Profane
"These hands will be cut and burned and blackened with ash as we sift through what we set fire to. We are the remains when the excuses have been burned down and the colors of life will hide under our fingernails. We are these hands, tough but gentle and strong but soft. We, like they, were made for building and holding, painting and writing and drawing inkless art on the canvas of bare skin. Listen to the words my hands say as they trace the lines of yours, hear the whispers as they cartwheel down your back. These hands tell stories and I'll spend my life wondering what your hands tell my hands when your fingers find my fingers and wrap tightly around." ~Tyler Knott Gregson
*Author's Note: CORRECTION: In a previous chapter, Line in the Sand (Ch 44), there was a section that had a continuity error—in that chapter, it seemed as if Rossi didn't find out about Strauss' pregnancy until month five, but way earlier in the story, Blake remembers Rossi having lemon candies in his pocket for Strauss during the first few weeks of her pregnancy, while they were on a case in Boston. So that chapter was revised (originally posted 8/13/13, revised and reposted 8/22/13—which means if you read it before 8/22, you should probably go back and read the revised section), and this first section was put in as a bridge in the continuity gap. Just FYI.*
July 1989. Washington, D.C.
David couldn't help but notice that Erin was breathing weirdly—she was doing this thing where she'd take a shallow, unsteady breath, then simply hold her breath for a few seconds. He glanced over and noticed that she was paler than usual, too.
They were seated at a large oak conference table, surrounded by other agents in the middle of a status briefing on their newest Joint Task Force assignment, so he leaned over, his voice dipping low enough to be heard only by her, "Strauss, y'okay?"
"What?" She looked over at him, with the slightly dazed expression of one awakened from a dream. Then she frowned, closing her eyes, "Oh, um, yeah. I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"'Cause you don't look fine."
"I'm fine, Rossi," her voice was laced with irritation. "I'm fine, I just...I'm pregnant."
"What?"
Suddenly, their little tête-à-tête was interrupted by Jack Bronson's booming voice, "Strauss, Rossi, something you two wanna share with the rest of the class?"
Strauss turned back to the JTF SAC—but she turned too quickly and it made the room spin, so she closed her eyes and did that weird holding-her-breath thing again.
Rossi reached over, grabbing her hand under the table and stilling her, "Nope, Bronson, we're still here."
"Good," Bronson gave a curt nod, returning to the briefing memo.
Strauss gave his hand a grateful squeeze. A full minute passed before she actually let go of his hand, and he oddly missed the clammy warmth of her palm.
After the briefing, the younger blonde agent quickly disappeared. However, Rossi had a pretty good guess as to her whereabouts, and he casually leaned against the wall in the long, depressingly greyish-yellow hallway, keeping an eye on the entrance to the women's restroom.
She appeared, wiping red-rimmed eyes, taking a moment to simply stare at him when she realized that he'd been waiting on her.
"You look like hell," he informed her.
"The joys of motherhood," she replied drolly. He offered her a peppermint, but she shook her head, "Too sweet. I have some regular mints in my desk. And some lemon drops. Those seem to be the only things that work."
He almost made a quip about lemon drops and why her face always looked so sour, but for once, David Rossi chose not to antagonize Erin Strauss, because she obviously was not up to their usual sparring.
"How far along?" He asked casually as they started walking back to the bullpen.
"Just a few weeks," she admitted. After a beat, she added, "Bronson wants to send me up to Boston, to head off the JFT analysts on the Hantown case. It's gonna be a helluva trip, I can tell."
He gave a small hum of amusement at her dry pronouncement.
"Thankfully this whole morning sickness thing is only supposed to last for a few more weeks," she sighed. "Although, it's not just in the mornings—I'm sick all the time."
"I thought you looked like you'd lost some weight," David admitted.
Erin suddenly stopped, a wryly smug smile slipping across her lips, "David Rossi, you've been looking at my ass again, haven't you?"
He couldn't help it. He had to laugh, deeply and fully, at her crack-whip humor.
"Jesus, Strauss, you are the most narcissistic woman I've ever met," he informed her.
"I'm assuming that was meant as a compliment."
"Absolutely."
She gave a curt nod of approval as they stopped at her desk—she rummaged through a drawer until she found her mints, popping one in her mouth as she turned back to him, "I've got a good half-hour before I start turning green around the gills again, so whaddya need?"
"What?"
She motioned back towards the restrooms, "Well, you were lurking in the hallway, waiting for me. I assume it's because you needed something, some data from the new JTF assignment."
"No, I didn't need anything," he admitted, slightly surprised that she couldn't assume that he was simply checking on her. "I just...I just wanted to make sure that you were alright."
"Really?" She seemed incredulous, and he felt a wave of irritation at her disbelief.
"Really."
She took a moment to scrutinize him, down the full length of her nose (in the way that always amazed Rossi, because it made her seem ten feet tall, when really she was much shorter than he was). Then she simply smiled, giving a small nod, "OK, then."
She turned back to her desk, shuffling through her papers as she casually changed the subject, "When are you heading back to Quantico?"
He glanced at his watch, "In about fifteen minutes. I need to double-check a few things with Bronson before I leave, then say hello to Abby—I mean, Agent Van Hals."
Strauss simply smiled at the slip-up, and she wondered for the hundredth time if Abigail Van Hals had been another conquest of the infamous David Rossi (wondered if Abigail was on the list with her, wondered how many of her fellow female agents shared this strange unknown bond, this question that she could never ask them, could never ask David, because she wasn't even supposed to remember that it had happened).
Her hands were still moving across the tiny desk, shuffling and re-organizing papers and notepads and pencils—David couldn't help but notice that her post-it notes were ordered along the edge of her desk (according to size, then color), and he knew that something had recently been stressing her.
"Don't you dare tell Van Hals, but I still miss Golden," Strauss admitted quietly. Her mentor and former SAC had been gone for five months now, and she missed his quiet, calming ways, his advice and his jokes, his way of explaining things, his way of following data, not hunches, his simple presence and even his smile.
And not for the first time, David Rossi wondered if there was more between Kitten and Ruthie than met the eye (wondered if she'd given him the same speech that she'd given David, about let's-pretend-this-never-happened, wondered if there was more behind the soft look that Ruthie had given Erin during his retirement party, wondered if he wasn't the only colleague who'd fallen into this woman's arms, though he was much too prideful to ever ask, to ever really want to know).
"Your secret's safe with me," he assured her, and they both felt that they weren't just talking about her loyalty to her former SAC.
She blushed (thinking that he was somehow referring to other secrets that he'd kept, secrets of things they'd done in hotel rooms), and he interpreted that as an admission of guilt (thinking that it was a confession of her feelings, of her past actions with Golden, of something deeper than mere admiration for the man).
Another agent, Fielding, entered with several containers of Chinese food, "Hey, Strauss, I got an extra thing of the happy family—ya want it?"
The smell of food made Erin go pale again, and her hand automatically went to her throat, "No, Fielding, I'm good, I-I-I think I need to...excuse me."
She bolted down the hall again, and David wasn't sure whether he should laugh or pity her.
"What's her problem?" Fielding turned back to Rossi, slightly confused. "She OK?"
So Erin hadn't informed her coworkers yet. Interesting. David wondered if that meant that she trusted him, that she had some kind of confidence with him that she didn't have with the others, or simply that her news had slipped out on accident during the briefing.
"She's fine," Rossi assured the other agent. "Just not feeling too great today."
With a slight shake of his head, he headed for Bronson's office, though his mind remained hovering over the desk of one certain blonde hurricane, who currently had lost some of her force due to her maternal illness.
He shouldn't care about Erin Strauss, or her pregnancy, or why she had resorted to her old habit of arranging and re-ordering items (a nervous tic that he'd learned on their first case together, over a year ago, something he probably shouldn't remember but could never forget). He shouldn't care. He shouldn't.
That didn't stop the single thought that seared across his brain like a branding iron: Erin Strauss is pregnant.
As jealous and childish and petty as it sounded, it somehow seemed to tarnish whatever had been between them—it was one thing to sleep with a man, it was another thing to marry him, and it was an entirely different beast to carry his child. And the fact that she'd committed to such a thing so shortly after their last transgression (it had only been six months since Philadelphia) was disconcerting to David.
She didn't owe him anything. He knew that, and truly, he didn't expect anything from her, either. And yet, he couldn't deny that he still felt an odd pin-prick at this news, some inexplicable reaction (because really, it wasn't any of his business, he had no claim on this woman, just as she had no claim on him).
Denial is a powerful tool of the human psyche, perhaps one of its most powerful weapons against the weight of reality. David fully engaged this mechanism, silently telling himself that his only concern was for Strauss' health and safety, because she was his colleague and a good agent, because he would feel this way if any of his coworkers were ill.
And his denial was fully in-place by the time he entered Bronson's office and asked to be assigned to the JTF effort in Boston, the same one that Strauss was being sent to consult on. Obviously, he wanted to go because he wanted to be a part of the action, and because they did have a need for his skill set. It had nothing to do with the fact that Erin Strauss might need someone to hold her hand again.
And ten days later, when he was in Boston, preparing for his first day on the case, he stopped at a bodega and bought a pack of lemon drops. Obviously, he did this because he was already there buying coffee, and he liked lemon candies, always had. It was a sheer whim. It had nothing to do with the fact that they were the only thing that kept Erin Strauss from getting sick.
Obviously.
November 1997. Vienna, Virginia.
Erin stared at the dust-jacket for several minutes before she realized that her hands were actually trembling. With a quick shake of her head, she reached up and placed the book on the top shelf of her bedroom closet.
She told herself that she was putting the book there because she had three young, curious children who didn't need to read such things.
She knew that was a lie.
The book's spine was facing her, the red metallic letters spelling out David Rossi seemed to glitter back at her with a dark foreboding, more frightful that the book's title, Deviance: The Secret Desires of Sadistic Serial Killers.
Secret Desires. Of course, David went for the dramatic.
She'd already read a few chapters, and she had to admit, he actually had a flair for writing. His literary style matched his verbal patterns, and she could almost hear him speaking the words aloud, as if he were reading the book to her.
She suddenly felt a jolt, somewhere between her lungs and her pelvis, an odd sense of nostalgia and longing, just for the sound of his voice, always smooth and eternally amused.
It had been over four years since she'd heard his voice. She missed that. She missed the light teasing in his tone, the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle long before his mouth actually smiled, the way they danced with a joke, the relaxed and easy movements of his body when he leaned back in his chair, taking a break from whatever case they were working on to follow random rabbit trails of conversation, the camaraderie of hours and days and weeks spent side by side, sitting at conference tables overflowing with case files or walking through the streets of any city or standing in elevators, simply waiting.
When she'd first picked up the book in the book store, she'd studied the black and white photo on the back of the dust jacket, trying to gauge how much of the old Dave was still there. And oh, how she'd found herself blushing when she bought the book, as if she was taking home some perversely graphic romance novel—no one could ever know the true connection she had to the author, to the cases of which he wrote, but she knew, and that was enough to make her on-edge.
She'd brought it home last night, had left it on the bedside table, that monochromatic face smiling up at her as Paul had leaned over, kissing her, slipping his hands over her in familiar overtures of his usual foreplay. For a split second, she'd felt that she couldn't—not with David watching. Then, of course, she'd reminded herself that it was just a picture on the back of a book, that she was being stupid, that she certainly wouldn't tell her husband that she didn't want to have sex because a photograph was looking at them. It was neurotic, it was ridiculous...and yet...and yet it felt so profane, the thought of making love to her husband while the token of her former lover (they hadn't been lovers, had they, but what else could she call him?) rested less than three feet away, casually taking in the scene.
When she'd slipped her tank top off, she'd placed it over David's face. The odd conflict rising in her chest had subsided, and she'd pushed the rest away.
And now, today, she was exiling David's face to the closet. No more guilty feelings for Erin Strauss.
Anna was crying again, interrupting her mother's thoughts. With one last heavy sigh and an irritated ruffle of her hand through her hair (teething babies could drive anyone to absolute insanity), Erin shut the closet door and returned to reality.
June 2013. Rural Virginia.
"'Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider..."
The smooth cadence of Erin's voice was lulling David into a golden, dreamy state as he rested his head in her lap, grinning contently as he silently decided that this was how books should always be read—she wasn't wearing anything except her reading glasses, holding the book in one hand above his head, while her other hand played with his hair. They'd had a deliciously hot (in more ways than one) bath, he'd massaged away the knots in her stressed muscles, she'd shown her gratitude in a physically rewarding way, and afterwards, they were both too awake to simply go to sleep, so she'd started reading the book she'd brought with her (he loved that, loved that she always had a book, in her purse or her car or on her bedside table), and he'd convinced her to read aloud. It was endearingly domestic and touchingly intimate, and he wanted to stay in this warm little bubble of a moment for as long as possible.
He could feel the warmth of her thighs radiating against his cheek, could smell the simple scent of soap on both of their bodies, and he turned his head slightly, sampling her soft skin with his lips. She didn't miss a beat in her reading, though her fingers in his hair became slightly more insistent, massaging his scalp, encouraging him to continue.
"These fragments I have shored up against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shanith, Shantih, Shantih."
He gave a small hum of approval, once he realized that she'd finished that particular poem. "I think that's enough for tonight, bella."
"I hope you're only referring to the reading."
He grinned, lightly nipping the top of her thigh, "Of course."
Now it was her turn to hum in approval, setting her book and her glasses on the bedside table before turning her attention to her lover. She leaned forward, her hands trailing down his bare back, tumbling and seeking like the tide against the shore, simply taking in as much as she could of this man who was a bottomless well to her, this man who completed her and satisfied her yet always left her craving more.
"I love this," she admitted.
"I know you do," he informed her with a teasing warmth.
"No, not sex—I mean, I love that, too, but that wasn't what I was talking about."
He stopped for a moment, raising his head to look into her eyes, his face filled with curiosity.
"I like the domesticity," she clarified, tracing the outline of his face adoringly. "I don't think I ever was much of a domestic woman, but this, here, with you, I like it."
She leaned towards the night stand again, grabbing her phone, "Which reminds me. Peter sent this to me, earlier today. I meant to send it to you, but I was in a meeting and I forgot."
He sat up, reclining against the headboard, his shoulder pressed against her own as he watched her scroll through her texts. She found the one she was looking for—one from Peter, which contained a photo from Christopher's birthday dinner. Peter had convinced everyone to move to one side of the table, and had gotten their waiter to take a photo.
"Happy family," she decreed warmly, handing him the phone so that he could inspect the picture more closely.
He nodded in agreement, smiling at the memory of how right and wonderful it felt, celebrating their son's birthday, like one family, like there were no secrets, no complications. Jordan, Chris, and Peter were seated, with David and Erin standing behind the birthday boy, Erin's other arm pulling Anna closer to her. Everyone's face was bright and beaming, cheeks red from too much laughter.
"I'm gonna have to print this one out and frame it for the wall in the study," he decided. She gave a small hum—she knew what he was talking about, she'd seen the huge open wall in his study, covered in photos from his life, photos of colleagues and family members and mentors and everyone who held a place in his heart. She also knew that there already was a photo of them in that collection, the photo from Ruthie's retirement party, and she loved the idea of this picture joining that storyline—because in this photo, they were happier, they were solider, they were more.
"It's definitely frame-worthy," she agreed, leaning over to kiss the shell of his ear. She watched him study the photo, her heart swelling with more adoration for this man, this man who'd forgiven her of so many things, this man whom she'd forgiven of just as many things.
She liked the idea of having their photos on his wall (it hearkened back to the sense of belonging, of stake and ownership and rightness), liked the idea of being the bright spot among the sober settings of his study (though she loved his study, loved the smell of leather and cigar smoke and firewood, the sense and weight of David that seemed to fill the room), liked the idea of David actually wanting to place their makeshift family portrait on his wall, liked knowing that he was proud of what they had done, of what they were building even now.
He handed her the phone again, and she forwarded the picture to his cell (she had to do these things while she was thinking about them, because she'd surely forget if she waited until morning). Then she set her phone back on the night stand and turned back to her love with a warm smile, her hand gently tracing the line down the middle of his chest created by the split of his ribcage.
His hand took hers, gently turning it over as he brought it to his lips, planting a warm kiss on her palm. Then he pulled it back, taking the time to catalogue its features, his fingers lightly tracing the outline of her hand, the shadows created by the dim lamplight, the lines in her palm that supposedly foretold her destiny. She shifted closer, her leg easily intertwining with his as she kissed his warm shoulder, her green eyes still fixed on their hands, which were now caressing and reshaping around one another, just as they had done a few months ago, in her office, the day that he'd first spoken the word love, the day that he'd confessed that he could never give up on her, not even when he wanted to.
And just as she had done the first time that she'd witnessed such a sight, Erin Strauss admitted that she was truly in love with this man. Madly, deeply, helplessly, whole-heartedly in love. And she had absolutely no plans to ever change that.
"My hands are two travelers, they've crossed oceans and lands. But they are too small on the continent of your skin…wandering, wandering, I could spend my life traveling the length of your body each night." ~Jewel, 'Jupiter'
*Author's Note: The poem read by Erin in the final section is T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland—and the strange spelling in the last few lines are not typos, though they appear to be. And as always, thank you for the lovely reviews.*