goodwin."

"What sort of deal?" Erin Strauss was impossibly still, as if she sensed what was coming, but didn't want to jump to conclusions (yes, he'd made the right choice).

"I'm stealing you away, Strauss," he informed her, and he saw the shift of her shoulders, the beginnings of a smile forming at the corner of her eyes. He was grinning, and they were like two children sharing a wonderful secret, "I want you to come join us at the District office. In Organized Crime. If you want to, that is."

"If I want to?" She gave an incredulous laugh. "Of course I want to, Ruthie!"

"Really?"

"Really." Then she sat back, giving him a knowing smile, "Of course, I'm sure you knew that I'd take the offer long before you came up to Philadelphia."

"Well, I didn't want to be presumptuous."

She laughed again, then looked down at the file, "So...Glauman?"

"A ruse. All a clever ruse," he admitted, and suddenly she grinned, her conspiratorial smirk matching his own.

"You've already spoken to Goodwin, then?"

"Yes. Not that he really has any say over the matter—I know the right strings to pull to make it happen, no matter what. But Goodwin...well, he's a special kind of strange. Things would go so much more smoothly if I came here, in person, to ask him. Less hurt feelings. Occasionally I still have to work with him, and I'd prefer to keep it as civil as possible. That man holds a grudge better than anyone I know."

"Trust me, I know," Erin assured him, and Ruthie hated the truth behind her words. Then she brightened again, "I can't believe I'm getting to go back home to D.C. You know, I'm just keeping an apartment here, and Paul has one in the District—he couldn't leave, because of work—and it's been such hell, trying to travel back and forth every weekend. He'll be over the moon. This is probably the best birthday present ever."

"It's your birthday?"

She nodded in confirmation, and Ruthie chuckled, opening his arms in a magnanimous gesture, "Well, happy freakin' birthday, Erin."

They both laughed at the quip, but their amusement was cut short by a sharp rap on the door.

"Agent Golden?" A receptionist peered around the edge of the door. "Agent Goodwin wants to see you in his office again, before you leave."

"Thank you," Ruthie gave a slight nod, and the receptionist disappeared. Then he turned back to Erin, and they exchanged knowing looks. He rose to his feet, "Well, I guess I better get over there—one last dance across eggshells, and we'll be home free. Next time I'll see you, you'll be walking through the doors of the District Field Office."

She smiled again, nodding, "See you in D.C., Ruthie."

After he left, she sat back in her chair, both relieved and elated. She'd hated almost every second of her time spent here, but she had accepted it for what it was—everyone had to spend some time paying their dues at the Bureau, and she was doing just that. She honestly had expected to live in this hell for several more years before she finally got transferred, so this was a welcome surprise.

She was going home. Although the first half of her childhood had been spent in Somerset, her true home would always be the District. She found it clean-cut and comforting, filled with some of the best memories of her life, and she'd missed it, just as she had missed being able to live in the same place as her husband (being apart had certainly put a strain on their marriage).

She went back to her desk, her mind already mentally packing up the items inside. With a deep, happy sigh and a slight smile, she looked around the bullpen.

This was the start of something big. She knew it.

Her life was finally, truly beginning.

June 2013. Vienna, Virginia.

Erin Strauss catalogued her own features in the mirror hanging over her dresser as she put on a pair of earrings. The early morning sunlight seeping through the windows seemed only to accentuate the lines at her mouth and around her eyes, but she found that she didn't care (much). Her skin was glowing from sunshine, sex, and happiness (a winning combination, one had to admit), and her eyes were clearer than they had been two years ago, when everything was kept beneath a haze of alcohol, and she looked more like the determined young agent of yesteryear who had slowly slipped away over the decades.

Of course, the main source of her new-found youthfulness was just over her reflection's shoulder, still in bed, smiling at her with an adorable sleepiness that made her want to slip out of her structured black dress and back under the covers to kiss the tip of his nose and cuddle and coo and do all those stereotypically lovey-dovey things that new lovers do.

Now it was David's turn to sit quietly as he watched Erin move about the room, preparing for the day ahead. Since they'd spent their weekend on the case in Tucson, the BAU team had been given the day off, but it was a Wednesday, which meant that Erin Strauss was still fully expected to be in the office.

"What are your plans for the day?" She asked casually, glancing at his reflection in mirror before going back to her jewelry box to find a necklace.

"I think I'm gonna knock out a few more chapters on my book," he replied, rubbing his forehead as he thought of how his publisher was already hounding him for an advance copy of his latest writing endeavor. "Then there's a few things that need to be done around the house—a few trees need trimming, basic lawn work."

"So...I'll come out to your place tonight?"

"What about the kids?"

"Jordan's back at her own apartment; it's Paul's week to have Anna, and Chris is staying at the dorm—he starts summer semester next week, and after two weeks of living with his mother, I'm pretty sure he's ready to be around people his own age."

David grinned at her assessment. She took another deep breath, and he heard the shakiness behind it. He knew what it meant, although he still quietly asked, "Y'okay, bella?"

"Just...it's not easy, thinking about him going back to campus, knowing that the Replicator has been there, and without any kind of protection," she trailed off, not daring to finish her thoughts. She gave a quick jerk of her head, as if she were physically trying to stop her mind.

"C'mere," he reached out for her, and she moved to his side of the bed, perching on the edge as he simply wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. She took a deep breath, relishing the warmth of his bare chest against her cheek (and smiling at how sweetly he was trying to avoid messing up her hair, because he knew how finicky she was about her appearance).

David didn't try to placate her or fill her head with empty promises, and she was grateful for that. Instead, he quietly admitted, "It's scary as hell."

"It is." Her voice was filled with relief, because at least she had someone who understood her burden.

After a beat, David started slowly changing the subject, focusing on the positive instead of the negative, "He's a good kid."

"He is," Erin agreed warmly, gently pushing away from him and rising to her feet again. She planted a kiss on his forehead. "He gets that from his father, I think. Thank you, by the way, for helping him with the little surprise with Peter last night. It was very sweet."

David held his hands up in feigned protest, "That's all the thanks I get—one little peck on the forehead?"

"I think you received quite enough thanks last night."

"I think not."

She was moving again, back across the room to the closet, pulling out a nicely-tailored bolero jacket to go over her dress. She gave her lover an arched look, "Are you saying that you were dissatisfied with last night?"

"Absolutely not." This earned him a light hum (that's what I thought, buddy). He held up a cautionary finger, "However, that was not a 'thank you'. That was simply a 'welcome home'. There's a difference."

She pretended to seriously consider his argument, and not for the first time, he loved her for her cast-iron poker face.

"So, you're saying that I still owe you some kind of debt of gratitude?"

"I am."

"And how, exactly, are you expecting this debt to be paid?"

He gave a nonchalant shrug, "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"I'm sure I will." He didn't miss the warm playfulness behind her tone, the way her green eyes were already dancing with the beginnings of an idea that would inevitably make for a thoroughly enjoyable adventure (during one of their great shout-outs over twenty years ago, he'd once called her the most unimaginative person that he'd ever known, but now he realized that was an absolute mistake). She crawled across the bed to offer one last kiss—a quick, chaste one that only made him want more, but she was moving away again, slipping out of his grasp with a devilish grin. "I'll see you later, my love."

He smiled at the promise, shaking his head in disapproval of her teasing ways, which only made her grin deepen. He heard her moving around the kitchen, preparing a travel mug of coffee, and he decided to give one last goodbye (and maybe even the score a little), so he slipped out of bed, grabbing some boxers from the neatly folded stack of laundry that she'd left at the foot of the bed and stepping into them as he made his way to the kitchen. She was too absorbed in making her coffee to notice him, so he gently wrapped his arms around her, trying not to startle her too much, and she easily followed the pull of his arms, leaning back against his chest.

He started kissing her neck, savoring the fresh scent of her perfume, "I like when you wear your hair up."

"David Rossi, I do not have time for this. Not this morning."

"Time for what?"

"Has anyone ever told you how horribly fucktacular you are at pretending to be innocent?" Despite her protests, her voice was a warm purr as one hand strayed to lightly ruffle through his dark hair. Then she returned her attention to her coffee, adding the last of her crème and screwing on the lid, "Besides, you had every opportunity to join me in the shower this morning."

"You didn't tell me—"

"It's an open invitation. Just comes with the territory. I assumed you knew."

While she was busy explaining, he was busy kissing the curve of her neck, up to her ear, which he was currently nibbling. She tried to shrug away, which only made him tighten his grip around her waist as he hummed happily at her obvious irritation.

"Call in sick today," he returned his mouth to her neck.

"You really are the devil."

He chuckled at the prognosis, his hand slipping up to her breast, "Does that mean you'll give in to temptation?"

He pulled her in closer as his mouth moved to the smooth skin at the back of her neck and he felt her jerk slightly, as if her knees has momentarily given out due to this simple contact.

"David Rossi, you bastard," she reached back, giving him a reprimanding smack on the hip.

"Ooh, Erin, kinky. I like it."

"Oh dear gods above," she rolled her eyes, finally finding the will power to push his arms from her body, slipping out of his embrace and maneuvering away so that he couldn't grab her again. She moved back to the other end of the kitchen island, grabbing her briefcase and slinging her purse over her shoulder as she fixed him with her best Strauss Specialty Freeze Glare. "You are absolutely horrible."

With one last look that would reduce a normal man to ashes (but had a different fiery effect on her lover), she clipped down the hall and into the garage.

David looked over. She'd left her coffee on the counter. He grinned.

He was still grinning like the cat that ate the canary when he went out to the garage. At first, Erin was busy messing with the dials on her radio and didn't notice, but when she turned and saw him, she gave a slight huff of irritation, shaking her head at how she'd let him have another point in this strange little game between them (he'd driven her to the point of distraction, and he knew it, knew it because she couldn't even remember what she was doing when he kissed her, because he had the power to shatter her ability to think or to stay on routine with a simple touch).

She rolled down her car window.

"Forget something, kitten?" He was still grinning devilishly. She snatched the travel mug from his hands.

"I hate you right now," she informed him succinctly, turning her regal nose away from him with such a dramatic air that he had to laugh.

"Don't worry. I'll make you love me again tonight."

"Presumptuous ass." She sniffed, hitting the garage door control that was clipped onto her overhead visor.

He had to lean forward to be heard over the metallic sounds of the garage door lifting, resting his elbows on the window frame, reaching into the car to let his finger lightly trace over the curve of the breast that was hidden beneath her dress, practically purring with smug delight as he watched the color rise across the exposed skin of her chest, "But you don't deny that I will do just that."

She shot him another heated look, "I'm leaving now."

He grinned at her irritation, at her childish petulance (because he'd tempted her with something that she knew she couldn't have for many more hours), "I love you, Erin Strauss."

"Gods dammit, I love you, too, David Rossi."

March 2012. Quantico, Virginia.

Jordan Elaine Strauss stood at the threshold of her mother's office, wishing for all that she was worth that the earth would simply open up and swallow her whole.

She had to do this. She was the eldest, this was her responsibility. She was the one who had finally pushed her mother to seek treatment (the first time), the one whom her mother had called on her way to detox (the second time), and now she was the one who would help her mother adjust to life in the sober lane.

Mom was coming home next week, after fourteen weeks in a treatment facility. It was easy to stay sober in a room with four stark white walls, where no one let you have any freedom or control, when you were forced to stay sober. The counselor had explained to everyone how crucial the first few months of returning to the "real world" would be—especially since Erin would be returning to a divorce and a dying brother and a day job that was stressful as hell even on the best of days.

By now, Jordan knew enough about alcoholics in general (and her own mother in particular) to know that her mother kept stashes of alcohol everywhere. Which was why she was here, at Quantico, at her mother's office—to clear away any temptation that might be left behind.

She hated the sneakiness of it, the distrustfulness behind the action, the understanding that she was entering a place that did not belong to her, a place that she was not invited. But it was an act of love, and she would perform this duty if it killed her.

"Are you—do you need some help or something?" Her mother's assistant, Carrington, was hovering over her shoulder, hands clasping and unclasping nervously. This was the first time they'd ever met, although they'd spoken on the phone several times as Jordan was trying to arrange access into the building (Carrington had offered to clear out the office for her, but Jordan didn't want anyone else seeing, didn't want anyone else knowing her mother's dark secrets, because she had an overwhelming need to protect her mother, because that was Jordan's life philosophy—family first, at the expense of everything else).

"No. No, I think I'll be fine," Jordan snapped out of her stupor and took a deep breath as she finally entered the room.

It was calm, well organized, logical and tasteful and so like her mother, with nice colors and good, solid furniture. The sense of Erin that filled this room was so strong that her daughter felt a sudden tightness in her chest, a longing for simpler times, a longing for her mother to be what she used to be—strong and sheltering and in-control and loving and present and here, with Jordan, with her family, where she belonged.

She moved gingerly, as if she somehow feared disturbing the balance of her mother's room, slowly taking in the contents atop the desk—the family photos from years ago (they hadn't had a family portrait in ages, and now it seemed like a sign of the times), the little paperweights, the worry stone worn with grooves left by hours of being rubbed by her mother's thumb (Erin used to keep them everywhere, in a bowl by her bedside, one in the cup-holder of her car, some in a dish in the living room, and she'd simply pick them up, almost without even realizing it).

She shouldn't be here. With a sudden sense of urgency, Jordan scooped up the gilded wastebasket, quickly opening and closing the drawers and cabinets of the large hutch-credenza behind her mother's desk, trying not to look at anything, trying only to find the little bottles hidden between the binders and books and stacks of papers. She moved to the filing credenza, then to the bookshelf on the other side of the room. She saved the desk for last.

The commotion in Erin's office had suddenly fallen silent, and Carrington took a moment to glance in the open doorway. Erin's daughter sat at the desk, looking so much like her mother that it took Carrington by surprise. She hadn't seen the resemblance until now—it wasn't a likeness in physical traits, but a likeness in physicality, the way Jordan's shoulders shifted downward, as if she were carrying the weight of the world, the downward turn of her mouth that seemed like resting bitch face but really was a mind distracted by too many thoughts and not enough answers, the strange airiness of her fingers lightly moving over the surface of the desk as she reached for the family photo, the clear determination of those green eyes as they searched for some unattainable answer in the picture frame.

Carrington had actually missed her boss—and sadly, she was pretty sure that she was the only person in the building who did. The people underneath Erin knew her too well to miss her, and the people above her didn't know her well enough to miss her. Carrington knew her, and more importantly, she felt that she understood her. After seven years of taking care of Erin Strauss, Carrington had probably witnessed more sides of that woman than anyone else in the Bureau, and because of that up-close-and-personal view, she felt that she had a better grasp on Erin's true personality, on the daily demands of her position, on all the unique factors of her existence.

For the first time in almost fourteen weeks, Carrington had found someone who shared her sense of loss (though she knew and understood that Jordan's longing was deeper and stronger than her own, there was still some piece of empathy in it). She timidly stepped into the doorway, a small sad smile as she admitted, "You look like her, you know—sitting there, just like she does."

"We don't look alike," Jordan corrected, her voice matter-of-fact but not unkind (reminding Carrington of Erin yet again). "We just...we have the same mannerisms."

"That's what I meant."

"Oh." Jordan seemed as if she temporarily regretted her earlier statement, but she quickly covered whatever emotion flitted across her face before Carrington could actually identify it. After a beat, she motioned to the bonsai plant, "Thank you, for...taking care of it."

Carrington nodded, another soft smile on her lips as she admitted, "I couldn't let it die, or even...your mother would be upset, if I let it get unruly. It was her way of relieving stress, just zoning out for a few minutes, trimming the leaves. I could always tell how bad her day was, based on how much she pruned away."

Jordan gave a smile at the last comment.

"I come in here and trim it at the table," Carrington motioned to the little conference table at the other end of the room. "It feels too strange, sitting at her desk."

"It feels like her," Jordan agreed, looking around the room with a wistfulness that saddened her mother's receptionist.

"How is she?" Carrington took a few steps inside the room.

"She's well," the younger woman answered diplomatically, and Carrington suddenly remembered what Erin had once said about her eldest daughter—she's got more age than her actual years, she's always been a grown-up, she was a four-year-old adult, always serious and sometimes sad.

She could see that, could even see the unspoken lines in Jordan's face as she turned to the window.

"I don't know when she's coming back here, though," Jordan admitted, giving a slight frown. There was another thoughtful silence, during which Carrington heard her sigh, saw her shift, felt her mentally weighing her next thought. There was something she wanted to share, something she wasn't sure that she should share, something rattling around in her chest that needed to be expressed in some way to someone (and Carrington understood that, understood that feeling of helplessness and loneliness, that feeling of singularity, of isolation, of needing to be connected).

Against her better judgment, Jordan finally voiced her thoughts, "She missed her birthday. Two weeks ago, I tried to go out to see her, but there was this thing, and I...I didn't go. When I called to apologize and wish her a happy birthday anyways, she'd forgotten. She said she hadn't really thought about it."

With a sudden shake of her head, Jordan turned back to the office, standing as she resumed a curt air, "I don't know why it meant so much to me, or why I'm telling you—"

"I'm glad that you did," Carrington spoke quickly, trying to soothe whatever jagged edges were left by the opening of this wound, by the vulnerability of the moment. Suddenly, she became shy again, but she continued onward, gently, hesitantly, "It's...it's good, sometimes, just to tell other people our stories. Because most of the time, they understand, because they have stories like that, too. And then...then you realize that you're not so alone."

Jordan took a moment to scrutinize the brunette (with the same odd clinical efficiency of her mother), simply stating, "You have stories like that, too."

It wasn't a question, or even a guess. She understood that Carrington's expression was one of empathy, not merely sympathy.

The older woman simply nodded, but she didn't elaborate any further, so Jordan didn't pursue the subject.

"And thank you," Jordan motioned around the office."For letting me in, for whatever strings you had to pull—"

"It wasn't a problem," Carrington assured her.

The younger woman arched her brow with an incredulous slow burn that Carrington had thought only Erin Strauss could express. "This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm pretty sure they don't just let anyone waltz in, especially if that person wants to rifle through the office of one of their section chiefs."

The brunette simply smiled in admission. Jordan picked up the waste bin again, which now rattled and chimed with the sound of bottles (though only a few, thankfully). "Um...I don't know if...can I just walk out of here with this—would they, will there be—"

"I'll take care of it," Carrington stepped forward, pulling the trash bag out of the bin and tying the top into a neat little knot.

"Just...I don't want to leave it for the cleaning staff because...well, I mean, I guess I know that people know about Mom, but I don't want to give them something else...it's, it's not right, they don't know her, and they don't know—"

"I'll take care of it," Carrington repeated, taking a moment to place a reassuring hand on Jordan's shoulder. "There's a back exit, next to some dumpsters—I'll toss it on my break."

The younger woman gave a quick nod of approval, her throat suddenly swelling with unshed tears. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't have to be cleaning up after her mother, shouldn't be the parent to her own parent, shouldn't be the one knowing this shame and this need for secrecy, shouldn't be a part of this world at all. And in a horrible ouroboros of emotion, she both resented her mother for putting her in the position and felt guilty for feeling such resentment, for being so petty and selfish and childish and all the things that she couldn't and shouldn't be right now.

Carrington had turned away to gingerly set the bag next to the door, and when she turned back to Jordan, she was shocked to see the immediate change that had overcome the younger woman. Jordan was still standing there, in her motorcycle boots and babydoll dress, looking like a little lost girl as she kept her arms wrapped awkwardly around the waste bin, clutching it with the white-knuckle fervor of someone whose world is slowly spiraling out of control or comprehension, tight-lipped and vacant-eyed, retreated so far into her own head that she seemed completely oblivious to Carrington's presence.

And, strangely enough, that was the moment in which she looked the most like her mother—the fear and uncertainty and conflicting thoughts deep within—and Carrington felt her own pang of regret (because she wished that she'd said something months ago, said something to Erin when she knew that she was slipping again, said anything to help, to ease whatever burdens she could for a woman who'd always seemed like a mountain of fortitude).

So she did the one thing that she never did to Erin, the one thing that she'd since wished she'd done.

Carrington moved back to Jordan with a quiet cautiousness, trying not to scare her or shake her too violently from her thoughts, gently taking the tiny trash can away from the girl's arms. This brought Jordan back to the present moment, and she blinked slightly, offering a small, almost-apologetic smile. Her mother's receptionist set the waste bin back beside the desk, and then wordlessly wrapped her into a hug. There was a beat as the younger woman simply accepted the comfort, then her arms returned the embrace.

"I knew," Carrington confessed. "I should have said something sooner."

"Me, too," Jordan whispered. She pulled back, looking into Carrington's eyes so that she could understand the truth of her next statement, "It's not your fault."

"It's not yours, either."

This simple absolution renewed the tears brimming in Jordan's eyes. "I know. I don't always believe it, but I know."

"Believing and knowing aren't always the same thing," Carrington commiserated.

Jordan gave a small nod, her eyes latching onto Carrington's again (you have stories like that, too).

Dear god, her eyes. Those were the kind of eyes that took you by surprise, seemingly ordinary and unremarkable until you were caught by them, sliced to the soul by their depths, by their startling clarity and their precision, the kind of eyes that could take in the whole world with a single glance, the kind of eyes which toppled empires and made slaves of powerful men, the kind that stopped the air in your lungs with one accidental encounter, trapping your with one little peek at the soul beneath. Just like her mother's eyes.

June 2013. Quantico, Virginia.

Dora Carrington always tried to avoid looking at the corner of Erin's office that contained the little black leather couch, always tried not to remember the rest of her strange encounter with her boss' daughter or how things unraveled between them (it was just a kiss, just a little inconsequential second in time, it meant nothing, never had, never would), but today she felt an odd sense of nostalgia as she tidied up the office—she always came in and rearranged the folders on Erin's desk, resetting everything for the long day ahead, always had to return the waste bin to its proper place (the new cleaning staff never put it back where it was supposed to go, and that irked Carrington beyond belief).

Jordan had said that it was lovely, she didn't regret it, but she wasn't particularly interested in pursuing anything further, and Carrington had gratefully agreed. She was more than happy to move past and move on.

At least she thought so.

Over a year had passed, and Carrington hadn't felt the slightest bit of regret or shame, had simply accepted that moment as one of those strange, inexplicable things that didn't need explanation, that didn't need to be understood or pursued or really considered, and she'd been just fine with that.

And then, after such a long silence, the phone rang and Jordan Strauss had been on the other end, gravely and quietly asking for yet another favor, to which Carrington had agreed, before she even knew what the favor was. The mere sound of the younger woman's voice stirred something that Carrington hadn't even realized existed, and suddenly, she'd found herself continuously thinking back to the barely-spring afternoon, thinking more about it in the past two weeks than she'd done in the past year, thinking the two most explosive words in the human language, the two syllables that held more promise, more terror, more uncertainty, more exploration and human nature than anything else.

What if?

Washington, D.C.

Of course, John Curtis had contemplated this question many times, in various forms and from various angles, but he was actually surprised by how furious the actual result made him.

Erin Strauss wasn't playing by the rules.

He shouldn't be surprised by that. She never played by the rules, never thought that they applied to her, special golden girl of the Bureau, the shining cog in the tirelessly consuming machine, delusional collector of empty praise and emptier accolades.

But the game had been going so well. Every advance and retreat had been predicted and perfectly executed, like a ballet, like the movements of a symphony, rising and falling in flawless timing, building and receding at a precise pace, all masterfully controlled by the man behind the curtain, one John Curtis.

Of course (ofcourseofcourseofcourse) Erin Strauss had to be the one to mess up the rhythm and flow, and though her uncooperative attitude irritated John, he contented himself with the thought that in due time, she'd be properly punished for every sin she'd ever committed against him. Every. Single. One.

Still, her actions baffled him. He knew that she'd received her clues, and yet, she'd told no one about them—because if she had, they would surely have been in an oversight committee report, and perhaps the supposedly oh-so-brilliant Dr. Reid would have pieced together the significance between her clues and the dump site locations, and perhaps the team would have found the other chess pieces at the other locations (a feat which had taken a considerable amount of John's time, which made him regret that they hadn't found those pieces).

Why would she keep this secret? She had nothing to gain (and so much to lose) by concealing the Replicator's latest offering, especially when her son was on the line.

Maybe she'd figured it out. Maybe she'd realized that John wasn't going to hurt her family. Taking her son away would ruin the game—Erin wouldn't be afraid anymore, she would be sucked into her own grief, and John wanted her at her fighting weight whenever it came to the final showdown.

Maybe she understood that. Maybe she'd already begun to piece together the clues, maybe her once-celebrated ability to compile data had finally proven itself and she'd traced this feud back to its origins.

He doubted it. No, if anything, it was simply that Erin Strauss was being intentionally obtuse, petulantly refusing to play the game.

That's OK. You'll have to play soon enough, whether you want to or not. I'll let you have some sense of control for now—it'll be that much more enjoyable when I rip it all away from you.