Brontide
"It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, the earthquake. " ~Frederick Douglass
*Author's Note: Let me take a moment to say thank you to everyone who was kind enough to leave feedback and answer my questions. You guys rock out hard.
Also, this is the final installment. When you have finished reading this, you will have read a fanfic that is over three times the length of JRR Tolkien's "The Hobbit". I'm not sure if you should be proud or if you should really consider your life choices (that was a joke...sort of...).*
November 1988. New York City, New York.
Despite their temporary truce on day three, Rossi and Strauss were back to their usual mutual disdain by day five, and by day six, all hell was threatening to break loose.
"How did we lose him?" Talladeris shook his head in frustration.
"Well, we're in a city of 7.2 million people," Wallander's voice was flat and unaffected as he scanned the newspaper. "So I'd say it's pretty easy to do."
"It ain't that big of a city, if you know where to look," Talladeris replied.
"A guy like Roche's got to have some kind of safe house," Rossi pointed out.
"We've searched every residence that he's got," Strauss reminded him.
"If it's a safe house, we wouldn't know about it," Rossi retorted.
"If he has it, we know about it," she countered, looking up from her stack of files. They'd already clashed a few times that morning, and she felt like he was intentionally trying to push her buttons, which aggravated her to no end. "We have traced every single cent that man has spent in the last fifteen years. If he'd bought a house, or any other property, we'd know about it."
"What if he didn't buy it?" Rossi challenged. He never could understand how Strauss got here, because her ability to think outside of the box was nonexistent. "What if it's family property, or—"
"We've tracked the financials on all of his close friends and relatives," Strauss snapped. "There is nothing—"
"You mean you've found nothing—"
"No, I mean if we didn't find it, then it isn't there—"
"You can't guarantee that—"
"Yes, yes, I can. Our analysts have—"
"You and your beloved analysts," Rossi turned away with a dramatic roll of his eyes.
"Would you stop interrupting me?" The frustration was building in her tone (don't you dare turn away from me, don't you dare dismiss me) and of course, Rossi chose to ignore the warning. She was annoying the ever-living hell out of him (seriously, asking him to stop interrupting, when she was doing the exact same thing to him), so he put on his most unaffected air and nonchalantly threw his next barb over his shoulder, still not deigning to look at her.
"Look, I know you think analysts are the end-all, be-all, but I've got news for you, kitten—"
There was a flurry of noise, and a horrible ripping thud as a heavy binder full of papers went flying across the room, hitting the wall with enough force to leave a mark and a slight dent in the plaster.
David whirled back around to see Erin Strauss more livid than he'd ever seen her before—tight-lipped, wide-eyed, heaving chest, red-faced and deathly still. There were papers all over the table, slipping onto to the floor from the residual force of her hurling the binder across the room, and for a moment, those soft slips of paper were the only things moving.
"Don't you ever call me that again," her voice was shaking with pure rage, becoming hoarse under the strain of all the anger that she was trying (and failing) to keep in check. "I can take the snide comments and the eye-rolling and your complete inability to consider any idea that isn't your own, but gods fucking dammit, don't you dare patronize me."
"Strauss, it's OK," as usual, Dave Wallander stepped in to save the day, moving forward to reach for her, but one cutting glance from Erin stopped him completely.
"No, it's not. It's not OK." She brought her voice down a notch, closer to a calmer tone, and it was then that David realized how deeply he'd hurt her—she was still so impossibly rigid, and he suddenly realized that she was on the verge of shattering completely into tears (that was why she was moving away from Wallander, because if he touched her, she would cry, and she didn't want to cry in front of them).
There was an awful, heavy moment as everyone stood still, uncertain of what to do. Then Erin Strauss blinked, as if she'd snapped out of a trance.
"I...I think I need to get some air," she whispered, fluttering her hands at Wallander, who was still trying to help, shooing him away from her. She turned on her heel and left the room.
Wallander turned back to Rossi, who held up his hand, "Don't. I already know."
"Then you also already know that you better fix it," Wallander retorted. Erin Strauss was his partner, his colleague, and sometimes his friend. Most of the time, he knew that she could handle herself, and he trusted her ability to survive, but this last battle with Rossi had hit some emotional land mine within her that had truly hurt her in some way, and that made Wallander want to take a swing at David Rossi.
Despite the fact that he knew that Wallander was right, David still wanted to hit him. First of all, David Rossi did not like being chastised, especially when he'd already admitted to being wrong, and secondly, Erin Strauss was the last person to need a valiant defender—she could handle herself just fine, and David didn't like the idea that Wallander suddenly felt the need to save her. He wasn't exactly sure why the second point bothered him, but it did.
With a frustrated sigh, David Rossi left the room, in search of the infuriating blonde who had pushed him to anger and then made him feel guilty for being angry.
Erin Strauss was in the break room, sipping her coffee with an odd sense of self-contained determination (I will stand here, I will drink this entire cup—which probably won't help my nerves—and I will not move or think about it anymore, and when I am done, I will go back into that room and do my fucking job, I am a Breyer, I can take anything they throw at me, I can, I will, I must...), her eyes focused blankly ahead, too deep in her own mind to actually see anything.
She didn't know why being called kitten bothered her so much (after all, she'd been called much worse, many times, and it never fazed her), but it did. Maybe it wasn't the name so much as it was the implication behind it—kitten, docile, fluffy, no substance, no value, something to be dismissed and disdained, unworthy of respect (so many of the things that the voices in her head already screamed on a daily basis).
Really, she shouldn't have put anything past David Rossi—if she'd learned anything over the past week, it was that he would do and say anything, just to win an argument, no matter how petty the fight nor how caustic the remark. It was a low blow, but it had made her shut down and capitulate and run away, so she was certain that Rossi considered it a victory in his book.
She heard someone else enter the break room, and her skin did that weird tingling thing that always seemed to happen when Rossi was around (she had decided that it was her animal instinct, her flight-or-fight reflex gearing up for confrontation, as if her body had known from day one that this man was going to be her enemy).
Enemy. She'd never even really thought of him as such until now. But what else did you call someone who hated you? And he had to hate her—why else would he be so unnecessarily harsh, so calculatingly cruel, so determined to wound her?
Strauss' back was turned to him, but David could tell that she was aware of his presence, due to the strained and rigid lines of her body.
Erin simply waited for him to speak. Whatever happened, whatever he said, she would not give this man any reaction, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of upsetting her further.
"I'm sorry," he said simply, and his words surprised her (because she had been so certain that he was coming to gloat, to continue their fight, to push and prod and goad her, as usual).
Unfortunately for David Rossi, Erin Strauss was not ready to make nice. She knew that he was only apologizing because she'd been weak, because her weakness had made him look like a bully (which he was, but still). So instead, she flatly asked, "For what, exactly?"
"Excuse me?"
She turned to face him, her expression blank and unaffected as she repeated, "What exactly are you sorry for?"
He could already hear it in her tone—the impending battle already building, like the distant rumble of thunder. Still, it was just passive-aggressive enough for David to be unable to call it out. So, he simply stomached his wormwood, "I'm sorry for upsetting you."
"Interesting apology," Strauss commented, looking down at her coffee mug, swishing around its contents with an air of boredom. Then her green eyes snapped up to his brown ones, "You're not sorry that you said it. You're just sorry that it upset me. You're sorry that by upsetting me, you upset the others. So maybe I'm not the one who deserves an apology."
"You do deserve an apology," David returned, feeling his blood pressure already rising at her accusations.
"No, I don't," she countered coolly, taking another step towards him. "You're not apologizing for your actions, you're apologizing for my reaction. There's a difference."
He fought down the urge to reach over and strangle the blonde (her neck was so thin, he could probably easily snap it in a single take, no problem, and then all would be well again), though his anger was only increased by the silent realization that she actually had a point.
"Dammit to hell, Strauss, why can't you be like a normal human being and just accept the apology?"
He saw her fingers tighten around the mug, taunt and curved like talons, and he could tell that she was fighting down the urge to throw the rest of her coffee in his face (so Erin likes to throw things when she gets mad—he didn't know why, but that amused him, probably because she always seemed so self-contained and perfectly in-place, and it was funny realizing that Miss Socialite was capable of throwing a tantrum).
Of course, the fact that he was smiling certainly didn't help the situation.
"I'm glad you find this amusing," she commented, though her tone belied her words.
"Not in the way that you think I do," he assured her.
"I see." Her grip on the coffee mug further tightened, and he wondered if she would shatter it with her mere fingers. "I suppose I can't imagine the true meaning behind your smile, being the stupid little kitten that I am."
Oh, hell. Here they went again.
"That's not what I meant," he rolled his eyes.
"Of course it isn't," she spoke quickly, her tone implying the opposite.
"Sweet Jesus in short-pants, Strauss, I'm trying—"
"No, you're not—"
"—to apologize—"
"You're not sorry! You're sorry that you said something that made you look bad in front of the other guys. You're sorry that you got called out for being a—"
"Don't you even go there, Erin Strauss, you know—"
"Actually, I don't, Rossi. I don't know anything, remember?"
Dear God, this was why murders happened. He wondered how the woman's poor husband hadn't killed her or filed for divorce yet. Or both.
Erin stared at the man before her, silently wondering how he'd survived this long. Seriously, how hadn't one of his wives simply placed a pillow over his face while he slept? She was close to doing that, and she'd only really known him for less than a week!
He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his anger as he quietly spoke, "You are intentionally misconstruing—"
"Try not to use big words on me, Rossi," she interjected smoothly. Then she cocked her head to one side, eyes wide in faux innocence as she kicked her voice up to a Marilyn-esque pitch, "They might give me a headache."
He fought back another urge to wrap his hands around her neck, "You are blowing things completely out of proportion, as usual, Agent Strauss—"
"Am I? Am I really?" She didn't seem convinced, turning back to the break room sink and tossing the rest of her coffee down the drain (she couldn't even finish a goddamn cup of coffee in peace). She began rinsing out the mug, her movements quick and agitated, "You came out swinging at me on day one, for no apparent reason, and for the past six days, you have done nothing but fight me every step of the way. And when I finally push back, suddenly I'm the one who's overreacting?"
He actually couldn't argue with her on that point—he still wasn't sure why he'd started this war between them (some things just happen)—but he'd be damned if he conceded anything to this woman.
So instead, he simply gave a wry smile, "Oh, Strauss. You play the martyr so well."
She turned back to him, her face deadly-pale as her color in her chest and neck rose, "What did you say to me?"
"You heard me," David felt a prick of satisfaction as he threw her own words back at her. "You wouldn't be so defensive if you hadn't."
Now the blush from her neck stained her cheeks, oddly accentuating the bright green orbs burning above them. It actually made her eyes look prettier, though that wasn't a thought that David could entertain for long, because right now, she very well might kill him.
Dave Wallander glanced at his watch. David Rossi had left in search of Strauss a full five minutes ago, and every second that ticked by only filled Wallander with dread.
"Don't worry," Talladeris seemed to read his mind. "I don't think either one has their gun on them."
"That isn't the only thing that could be used as a weapon," Martin spoke for the first time in a long time, not even looking up from his stack of files. Talladeris let out a huge, booming laugh at the pronouncement.
"I s'pose you're right, Marty." He stood and looked at Wallander again, motioning for the door, "Wanna go make sure they haven't killed each other with pencils and letter openers? Then we'll go grab some lunch."
Wallander gave a curt nod of approval, and Talladeris turned to Martin, "You in?"
"I think I'll stay here," Martin waved away the invitation. "Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts."
This earned him another laugh from Talladeris, but Wallander was too busy imagining the worst to be amused.
Once the two men entered the hallway, it actually wasn't hard to find Strauss and Rossi. All they had to do was follow the sound of raised voices.
"Well, at least we know they're both alive," Talladeris remarked drolly.
When they entered the break room, they found Strauss and Rossi squared off as usual, Strauss' hands flying up in exasperation (and just straining against her mind, which was curbing her impulse to let her hands fly to the man's throat).
"Would you stop interrupting me?!"
"You were the one interrupting me, Agent Strauss—"
"Oh dear gods, are you really—"
"Would you two just shut up?" Wallander finally broke in, rubbing the bridge of his nose in aggravation. Strauss and Rossi stopped, shocked by the fact that they now had an audience (they'd both been so focused on their partner that they hadn't even noticed). "Dear god, the whole Bureau can hear you caterwauling in here."
They suddenly both looked very contrite, though they kept shooting daggers at one another (you started it). Talladeris had to turn away to hide his grin, to keep from laughing at how ridiculous the whole thing was.
With a heavy sigh, Dave Wallander shook his head, turning to Talladeris, "C'mon, Tally, let's go get some lunch."
He turned back to Rossi and Strauss, "You two, hash out whatever pointless issue is going on here. When we get back, for the love of all that's good and holy, I want to be able to work for more than ten minutes without erupting into a petty fight. We've got more important things to worry about than you two scoring a few pride points in your little battle of the egos."
Having said his piece, Wallander left the room. Talladeris waited a beat, then followed, giving them both a look of amusement as he walked out, "Other Dave just needs a good nap and some good food. I'll take him to Gray's Papaya and he'll be right as rain in a bit."
There was an awkward beat of silence as Strauss and Rossi simply looked at one another.
"Dave's right," she admitted quietly. "We are being childish."
This would have been the moment for David Rossi to agree, the moment for some kind of momentary truce, but of course, that was not the path he chose.
"I came to you to apologize, like an adult, Agent Strauss. You were the one who turned it into a childish little spat—"
"And you followed right along, Agent Rossi," she stepped up, squaring her shoulders and rising to her full height, her face just inches away from his.
There was a solid, heavy, breath-holding beat as they simply absorbed the odd electric shock of being so physically close to one another, their eyes remaining locked onto each other's with bulldog determination (I'll be damned if I look away first, I'll be damned if I break first, I'll be damned if I let you win).
Then the corner of Erin's mouth curled into something between a smirk and a snarl as she gave a light incredulous huff, stepping back and leaving the break room without another backward glance.
David watched her go, unsure of whether he wanted to laugh or to scream. That woman. That woman.
June 2013. New York City, New York.
Yet again, Erin Strauss had pulled a move that wasn't predicted or planned. Except this time, John Curtis was actually happy with her choice.
Erin was back in New York City. For whatever reason, she'd chosen to join the team in the field, and here she was, back where it all began.
Honestly, John couldn't have planned it better, even if he'd tried. It was only further proof of his revenge's worthiness, further incentive to move now, as opposed to later.
She was here. She knew her place, knew how this would end—perhaps not on a conscious level, but she had to have felt the pull of predestination (why else would she be here?).
John had been studying the last report filed by Strauss—the one on Phillip Connor—and he'd been planning his biggest replication yet. But now that seemed so trivial, compared to the gift he'd been given. He couldn't throw away this chance, simply because it meant changing plans. One always had to be adaptive, ready for anything.
He wasn't fully ready yet, but he would be. He'd installed a remote-access program on the assistant to the director's computer, so that he could see all official and unofficial communications that went through the Bureau. Since Erin Strauss was in the field, she'd been emailing the director daily updates on the current investigation.
Speak of the devil. There was a little ding! signaling a new email, and John glanced at the clock. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning, but Erin Strauss was right on-schedule—she usually sent her reports between midnight and two am, prompting John to wonder when the woman ever slept (especially because being out in the field meant that she was back in the office by 7am—tut, tut, Erin, no sleep can be a dangerous thing, it makes you tired and unbalanced, and then you make mistakes, and we all know the kinds of bad things that happen when you make a mistake).
He poured over the details enclosed in her latest email update. This time, he was going to show the BAU just how good he was, just how close he was to their precious inner sanctum—he was going to replicate a case while they were still on the case.
He glanced over at his latest photographs, freshly developed and dried (it hadn't been easy, finding a space to set up a dark room in the shabby hotel he'd chosen because they took cash, allowing him to remain off the radar). Shots of the team in New York—Aaron Hotchner standing beside the standard-issue black suburban, Alex Blake and Derek Morgan walking into the Federal Plaza building, Spencer Reid standing on a street corner, head ducked down as he tapped away on his phone.
Then, of course, there was his favorite—Erin Strauss, exiting the hotel, flanked by David Rossi and Aaron Hotchner, looking like some modern-day goon squad in their dark suits and sleek shades.
Oh, Erin. Even surrounded by the best and the brightest, you aren't safe, not from me.
He checked his watch. He needed to get back to Virginia. He had a lovely little cocktail to prepare for a very special lady. Plus a few pieces of evidence to plant. He needed to be back in his own lab, where he had everything necessary to prepare for this blessed event.
Also back home, there was another favorite photo of his. It was a standard black and white shot of Erin as well, but with a more powerful lens, and it was a close-up of her upper body, leaned across a coffee table as she chatted with her AA Sponsor, her fingers absentmindedly twirling through her hair as she listened to whatever the other woman was saying. The picture had a perfect shot of Erin's pale wrist, to which John Curtis had taken a red marker and drawn an infinity symbol.
It fit. John had scoured all of the past case files that he could find, searching for the perfect one, for the best way to exact his final revenge on Erin Strauss. Of course, this current case had fallen into his lap, and he'd known that it was perfect for the recovering alcoholic—he could force her to break her promises again, to make her realize how weak she truly was, to show her just how much more powerful and intelligent he was, and only then would he end her suffering. And then he'd brand her with Phillip Connor's symbol, throwing it down at his final gauntlet to the BAU, his opening salvo in the last battle.
Just you wait. You ain't seen nothing yet. I'm just getting started, and you'll never stop me. Never ever ever.
Two Days Earlier. Quantico, Virginia.
"David Rossi, if you cannot learn to control yourself, you will be banished from my office."
There was no mistaking the sharp edge in his lover's voice, the thin line of her lips that punctuated her disapproval, and the fact that she was refusing to actually make eye contact with him, but all these things only amused him instead of deterring him.
Erin Strauss was trying to file away the last stack of reports for the evening, and he was trying to get her onto the filing credenza (though in his defense, she'd started it by teasing him about a previous reference to the credenza's height, which was perfect for non-office related activities).
"All work and no play has made you a very unhappy girl," he informed her, taking a certain childish glee at the fact that the skin at the opening of her dress was blushing. Though he loved every shade and nuance of her, Angry Erin was still one of his favorite playmates.
She gave a swift spat at his right hand, which was currently cupping her breast (hitting her own boob in the process, which was slightly painful and not the best idea).
His hands moved away from their intended targets, but he was moving from behind her to beside her, slipping her glasses off her nose and holding them over his head where she couldn't reach.
"David," she growled, still trying to grab her glasses back. Of course, her attempts to retrieve them only brought her whole body against his, and he grinned in response.
"It can wait til tomorrow, bella."
"I don't want to wait until tomorrow—I want to finish this right now." She stopped reaching, simply placing her hands on her hips and fixing him with a Strauss Specialty Death Ray.
"Patience, kitten," he cooed, knowing that he was only adding to her irritation. "Allow for a little foreplay."
She huffed, trying to remain angry, but he could see the smile dancing at the corner of her eyes. He knew that she knew he only made her angry because he found it irresistibly arousing, and he knew that she often embellished her reactions, playing along with his strange little fascination, because she liked being able to ignite the fire in his blood.
"Incorrigible," she pronounced, turning back to her papers, squinting as she tried to read without her glasses. He moved behind her again, taking a moment to relish the feel of her hips between his hands before moving them further up and forward, snaking back to her breasts and pulling her fully upright against him again. She tried to snatch her glasses back, but he lifted his right hand over his head once more, and she gave another huff of defeat and frustration.
"I'll give them back in exchange for a kiss," he informed her, and though her back was turned to him, he could feel her rolling her eyes in mock exasperation.
He stepped back, allowing her room to turn around as she shook her head, trying so hard to fight the grin blossoming at the corner of her delicious mouth.
"You do know that in moments like this, you actually make me want to beat you senseless with the nearest available blunt object, don't you?" Despite her violent imagery, her tone was unmistakably soft and filled with adoration as she pulled his mouth into hers, silencing his responding chuckle as her tongue brushed past his teeth with little resistance, pushing her current aggravation and endearment against his own tongue.
Only Erin Strauss could make a possible death threat sound like a come-on. If David were honest, that was probably one of the reasons he loved her so—the woman didn't flinch, didn't mince her words or try to soften the blow. She was a warrior queen, who knew the taste of blood and didn't shy from the sound of battle, and her warlike ways were part of her strange charm.
He let his tongue tell her these things, as his hands respectfully stayed on either side of her face, gently pulling her deeper into his mouth and allowing himself further into hers. He felt the breath leave her lungs, humming into his own in that soft sigh that always filled him with the darkest desire.
Sadly, his warrior queen was also a section chief who truly did need to finish her filing. So he gently took her glasses and placed them back onto her nose, smiling at how adorable they made her look (a word he never in a million years thought he'd use to describe Hard-Ass Strauss).
The crimson flush was back in her cheeks and glowing from the scooped neck of her dress, and she gave an almost-embarrassed grin as she shifted, leaning against the wall as she pulled him back into her by the lapels of his jacket, her mouth returning to his with a soft languor.
"I thought you had filing to do."
"It can wait a few extra minutes," she breathed, fighting back a grin as she added, "Allow for a little foreplay, Agent Rossi."
Her hands were in his hair and she was arching, pressing her hips into his and fighting every single urge in her head that screamed for her to simply hike up her skirt and wrap a leg around the man who had been so cruelly teasing her for the past half-hour.
This time, his hands did not stay on her face, but rather wandered and massaged and sampled the curves and lines still hidden by clothing. His mouth moved further downward to her neck, and she let out a small moan, knowing that they were quickly approaching the point of no return, the holy line of demarcation that should never be crossed at work.
The phone rang, and Erin jumped at the sound, moving to answer it.
"This is Erin Strauss." She was slightly breathless, and she turned back to David with a disapproving look (see what you do to me?), which did not have its intended effect, because with her glasses and her now-disheveled clothes and beautifully blushing skin, she looked like a naughty librarian (hmmm, something to remember for later…).
She seemed to read her lover's mind, because she blushed an even deeper shade of red, turning away from his dark and hungry eyes so that she could focus on what her caller was saying.
"Yes, yes. I'll be right down….No, I think he's still here, have you tried his office?"
He grinned at how easily she lied, because he knew that the person on the other end of the line was asking about him.
"Huh. Well, if I see him, I'll bring him along….Yes. Thank you, Garcia."
"Lying to your friend Penelope?" He arched his eyebrow in mock disapproval as she hung up the phone.
"She knows I'm lying," Erin returned easily. "It's part of how we work. She pretends not to know and I pretend not to know that she knows. It's a bit of a favor, for all the years I've turned a blind eye to her borderline-infractionary relationship with Agent Morgan."
With quick and practiced hands, she re-righted her hair and wardrobe as she informed him, "Apparently there's a situation in New York—Aaron stumbled onto it, despite the fact that he's supposed to be on vacation. He wants to brief us via video conference in ten minutes. Penelope is heading to the conference room to get set up as we speak."
"Looks like you really aren't going to get any filing done to night," he teased, only gently.
"No, not tonight," she sighed, moving towards the door and slipping her glasses into her pocket. They quietly made their way to the elevators, their footsteps falling into predictable sync, which made David smile softly (it never ceased to amaze him, how easily they just matched, without any conscious effort or thought, just another small affirmation that they were equals and mates, even in the little things). They entered the empty elevator car, his hand rubbing the small of her back in a comforting gesture, because he knew how she hated sudden turns of events like this, especially at the end of an already long and trying day.
"I just want to go home and be with you," she admitted quietly, shifting her body closer to his.
"I know," he answered simply. "Me, too."
"Do you think Aaron will call the team to New York?" The plaintive tone in her voice was unmistakable.
"I think he wouldn't have set up the conference call if it wasn't serious. And if it's serious, he'll want us on the case," David replied, knowing it wasn't the answer that his lover wanted to hear. They had been planning a wonderful weekend just for themselves, wandering the woods surrounding his property and simply relishing some much-needed time alone. The look on her face was actually adorable—she looked like a child who had been denied her favorite sweets. With a tender smile, he leaned over, kissing the top of her forehead as he promised, "I'll make it up to you, kitten."
"I know," she offered a small smile. "You always do."
There was a compliment in those words, he was sure of it. But more importantly, there was understanding and simple acceptance—this was their life, this was the way things had to be, and she didn't whine or pout or accuse him of loving the Bureau more than he loved her (as did his ex-wives). He thought back to his promise from the day before, when he'd said that he would think of a way to get her onto their next case, and his mind was already turning, ready to find any excuse to bring her along.
The elevator doors opened again, and he motioned for her to exit, "Ladies first."
The corner of her mouth quirked into a grin as she replied with the familiar refrain, "Bitches second."
He gave a light chuckle as they entered the bullpen. "Are you ever going to give that up?"
"Are you ever going to stop pretending that you let me go first out of chivalry, when we both know that you just want to check out my ass?"
"Nope." He admitted with a devilish grin. She flashed an equally mischievous smile over her shoulder.
"Then me neither."
"I'd like the team to join me in New York as soon as possible." Aaron finished his briefing, pronouncing the words that Erin had been dreading.
Erin Strauss gave a sigh that was somewhere between frustration and concern as David promised, "We're on our way, Aaron."
"Thanks," the younger man's face disappeared as he ended the video conference.
Then David turned to his lover as he smoothly asked, "You're coming, aren't you?"
And she just as smoothly replied, "Just as a precaution. This team tends to go rogue when loved ones are involved."
After all, Penelope Garcia was still in the room. They had to at least keep up some pretense of a work-related relationship.
"We'll brief the team first thing tomorrow morning," Erin decided as she rose to her feet, glancing at the watch on her wrist. "For now, I suggest we all go home and get some rest. It's the weekend, which means the clubs will be packed, and there's huge potential victim pool—I have a feeling this is going to be a long case."
David nodded in agreement, standing as well. They both wished Penelope a good night as they left the room. The blonde analyst's big Bambi eyes followed them through the bullpen—they walked at least three feet apart, Strauss slightly ahead of Rossi, somber-faced and completely professional.
Liars, liars, hearts on fire. Penelope was pretty sure that Erin's desire to go home had nothing to do with sleeping. She merely shook her head as she gathered her things. Of all the people to try sneaking an illicit relationship past, Penelope Garcia obviously was the worst choice. After all, she'd had years of practice.
"That was some very smooth maneuvering, Mr. Rossi," Erin commented as the elevator doors closed, insulating them from the rest of the world.
"I have no idea what you mean, Ms. Strauss," he replied easily, not meeting her gaze (that was his tell, because as soon as he looked at her, he would start grinning like a child).
"New York." She stated simply.
"New York." He repeated in a neutral tone. She smirked, and after a beat, he added, "It's lovely, this time of year."
"I don't much care for the city," she admitted. With another knowing grin, she leaned over, ever-so-slightly brushing against him, "Although I do have a few fond memories there."
"What a coincidence," he could no longer hide the grin creeping onto his face. "So do I."
The doors opened and she shot him one last heated look over her shoulder before sauntering off, "Oh, trust me, I know."
"The hours I spend with you I look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough." ~George Edward Moore
*Author's Note: This, my dears, is where I shall leave you to carry on to the last three chapters on your own, because some things don't need to be sullied or weighted down with notes and asides. Let me take this opportunity to say a deeply heartfelt thank you to everyone who has left reviews, followed this story, or added it to their favorites. I honestly had no idea that Dave and Erin were going to take us on such a wild ride, but I hope that my imaginings of these two have told a story that is authentic to the characters originally created and crafted by others, and perhaps better explains the interactions we've seen between them in the past.
In Meisner class, we work in improvised situations with scene partners, and as you can imagine, anything can happen in such a setting. You may end up crying, you may end up laughing so hard that you cry, you may end up not really feeling anything at all. Such is the way with reading stories, too. But at the end, especially when you've experienced a particularly crazy emotional roller coaster, you turn to your partner with a smile, give them a hug, and say "Thanks for the ride."
Obviously, I can't smile at you or hug you. But dear reader, dear Straussi, thanks for the ride.*