Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2356793.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Criminal_Minds
  Relationship:
      Spencer_Reid/David_Rossi, Aaron_Hotchner/Derek_Morgan, Aaron_Hotchner/
      David_Rossi, Emily_Prentiss/David_Rossi, Derek_Morgan/David_Rossi,
      Jennifer_"JJ"_Jareau/Spencer_Reid, Jennifer_"JJ"_Jareau/David_Rossi,
      Penelope_Garcia/David_Rossi
  Character:
      Spencer_Reid, David_Rossi, Aaron_Hotchner, Emily_Prentiss, Penelope
      Garcia, Derek_Morgan, Jennifer_"JJ"_Jareau
  Additional Tags:
      OT7, Soulmate-Identifying_Marks, Season/Series_04, Episode_Related,
      Episode:_s04e07_Memoriam, Episode:_s04e01_Mayhem, Child_Abuse, Past_Rape/
      Non-con, Non-Graphic_Child_Sexual_Abuse, Alcohol
  Series:
      Part 1 of Soulmates_OT7_verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-25 Updated: 2014-10-07 Chapters: 3/7 Words: 9774
****** Six Lines ******
by Whreflections
Summary
     Having six soulmate lines on your arm is just about guaranteed to get
     everyone you meet talking. It's not unheard of, but it's rare,
     whispered about, but here's the thing all those people with one line
     never have occasion to realize- love doesn't divide, it multiplies,
     and being one of seven is both blessing and curse.
     Sure, while it's going good, you're safe and loved and the seven of
     you, you're unstoppable. At the same time, though, having more people
     you love so deeply the bond is built into your very physiology also
     means that at the end of the day, you have more to lose.
Notes
     Warnings are for stuff from upcoming chapters- this first one is
     pretty tame, only a T.
     I'll tag the fic with pairings/groups actively in scene in individual
     chapters as they go up, but keep in mind in this fic there's 7 of
     them in a fully overlapping poly relationship, so any combination of
     that could show up in this verse.
     Basically, this is what happens when I've been craving OT7 fic for
     these guys for years and no one's written it, and I then realize I've
     also never written a soulmate AU. I hope some of you out there enjoy
     this, :)
***** 1. Spencer Reid *****
Before
The older he got, the more Spencer grew to hate the marks.  They wrapped around
his wrist dormant but undeniable, an intricate weave of six lines that marked
him the member of what he’d heard called a unit.  As a boy, he’d initially been
thrilled and fascinated, sat down with his mother to read everything he could
about the relatively rare soulmate configurations that resulted in marks like
his. 
In the earliest days of recorded human history, they’d been called packs, seen
as a throwback to their wild counterparts.  Since then cultures the world over
had given them a thousand different names, a million different levels of
significance.  They had been revered and reviled, some ruling empires while
others continents away were killed at birth for the braids on their skin.  In
most current cultures, they had seemed, from his reading, to find a middle
ground- people like him were people like any others, sometimes best suited as a
whole to group tasks in the military or in business but more often than not
beyond their inevitable complicated paperwork for benefits and registration,
they lived ordinary lives. 
Back then, it was all exciting, full of possibility and the way his mother
would smile as she held his hand in hers, her fingertips tracing over the lines
that would one day flare to life.  She believed in pre-activation connection,
was sure that somewhere out there whether he could feel it or not, in some way,
every one of those six unknowns was looking out for him.  For a time he’d
believed her, could remember skimming his thumb over the pattern by the light
of a blue nightlight as he nestled in to sleep, hoping his whispered goodnight
might travel to each of them like tin can messages down a half dozen strings. 
With his social status at school, it didn’t take long for all of that to
change.  To them he was little more than the chess-playing-answer-rambling-
book-reading freak who skipped through grades the way they passed through
chapters of their lessons.  Uncool, unworthy, unfit for a baseball team much
less a unit.  With his memory, he filed away every word, every jab. 
Have you seen his wrist?  Has to be a mistake; who could put up with Spencer?
I bet you cut those into your arm, didn’t you?  I bet you’d know just how to
fake them, make everyone think you’re special.  You’re such a loser, Spencer.
If you hold him down and count, there’s six lines, like those magicians at the
Bellagio.  Bet he wants to be just like them; bet his marks are defective. 
He took to long sleeves, to wristbands that covered them.  It was better to be
teased about the likelihood that he had none than to be told he couldn’t
possibly have so many(at least, it seemed better, marginally.  Realistically,
both dealt more damage than a kid should have needed to bear.).  Ripped bare on
the goalpost, arms tied above his wrists, he could do nothing but listen as the
taunts ranged from his nakedness to his marks, the pitch of laugher rising and
rising and rising until he was sure he’d have it ringing in his ears for days
beyond count. 
That was the night he’d clawed helplessly at his wrist at 2 AM on the floor
beside his bed, tears blurring on his glasses until he ripped them from his
face and threw them hard enough to bounce on the carpet. 
He fell asleep that night curled up in the corner, his wrist raw and red and
bleeding from a mess of shallow cuts and still, the marks showed through. 
Exhausted and sore, he’d covered the evidence of his breakdown with gauze
before his mother could see, but she’d caught his wrist and kissed it even so. 
When it mattered, really mattered, she never entirely missed the mark. 
Smiling, she’d cupped his face in her hands. 
“Spencer, tell me the population of Las Vegas.”
“312,634.”
She nodded slow, thumbs smoothing across his cheeks.  “Alright.  And the
population of the world outside Las Vegas?”
“Mom—“
“Just answer, Spencer; for me.” 
“Around five and a half billion, estimates vary based on—“
“Five and a half billion, sweetheart.”  She pulled him close and kissed his
forehead, held him until he gave in and wrapped his arms around her waist. 
“You’ll find them.  Maybe when you leave Vegas, but you’ll find them.  I know
it.” 
 
After
An hour and thirty-seven minutes after he’d thrown his bags down by the bed,
Spencer heard the knock at his door.  More than anything ,he was mostly
surprised it’d taken that long.  The only uncertainty, really, was who exactly
might be on the other side.  (It was hard to calculate the probability on the
way to the door; too many variables.  He knew only that JJ was still in the
hospital, and Morgan and Garcia were likely to have stayed with her- they’d
seemed to believe him when Spencer had told them he was absolutely alright,
that he’d see them tomorrow.  Their percentage chance was low, maybe 5% each,
if that.)  
A quick precautionary glance out gave him his answer, and he opened the door to
David Rossi, leaning against the frame without a suit coat but in the same
rumpled shirt and jeans he’d worn on the flight home.  His smile was a little
thin, a little tired, still as warm as it ever was.    
“Hey, kid.  If you want to be alone, I get it, I just thought—“
“No, no, it’s okay.”  More than okay, if he was honest.  He’d come here with
every intention of thinking alone, but an hour a half in he’d already realized
giving his mind a chance to skim back over all he’d learned in Vegas didn’t
make for the healthiest experience.  Spencer swallowed heavily, reached out to
let his hand trail down Rossi’s arm as he stepped back.  “It’s okay.  Come on
in.” 
No sooner had he taken a step back than Rossi was right there, moving right
into his space and nudging the door closed with his heel.  His hand was solid
and warm as it cupped Reid’s jaw, his movements certain but gentle as he leaned
in for a kiss.  The familiarity of it was soothing, the rasp of his beard, the
way his grip tightened when Spencer hummed gratefully at the stroke of his
tongue.  Less familiar was the taste of him, clouded by a lingering tinge of
smoke.  Spencer could smell it too, caught on his shirt, his hair.  As long as
he’d known him, he’d never seen Rossi with a cigarette. 
He’d never tasted smoke on anyone, either.  Spencer licked his lips reflexively
as he pulled away, cataloguing the difference.  “I didn’t know you smoked.” 
Muttered under his breath, it sounded at least a little accusatory, though he
hadn’t meant it to. 
Rossi shrugged, the new tilt to his smile giving away that while he hadn’t
exactly meant to be called out, he wasn’t surprised, either.  “Old habits. 
It’s one I don’t go back to all that often, but sometimes after a rough case…I
don’t know, something comforting about picking up a pack and smoking a few at
home.”
Spencer half smiled, caught for a moment in memory.  “My mom, she…before the
paranoia got too bad, when she’d fight it she’d smoke, pace from the kitchen
down the hall and back.  She said it calmed her down.” 
“And you never liked it.”  Between all of them, the profiling was so constant
it was never a surprise, not even when it was hard.  This one, it’s so easy
it’s hardly profiling at all. 
“No, I didn’t.  I told her the same thing I told the woman in Vegas, with the
money the—not the hypnosis part, the first part when she lit up.  I—come
here.”  Spencer caught Rossi’s wrist, pulled him toward the couch so they could
settle onto it together, his back to Rossi’s chest.  The contact was a comfort
he hadn’t realized he needed until he felt it, the rush of weight slipping from
his lungs as David’s arms circled around to pull him close.  Here, back in DC
with a man he loved anchoring him, the world seemed to spin a little slower. 
The breath he let out was shaken; he could hear the waver in it.
Rossi continued almost as if he hadn’t noticed, his only tell a slight brush of
his lips against Spencer’s neck.  “That first part, what was it you told her?”
“Statistically speaking if you calculate average cigarette damage into time,
every cigarette you smoke takes six minutes off your life.  So say you smoked
half a pack before coming over here, if you stick to the standard of most
American companies that’s ten cigarettes; at six minutes each that’s a whole
hour of your life none of us will get to spend with you.”  He trailed off at
the end, his voice dropping softer as his hand found David’s, his slim fingers
slipping between to leave them intertwined.  Skin to skin, the lines on their
wrists that flared to life with proximity seemed to glow just a little
brighter, shimmering with tremulous light.  The sight mesmerized him, every
single time. 
Working on his chemistry PhD, he’d once read a paper by a biochemistry doctoral
student who had readily undergone operation on his own arm to better examine
the function of the light glands, to determine as much as he could about the
source and manner of secretion, the physical processes of it all.  His research
was fascinating, giving way to increased speculation as to the evolutionary
history of humanity’s particular form of bioluminescence.  The theories were
fascinating and he’d devoured each one of them, but the deep discomfort he’d
felt at the thought of such an operation had nagged at him, leaving him
irritatingly nauseous until he’d abandoned the subject.  He’d grown from the
relentlessly bullied child who’d stopped short of trying to carve the lines off
his skin—in their faint colorless quiet, he’d learned to see some measure of
hope for his future. 
After the BAU, he’d seen each color rise to the surface of his skin, one by one
until the moments his arm was left pale and still became the unnatural ones. 
He had nightmares sometimes that he woke to find them all scarred over, each
line the angry red that promised severed connections and cell death and
permanence.  He woke from those dreams gasping, reaching.  If his bed was
empty, it never took long for his hand to find light, to grope for his phone
and study the thin wisps of silvery skin until he’d counted them at least
twice.  Then, the tremor in his hand could subside enough to let him dial.     
On Spencer’s wrist, Rossi’s line was a pale green; Rossi’s answering
counterpoint was white, coursing and subtle.  Garcia had said once it meant
Spencer was Rossi’s white knight; Morgan had laughed so hard he damn near fell
out of his chair.  They never got enough moments like that. 
Rossi’s fingers squeezed lightly against his, drawing Spencer back to the
moment, to the thread of conversation he’d let die.  “You make a strong
argument, but if it’s only the occasional hour, I have to figure you won’t miss
it all that much.  Last hours usually aren’t kind to anyone.” 
“I’ll still take all I can get.” 
“Well, you were a little off.  I didn’t make it through a full half pack
anyway.”  Rossi kissed his temple, lingered until he could feel Spencer ease
back just a little further into his hold.  “Hey.  I know seeing Henry was good
to come back to, but I also know you didn’t leave Vegas alright.  That doesn’t
just go away.” 
No, it didn’t.  Other things did- his father, Gideon, apparently his early
memories, his ability to trust with absolutely certainty that he held it all,
the he knew all the details, all the moments that mattered. 
Reid let his eyes close, his head tipping back to rest against both cushion and
Rossi’s shoulder.  “I wanted to thank you, for—“
“Whatever it is, don’t you dare.  We don’t thank each other for—“
“I’m not saying you didn’t want to be there, I’m saying—“  Nothing, with the
way his throat closed up on him just as he was sure he’d found his words.  He
cleared it, tried again.  “The hypnosis.  You didn’t have to stay, but you did,
and I don’t…waking up from that without one of you there, I—“
“I know, Spencer.  Trust me, I’d like to have seen her try to kick me out.” 
When he put it like that, Spencer could see it, too.  He’d seen David angry,
more than once.  With his mind put to it, he wasn’t a man that lost many
fights.  Spencer shifted, his eyes still closed though he turned enough to
nuzzle into Rossi’s neck, breathing him in.  The smoke was a little
overwhelming, but underneath there was airport and hospital and Rossi.  The
combination was more familiar than it probably should have been. 
“I know.  Thank you.”
“Anytime, kid.”  Lying there with Rossi’s hand in his, he could believe it. 
Certainty was a good feeling, one that despite the last few years still felt
new, unprecedented. 
Exhausted as he was from the case and the nightmares and the travel, it wasn’t
surprising that he could feel himself drifting off before long, his whirring
mind starting to disconnect now that he was wrapped up in comfort and warmth,
distracted from memory by the absent caress of Rossi’s free hand across his
stomach, his arms, his chest, his thighs. 
Half asleep as he was, Rossi had been tracing the crease of his elbow for
likely at least a minute before Spencer noticed, before he made the
connection.  He tried to sit up properly, gave up when he still felt too heavy
and mumbled instead. 
“I didn’t.  I wasn’t…I thought about it, but there’s a meeting tomorrow.” 
“And you’re going?”
“Yeah.  It’s…eidetic memory.  Addiction’s bad enough but I can remember every
second of it, I remember just how well it makes me forget and sometimes, ‘s
hard to turn that down, I…don’t worry.  I’ve got a year now; I can do it.” 
“Worry is unproductive; that’s Aaron’s job.  I’m just going to take care of
you.”  He didn’t have to be awake to hear the guilt there, not when he’d heard
it a dozen times before.  It didn’t matter that logically, if Rossi had come
back to the BAU in time to be there when Spencer was abducted, none of them
would likely have had a chance to meet Emily for years, if ever.  He came back
when he should have, fit in as their final puzzle piece right where he
belonged.  No amount of telling him that, however, ever seemed to make him feel
any better.  In his mind, he should have been there to pull Spencer into his
arms in that graveyard;  it didn’t matter that he’d have told any of the others
exactly what Spencer had tried to tell him about his lack of guilt.  For
himself on some things, Rossi gave no absolution.  “How many minutes does each
hit take off your life?”
“Not sure on the statistics for dilauded, can’t calculate without them.”
“Right.  Well, I can guarantee you it’s more than six minutes.”
“Actually, given the amount of carcinogens in cigarettes—“  He was waking up
properly word by word, his mind stirring to the challenge of probabilities and
remembered research, but Rossi stopped him with a light squeeze of his
fingers. 
“Will you just go to sleep?”  Yeah, he could.  He could think of a million
conversations better than this one, and sleep was far too tempting to resist.
Later, after a comfortable silence so long and quiet Spencer was almost sure
he’d started dreaming, Rossi spoke again. 
“The thing is, I don’t care about the semantics of hours and minutes, but we
deal with enough threat of losing one of our own early.  Don’t help those odds,
Spencer.  We need you.  Ineed you.” 
He tried to answer, tried to move, to determine if it was real or if he was
dreaming already, but his body wouldn’t respond, and he could feel the steady
overlaid rhythm of Rossi’s breath and the beat of his heart.  Rather than
fight, Spencer let it pull him all the way under. 
***** 2. Derek Morgan *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for this chapter- present but non-graphic sexual abuse of a
     minor, references to injury, spoilers for canon through 4.01.
     This chapter directly involves HotchxMorgan, but of course like all
     of these, ot7 situation is still present :)
2. Derek Morgan
Before
Carl Buford had no marks on his wrist whatsoever.  It was a detail Derek had
never noticed in team practice, not any of the hundred times Carl’d handed the
ball over or pulled him into position for a play—at least, if he’d noticed,
he’d never taken it in, not until the cabin.  He glanced down, half drunk, his
mouth gone dry as his heart struggled to jackhammer out of his chest.  The rest
of the room fuzzed out, the flickering light and heat of the fire, the deep
colors of the blanket across the floor, and he saw only Carl’s hand on the
inside of his thigh. 
He’d just had his first shot of whiskey not ten minutes before; his thoughts
came in a burst, a jumble of sensation and realization and something like
prayer.  Buford’s hand was terrifyingly big, invasive, palm rough, wrist bare. 
It was nothing like the careful latticework of Derek’s own, nothing at all—for
one jolting moment, he was grateful beyond belief for that, for the small mercy
that came as he realized there was no light from either of them.  Whatever
Buford did, it’d be meaningless.  When it was over, he could walk away.  He
could take it, and he could walk away.  He could forget. 
By that first morning, sobered up and cold, he’d already realized forgetting
was off the table. 
Back home after that trip, he’d laid in bed awake, counted imperfections in the
ceiling till he couldn’t anymore, and he rolled over to trace his long familiar
soulmate pattern with the pad of his thumb.  Somewhere, they were waiting. 
Somewhere, surely to God they weren’t going through anything like what he was. 
He prayed for that, though it was the thought that followed that shamed him, a
wish so fleeting he’d silenced it before he really let it breathe—if it was
true that you could sense one of your own in trouble, maybe they’d come to
him. 
He knew better.  Even if he’d wanted to believe, he knew good and well he
couldn’t leave.  His mother needed him, his sisters.  If he didn’t get out and
make something of himself, he couldn’t take care of them the way they might
need.  He knew, but the fantasy lingered in his mind without his consent,
haunted his dreams with rescue and hope for a handful of those first weeks. 
After the fourth trip to the cabin, he stopped praying.  The dreams held on a
little longer, but Buford was relentless.  After a while, his shadow dissolved
them, too.  With the money he picked up watching his neighbors kids, Derek
bought himself a box full of wristbands, soft and pliable but strong enough to
withstand football, subtle enough that just maybe he wouldn’t draw Buford’s
attention too directly.  The man’s every touch made Derek’s skin crawl but if
he could help it, that little patch of skin would be the one goddamn thing he
never defiled. 
Sitting on the back of a car in a vacant lot, the girl he’d later take to prom
had traced her finger along the design, murmured a breathless ‘sorry’ when
Morgan jerked away from the touch like he’d been scalded. 
She looked away, hair half covering her face and muffling her voice.  “Sorry, I
only…there’s so many.  It’s pretty.  My dad has two but that, I’ve never seen
anything like it.” 
Uncertain where she was going, he only nodded.
“What’s it like, to wonder about so many people?  Where do you think they are
right now?”
“Where do I think or where do I hope?”
“I don’t know, isn’t it the same thing?”
It wasn’t, but his answer was.  “With any luck?  Way the hell away from
Chicago.” 
 
After
The ride back from New York was long, sure, but the walk up flights of stairs
to Hotch’s apartment almost felt longer.  The bag was heavy in his hand, fell
with a dull thud to the floor when they’d finally made it up and he let go to
close the door behind him.  Hotch was just ahead of him, still standing though
the rigid set of his shoulders gave his exhaustion away.  The hospital might
have reluctantly agreed to release him, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been
more banged up in the explosion than he’d been willing to let them see.  Damn
near every inch of his body was likely to be bruised, and if Morgan knew
anything about head wounds, Hotch’s had to be damn near killing him.  (Had to
be, but Derek hadn’t seen him take a pill since Jersey.  Troubling, to say the
least.) 
“You didn’t have to walk me up here; I appreciate it.”  Hotch took a breath, 
maybe deciding, maybe buying himself a second or two, but Morgan stepped
forward before he could continue.
“Hey, you’re not runnin’ me out of here just yet; we need to talk.”  He half
expected a rebuttal, even a refusal.  The lack of either worried him in a way
he couldn’t quite explain, a sick weight that pulled below his throat. 
“Hotch.  Will you turn around and look at me?” 
“Morgan—“
“I need you to look at me.”  That did it, like he’d known it would.  So long as
he made about his own need, not Hotch’s, he’d follow through.  The careful
distance in his eyes that had dropped for a few precious seconds there on the
street on New York was back; he noticed that first.  It didn’t make for a
promising beginning, but Morgan was resilient.  “Did you really think I wanted
to leave the BAU, huh? They tell you they might offer me section chief and you
just, what, think I’m gonna jump at it?  You wanna talk about trust, man,
that’s part of it too; if you think I’m gonna run, you don’t trust me as much
as you think.”  
The shift was subtle, just a transfer of weight and the slow cross of Hotch’s
arms across his chest, but as familiar as Morgan was with his layers of subtly,
he might as well have declared his intention to profile the absolute truth out
of this mess, one way or another.  His eyes narrowed, studying.  Morgan’s jaw
clenched. 
“Don’t do that.  I’m tellin’ you the truth; you can’t make a cut at me like
that, like I’m the only one with trust issues here when you’re ready and
willing to believe that given half a chance I’m gonna bolt.  This is my team
too, Hotch; my family.  You think I’m gonna turn my back on that to go get a
bigger paycheck in New York?”
“It wouldn’t be about the paycheck; it’d be about the distance.  If you stay
here, you make the choice to keep letting us in.  If you leave, that’s a choice
for distance, both physical and emotional.” 
“Like I said, you think I’m gonna run from this?”
“No.  But I think it’d be easier on you if you did, and sometimes, that’s a
hard set of circumstances for anyone to turn down.  So yes, I was scared, and
obviously I was wrong to be.  I had to know if given a tempting exit, you’d
choose us.”  More than the words, it was the strength of clarity in his voice
that hurt, the absolute reality of it.  No matter what front he’d put up for
the sake of avoiding this conversation, he’d been turning those answers over in
his head since they left the city; Derek could feel it.    “I’m sorry, Derek. 
I stand by what I said about your level of trust in the team, but I shouldn’t
have doubted you’d stay.” 
“No, you shouldn’t.  I’ve never-”  Never shown any signs of wanting out; that
was what he’d meant to say, what he should have said.  He caught it instead,
his tongue tied up by the uncomfortable truth that it just wasn’t accurate. 
There’d been signs, or Hotch couldn’t have profiled doubt out of him.  Hell,
Morgan could see them himself- he’d withheld the truth in Chicago, went home
alone after a case more often than any of them but Hotch.  He was learning,
adapting to life as a whole instead of a misplaced piece, but the progress was
slow—slower with Hotch than with any of them, honestly, because for so long
there’d been Haley.  Emotionally he was on the same level as everyone else,
always had been, but they’d all kept a certain distance with him, out of
respect.  He’d chosen Haley before he knew about any of them; the way he was,
it wasn’t surprising he’d try to hold to that choice.  Rossi had pressed the
issue, of that much he was sure, but as far as Derek knew, no one else had said
a damn thing. 
Defensively, he wanted to say he’d kept his silence because he was sure Hotch
knew that given the chance, he’d want everything between them to be the way it
was meant to be.  Realistically, the profiler in him knew enough to know that
wasn’t exactly the whole story.  Hotch might not be right about him wanting to
run, but he wasn’t entirely wrong about it being easier to keep some distance,
either. 
Morgan took a breath, forced himself to move and close the gap, going in as
close as he dared.    “I’ve never said I wanted out, Hotch.  I don’t.  I never
will.  But all of this—“  Morgan’s thumb rubbed subconsciously against the heel
of his left palm.  “I’m not gonna lie; it’s hard.  But I’m tryin’ here.  I am. 
You gotta see that.” 
“I do.  You’ve made incredible progress, with all of us, and I’m grateful.  Any
trust you give me matters to me; if I’m more concerned than I should be, I
can’t exactly promise I’m always thinking entirely rationally, either.  I only
knew that we could have lost you, to the ambulance or a new program.”  His eyes
cut away, distracted and pained.  “I didn’t want to face either.” 
Beneath the crack in façade, Morgan could glimpse enough truth to strike him,
to spur him into movement before he could think better of it.  His hand came to
rest against the base of Hotch’s neck, thumb tapping lightly at his collarbone
just beneath the gap of his shirt. 
“Well you’re not losin’ me today, and never by my choice, you understand me? 
I’m not walkin’ out on this, Hotch.  In fact I think it’s safe to say none of
us are.”  Safer, at least, than it had been to assume Haley would never walk
away.  He wouldn’t say it outright; he couldn’t bring himself to, not while it
was so fresh.  Someday, maybe they’d talk about her more honestly but for now,
reassurance’d have to do.  “I‘m right here.”  Right there, with the warmth of
Hotch’s skin radiating up through his shirt, reaching Morgan’s palm.  He was so
solid, so ever present that it was hardly possible to think they’d almost lost
him, to cast his mind back to chaotic streets and the way his stomach had damn
near dropped straight out of his body the moment he’d heard Hotch scream for
help.  At the thought, his grip involuntarily tightened.  “We could’ve lost you
too, you know. “
“I knew you’d come for us.  If anyone was going to defy orders and pass those
barricades—“
“We’d all have done it.”
“Maybe so, but you’d be first.  Particularly if one of our own is in danger you
rush in with no heed to your own safety, no—“  Remarkably, charmingly, he
smiled.  “Sorry.  That wasn’t meant to be a lecture; I’m only trying to say, I
knew you’d come for me, Derek.  That I never doubted.” 
With his throat seizing tight, his answer was short, audibly tight even then. 
“Good.”  For a second, his options diverged so clearly he seemed for a moment
to actually hold them in his hands.  He could back up, gather himself, thank
Hotch, coax him to go to bed and rest, start making himself a bed on the couch…
Or he could close the gap, tug Hotch’s mouth to his and finally claim a kiss
that had been years in waiting.  Honestly, the temptation was too great for it
to be much of a choice at all.  His grip tightened, twisting into the collar of
Hotch’s shirt to pull him in, not that it took much force.  Hotch moved with
him, met him in the middle for a kiss that was at first all pressure and chaos,
too rough to find a rhythm.  His first kiss as a kid had gone better
technically, but given the choice he’d have taken this over it every damn
time.  He felt the catch in Hotch’s breath, the strength in his hands as they
fastened hard at Derek’s waist to drag him closer. 
Derek took a breath, and tried again.  More controlled and less frantic, they
opened to each other a little better, the kiss still rough but dominated by
stilting give and take.  In that second attempt, Hotch kissed how Morgan had
always imagined he would—forceful and sure and deep, and though Morgan pushed
back just enough to keep them almost even, there was something to be said for
holding on and letting Hotch take what he wanted.  He could feel the shiver of
it up his spine, a shock of mingled pleasure and vulnerability so strong that
he had to stop a moment, give himself a chance to gasp with Hotch’s lips still
damp against his. 
He’d said nothing, hardly moved, but before he could blink there was a hand at
the back of his neck, kneading gently, breath warm against his cheek as Hotch
murmured.
“It’s alright.  I’ve got you.” 
It occurred to him, then, that Hotch was the one wounded, the one he’d come
there to protect.  If anyone needed comfort, it should have been him, but it
was everything he could do to keep his hands from trembling.  He wrapped them
up tight in handfuls of Hotch’s shirt instead, leaned into him as hard as he
dared and focused on the hand at his neck, the careful pressure of the stroke
of his thumb. 
He didn’t say don’t let go, not even when the words crowded at the back of his
throat. 
It didn’t matter; Hotch held on tighter anyway. 
***** 3. David Rossi *****
Chapter Notes
     I can't even tell you how happy I am that this thing is getting
     readers. Seriously, guys, I'm so, so glad to hear from any of you,
     and I'm so glad you're enjoying this. I'm absolutely fucking loving
     writing it. <3
     Warnings for this chapter- alcohol use, hints at possible infidelity
     though none occurs
     Pairings of the ot7 actively seen in this chapter- Hotch/Rossi,
     Spencer/JJ, JJ/Will, and basically Rossi/everyone, lmao
Before
“New kid’s already here.” 
Rossi smiled around a sip of his coffee, shook his head before he glanced
toward the sound of Jason’s voice.  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Got here before I did, tried to hide it by catching the elevator up a few
minutes after, but I saw him down in the lobby.  He’s been waiting for this.” 
Gideon leaned against the glass of his office, eyes trained on the newcomer
across the bullpen.  Quickly, Rossi took his own glance—nicer suit than he
needed, though not so expensive as to indicate wealth.  His movements were
quick, though he seemed to give the file open in his hands his rapt attention. 
Gideon had chosen well in that respect at least; the guy was certainly eager. 
“Glad to hear it.  We need all the fresh eyes we can get.”  At just three
members, the more attention their team got the more they’d started to be
stretched thin.  The more the program expanded, the more profilers they’d need
to train.  A few years ago, all of this had seemed an impossibility and now
they had guys like him, young and strong and clever, every opportunity ahead of
them in the bureau and they chose to come here.  Already, they’d come a hell of
a long way from being entirely written off as a ‘fake’ science.
Rossi drained the last of his coffee, leaned inside Gideon’s open office just
enough to lob the cup at his trash can.  He was mostly sure he made it. 
“Jason.”  Gideon didn’t look away, though the tilt of his chin was enough for
Rossi to see he’d gotten his attention.  “Think I’ll go over and meet him
now.   You said we had a case?”
Gideon stirred, nodding as he unfolded his arms and stepped forward.  “Two
single mothers in Idaho, electrocuted.  The children are missing.” 
“That’s a hell of a case to come in on.” 
Not that there were easy ones, not exactly.  Gideon tilted his head toward the
conference room.  “Bring him up when you’re done.  I’d like to go over the
details before we head to the airport.” 
As a profiler, there was a certain level of detail he’d trained himself to
notice that couldn’t exactly be turned off.  He paid altogether too much
attention to detail sometimes, while his wife had argued that others, he didn’t
pay the right kind of attention at all.  It did her little good if he could
tell her what she’d worn to dinner and what it meant that she’d pulled out her
own chair before he got to it if he couldn’t manage to remember why exactly
they should have been celebrating. 
Meeting Aaron Hotchner was no different, in that respect.  He noticed no more
detail about him than he would have about anyone, man on the train or unsub; it
was the specifics that arrested him, the one crucial detail he couldn’t see
until they’d shaken hands.  Without a suit coat he saw his own mark activate
first, a line of shimmering grey so dark it was almost black.  The shock of it
took his breath, gave him the span of a whole second or two where he stared
mesmerized.  When he could blink, he refocused, let his eyes flick up and past
the cuff of Agent Hotchner’s coat to the glimpse of vibrant orange he could see
beneath. 
He’d had a dozen girlfriends and two boyfriends since he was fourteen, married
once so far though he teetered on the edge of divorce.  All that time and all
those years, and he’d never me a single person that matched to the dormant
light under his skin.  Hell, it’d been so long in coming he’d started to think
he’d never find one of them at all. 
Knocked thoroughly off his feet, Rossi did his best to recover, forced himself
to let go through his fingers folded in on themselves at the loss, as if he
were still trying against his own direction to hold on.  He took a breath, tore
his eyes away so they could meet clear hazel ones that looked more than a
little frightened.  Clearly, Rossi wasn’t the only one who hadn’t seen this
coming. 
If Hotchner had said anything at all, Rossi hadn’t registered it.  He cleared
his throat, and gave it a fresh shot.  “Agent Hotchner? I’m  SSA David Rossi.” 
“SSA Aaron Hotchner; I’ve studied your cases, when I was a prosecutor preparing
for the profiling tests, I read the transcripts of your custodial interviews. 
I—“ Before he cut himself off, he’d been talking just a little too fast, not
that Rossi could blame the poor kid.  He’d probably rehearsed this introduction
a dozen times, but he’d been thrown off his script.  Of all the first meetings
he’d gone over that morning on the way in, he likely hadn’t imagined any form
of this one.  He breathed deep, and Rossi could see the fear in his eyes dim
and fade out.  “It’s an honor to join this team, sir, I—“
“Rossi.  You don’t need to…it’s just Rossi.”  For a moment, he’d been on the
edge of saying more, likely too much.  He didn’t want any ceremony between
them, he was sure of that much, but the kid was new to the team, and he was
still the senior officer.  For that, he couldn’t go as personal as he felt
inclined to just yet; he knew next to nothing and until he did, he’d have to
strive to maintain middle ground.  Rossi would have to do. 
“Rossi.  I only meant, I’m grateful for the opportunity.  I know at least one
of the applicants had more recent time in the field, and I really do appreciate
being given a chance coming from a background with a different focus.” 
Light and casual, his eyes raked over Agent Hotchner again, nodding as he
listened.  A quick pass, but he came up with more- he had a wedding ring and
his thumb was pressed to it, but he’d shaken his wrist just slightly some time
after Rossi had let go of his hand, as if the loss of contact clung to him like
a film.  Obviously, he was conflicted at the very least.  Difficult as it was
likely to be, at least conflicted was a place to start. 
Rossi smiled.  “Happy to have you here; as I’m sure you’ve heard the BAU only
keeps growing.  What that says about our society I’m not sure I want to know,
but at least we’re catching a few more.  That’s something.”  Looking back, he
met Jason’s eyes through the window, unsurprised to find they’d been watched. 
“Come on.  Gideon needs us to go over the case before we head out.  We’ll be
going to Idaho; I assume you brought a go bag?” 
“Under my desk, si—“  For a split second, it looked like he almost smiled. 
“Rossi.” 
“Good.  I never know what I’ve left out of mine; you seem the type to carry
extra socks and toothpaste.” 
His actual smile came quicker than Rossi expected, though it was there and gone
by the time he blinked.  The warm aftereffect of pride in managing to get that
smile— that, on the other hand, lingered in Rossi’s chest all the way up to the
office. 
Once he saw the case board, David resolved to put it all out of his mind until
the case was over, and if not for Gideon, he’d almost have succeeded.  Instead,
Hotchner passed him a file and he took it without a second’s hesitation, their
fingers brushing.  The light flared, and though they both managed to this time
only slightly skip a beat, Rossi knew Gideon far too well to think he could’ve
missed it.  If the sudden rise in his eyebrows was any indication, he certainly
hadn’t. 
At the airport, he almost, almost tried to get a chance to talk to the kid
alone, but there was Gideon and the case and even if there hadn’t been, he
wasn’t quite sure just yet what exactly it was he wanted to say.  Before they
boarded, Hotchner called his wife and Rossi half listened from a few feet away,
turning his own wedding ring over and over around his finger until it burned. 
He didn’t get that chance to talk until after the case.  In terms of numbers,
on this one, they’d come out on top- a final total of four dead mothers, one
dead child, six children saved.  It should have felt more like a win, but no
case involving the words ‘dead child’ ever really did.  His prediction hadn’t
been wrong; it was a hell of a first case, but he had to hand it to Hotch that
he’d hardly flinched.  At least, so long as he’d been with them—whether he’d
been closing his eyes when he got back to his room at night was a different
matter entirely, and it was one Rossi doubted.  The last few days in
particular, the dark circles under his eyes had seemed pretty deeply cemented
in. 
With their flight out not until midmorning, Rossi’s list of reasons for
postponing that talk they needed to have had gotten pretty damn short. 
He went to room 901 armed with a bottle of scotch and two plastic cups, and it
was more of a relief than he ever could have articulated to see from the look
on Hotch’s face when he opened the door that his presence wasn’t entirely
unexpected. 
“Hey.  I was just packing.”  Likely, though it looked more like he’d stopped
halfway through undressing.  His tie was off, shirt open to reveal a thin white
t-shirt beneath.  It shouldn’t have looked so damn revealing; after all,
technically he was still fully clothed. 
David swallowed hard, tried to hide it behind what was hopefully an easy
smile.  “We’ve got time; plane doesn’t leave till after eleven.  That leaves us
plenty of time for a little good scotch, if you’re up for it?”
“Yeah, come in.”  There was a rickety table by the window, old and uneven with
bar chairs missing a couple rungs.  Clearly, this place had seen better days. 
Rossi poured carefully, splashed just a little extra into Hotch’s before he
slid it over. 
Trusting that he’d notice, Rossi shrugged as he picked up his own cup.  “It’s
your first case.  You’ve earned a little extra.” 
There was that smile of his again, flicker fast but so damn beautiful.  Rossi
could feel the heat of it in his chest, hot and sharp and heavy like he’d
already taken a hit of whiskey.  He rubbed his thumb over the ribbing on his
cup, picked it up to knock the rim against Hotch’s. 
“To your first case.  Well done, Agent Hotchner.” 
“Thank you.” 
They drank, and Rossi catalogued.  Kid didn’t drink scotch like he was a
stranger to it, rather like he knew it too well.  Careful but deep, a measured
mouthful.  Long time exposure likely, maybe since high school, on and off? 
Maybe, but he hadn’t come in here just to profile.  Rossi cleared his throat,
turned his cup between his fingers. 
“So…we should talk.”  Almost more telling than any other detail he’d collected
was the absolute lack of denial, the failure to even feign to question what it
was exactly they needed to talk about.  Instead, he only nodded, and drank
again.  The plastic dented under Rossi’s thumb.  “When I was kid, I had so much
faith in…all of this.”  He sat back, gestured at wrist though he knew it didn’t
require much clarification.  They weren’t touching, but even this close there
was a faint glow beneath their skin, like low burning embers.  “I thought I’d
find every last one of us before I was twenty.  But, I finished high school,
joined the Marines, came to the Bureau…the more years went by, the less it
seemed likely.  I spent enough time at work pulling needles out of haystacks, I
guess I thought…” 
That he was tired of seeking out haystacks, partially.  More than that, though,
the sense of absolute powerlessness had troubled him.  With an unsub, he at
least knew where to begin to look.  Finding your soulmate in a world that gave
you no clues beyond a positive/negative confirmation had seemed increasingly
maddeningly daunting.  It had begun to make sense why some people never found
theirs at all—there was always going to be life to live, work to do.  He
couldn’t drop everything to seek out people he may realistically never find. 
Across the table, Hotch nodded as if he’d finished the thought, rolled up his
sleeves and leaned back in his chair.  “When I met Haley—“  He said her name
with such affection it actually hurt, a quick cut that had Rossi reaching for
his scotch.  He swallowed until the burn of the whiskey pained him just a
little more.  “—she almost broke up with me, over the marks.  With so many, she
was afraid any life I made with her would never be enough, would never feel
right even if I never found…she was so sure, but I changed her mind.  I
convinced her the odds of finding even one were against me, that it’d probably
never even be an option to face.  I knew I loved her and I thought it
was…marrying her seemed like the right thing to do.” 
“Makes sense.  You’re measuring a known against an unknown; most times, the
feelings you already know you have take precedence over uncertain future
prospects.” 
Hotch looked up, quick and a little hopeful.  “Your wife, did you—“
“It’s not exactly like that, no, it’s…it is what it is.  I’d give it a few more
months.”  Not many, though, not by his count or Gideon’s.  Hotch’s face fell,
and he almost wished he’d lied.  Almost.  “It’s alright.  It’s been a long time
coming.” 
“Rossi—“
“Hey.”  He took a chance, knocked his knuckles against Hotch’s where he held
his cup.  He didn’t pull away, let the contact linger until Rossi pulled back
on his own, took a sip before finishing.  “We’re drinking, off the clock.  So
long as it’s just you and me, I’m just Dave.  Okay?” 
“Okay.”  Jesus, the kid could hold eye contact like no one he’d ever seen. 
David blinked, found himself looking down to study the fake woodgrain of the
table while he waited for Hotch to pick back up where he’d interrupted. 
“Dave—“  His name in that voice sounded good, right in a way he couldn’t fully
place.  The alcohol was starting to buzz just a little under his skin, sure,
but he couldn’t blame it for the way his heart jolted just then.  “I don’t
think we can ignore what this is, and even if we could, it’s not the choice I’d
want to make.  I never thought I’d find this either, and knowing I have, I
can’t look away from that.  But I made a commitment to Haley, I—“
“And you can’t break it because of me, and I wouldn’t ask you to.”  He
wouldn’t, not outright, no matter how much he might want it, no matter what he
himself would be willing to do. 
“Whatever else I feel, I can’t just—“
“I know; I know.  It’s alright.”  Alright, and a little more than, really,
because Rossi’s head would probably be stuck turning those words over for a few
days.  To have said whatever else I feel, he sure as hell had to feel
something.  He could live with that, for now. 
“Is it?”  He sounded rough, guilty and pained. 
“Yeah, kid.  Whatever you want this to be, it’s okay with me.”  This time,
Rossi did a better job holding his gaze. 
“I don’t want it to be nothing.  Maybe that’s asking too much, but I—“
“Whatever you want.  It’s all okay.”  Given the relieved slump of his
shoulders, even slight as it was, Rossi could tell that unconditional
acceptance on a personal level wasn’t something he was used to.  Professionally
he’d excelled, but personally…outside of Haley, Rossi’d be willing to bet his
list of lasting personal relationships ran short.  In different ways, this’d be
new for both of them.  Smiling, Rossi leaned forward and unfastened the cuffs
of his shirt, rolled them up as he nodded toward the bottle.  “Go on, Aaron. 
Why don’t you pour us a little more?  You can pack in the morning.” 
This time, his smile lasted. 
 
After
In the early years, it had taken most of the tour for Rossi to get tired of
answering questions about the BAU.  These days, by the time he’d made it
through three or four cities he was already burnt out on every single facet of
it from standing in front of a crowd alone to the questions to the return to an
empty hotel room.  It didn’t matter that he spent a good portion of the year in
empty hotel rooms; it was different so long as they were with him.  If they
were working a case, it was enough to know they were close, to know that if he
went to any of their doors and knocked at 2 AM, they’d be there. 
Travel alone had held something for him years ago, but for the life of him it
was a feeling he couldn’t recapture.  By the time the tour he was on hit
Denver, he was six days into a thirteen day stint.  Roughly halfway through,
and already he couldn’t wait to go home.  That night, his last question had
only made it worse. 
Agent Rossi, what’s it like working such dangerous cases now that that team is
full of your soulmates?  How is it different than the first time around?  Does
it make the job harder?
For half a second, the reply he couldn’t make had hovered behind his tongue. 
What’s it like?  It’s terrifying; what do you think?  You think I like seeing
the worst kind of monsters routinely pull weapons on the people I love?
Instead of letting it out, he’d bitten his tongue, and spoke with more
moderation.  It doesn’t make the job harder, no; if anything it makes it
easier.  Our success record now is better than it was when Ryan and Gideon and
I started the BAU, and there’s a few reasons for that.  Our profiles have
improved with every year of data and every bit of experience we collect, but
the way we work together as a team has had an effect on those statistics, too. 
We know each other on a level that enables us to work more closely than a team
that doesn’t share the same connections.  When so much depends on how we come
together both to form the profile and bring in the unsub, that bond we have
does make a big difference. 
But as for what it’s like?  In a lot of ways, it’s great.  I get to go to work
every day with the people that mean the most to me in the world.  Not many
people get that; I know I’m very lucky.  It also means every time we go out in
the field to catch one of these killers, there’s an undeniable level of risk. 
It’s terrifying, and comforting.  It’s why units like ours are famous for doing
so well in the military, in law enforcement.  No one’s gonna do a better job
watching your back than someone who can’t bear to lose you.  There’s hardly any
stronger motivation than that kind of terror, and I’d be lying if I said it
wasn’t terrifying.  Still, we get the job done, and we do it well.  We’re all
proud of that, and I know for every one of us, backing down from this job isn’t
an option.  I tried once, and look where that got me. 
He’d gotten the laugh he’d tried for there at the end, but he hadn’t had quite
enough energy leftover to properly care.  Particularly when he wasn’t with
them, talking about the kind of danger they faced were exactly the kind of
questions he’d rather avoid.  He could remember a dozen close calls in vivid
detail at the snap of his fingers, and those were just from the last year. 
Hell, last month Emily had nearly been shot.  Morgan had taken the unsub and
Rossi had been the first to go her, to pull her up into his arms and see that
the bullet had buried safely into her vest.  He hadn’t noticed his hand was
trembling until she’d caught it in hers. 
He’d gone to bed thoroughly exhausted, told himself it was too late to call
home. 
In the morning, he woke up to two texts from Derek, a link in the first,
commentary in the second.  Hey, when you get a chance, take a look at this. 
Think I’ve got us a project to tackle when you get back.  Place dates back to
the 20’s. 
By looks of it, not much had been done to it since the 20’s, but it was just
Derek’s kind of place, full of woodwork and crumbling walls that’d take up a
satisfying amount of Saturdays.  He’d barely answered when an e-mail came
through, no title, no message, just Hotch’s address and a video file. 
In it, he sat in front of his computer in a faded green t-shirt, somehow
looking pretty put together for someone who’d likely not been long out of bed. 
In his lap, Jack sat up straight as he could for the camera, craning his head
toward the dot above the monitor like it wouldn’t pick him up unless he
stretched. 
“Hey, Dave.  When I told Jack you couldn’t come by this weekend, we thought
it’d be a good idea to make you a video so he could say hello in case we get
called away his next weekend.  Right, buddy?” 
“Hi, Uncle Dave!”  Part answer, part enthusiastic and not quite on script.  His
obvious excitement made Rossi chuckle. 
“What did you want to tell him about our Saturday?”  Hotch looked at Jack the
way he always did, all rapt attention and seriousness, like every word
mattered.  He never condescended, and he never had.  Of all the things that
made him an excellent father, that might have been Rossi’s favorite. 
“We made pancakes!”
“We did, and what else are we going to do?” 
“A bike ride, with Aunt Emily.” 
“That’s right.  And—“
“And you should come home, cause we miss you.” 
On screen, Hotch ruffled Jack’s hair, leaned in to kiss his forehead.  “He’ll
be home soon; you’ll see him next time mommy brings you over.”
Rossi murmured at the screen, useless but instinctive.  “You will.  I
promise.” 
Jack rambled briefly about bikes and paint and Saturdays, stopped only as his
attention span started to wane.  Near the end, Jack leaned forward far enough
that his hands pressed into the desk, holding him up.  Hotch leaned with him,
one arm around his waist. 
“What do you say, Jack?”
“Bye, Uncle Dave!  We love you!”
Aaron’s goodbye was more subdued, but it didn’t matter.  Everything he could’ve
said was in his eyes as he smiled.  “Have a good day; I’ll talk to you
tonight.” 
David nodded, let his fingertips brush the screen, drifting light over both of
them.  “Yeah.   I love you, too.” 
By midmorning, he had a text from Emily informing him that he should consider
the frozen lasagna she’d be having for dinner a cry for help.  (To convince
him, she included a picture.  It did look rather sad.) 
That afternoon, JJ called in the middle of a conversation he’d been having with
his agent.  Rossi put him on hold and answered, formal out of habit.  “Rossi.”
“You gotta help me, Spence is—“
“Don’t help her; she’ll never learn if you do!”
He caught laughter, hers and maybe Will’s, and a scuffle for the phone.  “Dave,
please, he says he’s tryin’ to teach me how to play chess but he’s killing me,
here.   You know he’s too good at this for a beginner; I need all the help I
can get.” 
The other line beeped in his ear, and Rossi sighed.  “If I could stay on the
line and help you—“
“Please—“
“—I would, but I have to get back to this before my agent shows up outside my
door.”  He dropped his voice, low and conspiratorial in case Spencer was still
straining to listen.  “If you can get a shot of the board on your phone without
him seeing, I’ll help you out.”
“You’re the best; I’ll see what I can do.” 
As she hung up, he could already hear Reid starting to argue. 
That night, after his second Denver reading at a bookstore across town, he
called Garcia from the backseat of the car on the way to the hotel. 
“Rossi!  You know, I was just about to call you, I—“
“Have spent the day plotting; don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but unless we’re working a case, Morgan doesn’t text. 
Well, not often.  So I started off suspicious, but the steady stream of
everyone that came after that—“
“Alright, there might have been a little plotting, but you’re totally off.  All
the plotting happened last night.”  Across the phone, he could hear her smile. 
“See, I keep tabs on how often any of your names shows up on social media in
case of…anything I might need to know.”
Anything, like a public shooting.  She wouldn’t want to talk about the
prospect, and he didn’t call her on it. 
“So last night I got a notification about a lot of hits on yours which led to
this video that had started making the circuit around twitter and tumblr of you
answering a question about us at a bookstore last night in Denver.  All I could
find were people going on about how it was so romantic and heartfelt and people
in our situations don’t talk about their partners enough in public, etc. etc.,
so I watched this video, and yes, it was sweet, but they don’t know you like I
do and—“  For once since she’d started, Garcia paused to take a proper breath. 
“It just made me sad, because you looked so lonely.  You were upset, and all
alone and…I don’t know, I thought it might do you good to hear from everyone,
so I didn’t do much really I just kind of nudged them in the right direction?” 
By nudged, she probably meant she’d sent them all the video and her comments on
it at two or three AM or whatever godawful time it’d made it up online back
east.  Leaning forward, Rossi let his head rest in his hands.  “You know, I
think Morgan’s right about you.”
“That I’m a sexy goddess?”
“I wouldn’t deny it.”  She laughed with him, though he called her out of it
before she could change the subject.  “Penelope.”
“Yes?”
“You’re an angel.”
“I’m not; I just take care of you the way I can.  Morgan can do the dramatic
physical rescues, I just do what I can with emotional rescues.  It’s not the
same as swooping in and bringing you home from Denver, but—“
“But it matters.  You weren’t wrong; it helped.” 
“Then my work here is done.” 
“Oh no it isn’t, I haven’t heard from you all day.”
“See, I really was about to call you but—“
She fell into a flurry of words, and Rossi leaned back against the seat and
listened, eyes closing as he lost himself in her rhythm. 
He’d reached the end of day seven, just past the halfway point.  For now, at
least, home didn’t seem so unbearably far away. 
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