"We cannot live for ourselves alone. Our lives are connected by a thousand invisible threads, and along these sympathetic fibers, our actions run as causes and return to us as results."

Herman Melville

He studied her, as she lay sleeping. The early morning sun, filtered by the trees, cast a scattered pattern of light across her sleeping features. He reviewed each detail, as if, despite their familiarity, he was seeing them with fresh eyes, her dark hair, flecked with the random strands of gray that she refused to dye away, her carefully waxed arched brows furrowed, as if she were deep in thought, the tiny mole that sat slightly off from the outer corner of her right eye.

He resisted the urge to wake her, wanting to hear her rich alto voice with its infectious laugh, or engage in one of the mind probing conversations they so easily fell into while laying in bed together. Talking, she liked to say, was one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs. And, in their case, he had to admit it was true. She was open and honest, and expected him to be the same. He found himself consciously trying to live up to that expectation and surprisingly, it got easier as time went on.

Looking back, David Rossi had to admit that the demise of his three marriages had something to do with the fact that he knew more of his unsubs that he did of his spouse. He was able to get into the hearts of the victims and the minds of those who victimized them, better than he was able to get into the hearts and minds of the women he'd married.

It wasn't that way this time around. Not that she'd agree to marry him, should he choose to ask. She'd long ago told him that she felt no need to be the fourth Mrs. Rossi; she didn't need to have that label to feel secure in their relationship.

He shook his head, wondering why he was wide awake, his mind working overtime, at 6:45 on the first Saturday morning in weeks that he did not have an active case pulling him into the BAU. Nothing, he decided, was going to make him get out of the warm comfort of bed.

Nothing, except for the plaintive whine coming from the foot of the bed.

"Roscoe," he tiredly said, as the English springer spaniel jumped up onto the bed, tail wagging. "It's Saturday…"

Ignoring his words, Roscoe licked his face.

"Dogs don't know what Saturday means," Juliana DeVitto, said, opening her eyes and drawing Roscoe's attention.

"I'm getting that impression," Rossi laughed as Roscoe licked Juliana's face.

"Yes, I love you too, Roscoe," she laughed, ruffling the hair around the dog's neck.

"Roscoe," Rossi laughed, "Leave some skin on her face." He sat up, "Guess I'll let him out, huh?"

"I'll be here waiting when you get back," she yawned.

She watched him while he pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Feeling her eyes trained on his every move, he looked over. "You find something fascinating?"

A sly smile formed on her features, "Yeah, the fact that you can actually come back to bed this morning."

"And that's exactly what I intend to do," he agreed, as the dog barked for his attention. "I'll be back," he winked, leading the dog out of the room.

"The profoundest thought or passion sleeps as in a mine, until an equal mind and heart finds and publishes it."

Ralph Waldo Emerson

She was 11 years his junior, certainly not a lifetime of difference, but nearly a generation. It wasn't something he thought about often, but at times like this, the thought did cross his mind.

She stood at the stove, stirring a pot of Bolognese sauce, dressed in a pair of black track pants and a black long sleeved t-shirt that bore a skull and cross bones with the words, "Life is Scary" written beneath them. Her dark hair was pulled up into a high pony tail that bounced as she nodded her head in time to the music coming over his Bose radio.

It was the music that reminded him of the difference in age. She sang along, knowing every word to the Motley Crue song. Sure, he'd heard the song when it first came out, but usually only long enough to change the radio station. Back then, he was a young FBI agent, married to his first wife, trying to climb the ladder in the Bureau. Julie was a junior in High School; smart as hell, but into the whole hair band scene. He'd seen pictures of her with her teased hair and dark eye liner and decided that if he'd met her back then, he would have dismissed her without so much as a second glance.

"Excuse me, Mr. G-man," she began, pulling him from his thoughts. "I thought you said you weren't working this weekend."

"I'm not," he returned, walking over to her and slipping his arms around her.

"Oh really? You've got that profiler expression going on …" she teased.

He raised a brow, "Profiler expression? I wasn't aware I had profiler expression."

"You do," she went on, wry smile on her lips. "You get all deep in thought, your brows furrow and you purse your lips," She studied him a moment, "So, what were you thinking?"

"If you must know, I was thinking about you and that damned Motley Crue song."

"Uh oh," she laughed, "Is this going to be another "my girlfriend was a hair band groupie" moment?"

Rossi laughed with her, "Actually, it was, but you've managed to derail it successfully."

"Damn good thing," she returned, "Because I don't want you getting all reflective on me this weekend." She kissed him firmly. "Instead, you can stand there and listen to me talk about what an incredible day this has been."

He smiled, "So, start talking."

"Well," she kissed him again, "Let's see…it started when you came back to bed this morning…"

"That was my favorite part," he agreed, with a leer.

"You're such a male," she said, shaking her head, "Tell me you didn't enjoy spending the day around the house. We got to take Roscoe for a walk in the woods, cook up a big dinner…"

"Two Italians in the kitchen can produce nothing less than a big dinner," he quipped.

"True, but that's what freezers are for," she mused.

"At least we'll have something waiting for us when we get back here again. Hopefully, it won't be too long before we can work that out."

"It all depends on you, my dear. I own my own business and have hired competent employees to tend to my humble little book store while I'm gone…"

"Before you put the weight of our return to the Lake squarely on my shoulders, let's discuss the draft of your new book that's due in a month," he gently reminded.

"Oh, that," she dismissed, with a wave of her hand. "It's at the publisher's already."

Surprised by her admission, he studied her for a moment, "When did that happen?"

"I finished it while you were out in Los Angeles on that serial killer case," she shrugged. "I just holed up in my office until I finished those last six chapters."

"And I missed it," he simply said, wondering why he felt a strange sense of loss for not being around.

"David, you missed me spending a week without showering or seeing the outside world, eating Ramen Noodles and drinking entirely too much Diet Pepsi. You know what I'm like when I finish a novel. It's not pretty. I think I needed the alone time. I probably would have scared you off."

'It takes a hell of a lot more than that to scare me off," he laughed, willing himself to lighten up.

"We'll see what happens next time," she winked, "Now; I need to go drain the pasta before it turns into a big gelatinous mess."

For the second morning in a row, David Rossi found himself lying awake in bed, watching the sunrise. He thought about waking Julie, but they'd had a late night. She discovered the Monopoly game his niece and nephew left last time they stayed at the house. That and the rest of the bottle of Chianti from dinner turned into a playfully cut throat session of real estate trading that lasted into the early hours of the morning.

When they fell into bed, laughing, full of a heady buzz caused by the wine and the closeness of the day, they made love, slowly, playfully, something they hadn't been able to do since his return to the BAU. He'd jumped back into work with both feet and, truth be known, he really had missed it, although that wasn't what drove him back.

Rossi closed his eyes, willing the images of the Galen children from his mind. He warred with the guilt he felt for not wanting to let those memories intrude on this weekend.

"David?" Julie's voice began, concern clearly audible. He opened his eyes to find that her expression matched her voice. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he lied, knowing she'd see through it. "Why do you ask?"

She gave him a soft smile, "I'm all for you holding me tight, but you've got a hell of a death grip on my arms."

"Shit," he tiredly said, relaxing his hold. "I'm sorry…"

"Did you have another nightmare?"

He shook his head.

"Then what is it?" she asked, moving so that they were face to face.

She was studying him, looking for an answer. He found her gaze un-nerving, but didn't avert his eyes; instead he leaned forward and kissed her.

"Nice distraction technique," she smartly returned. "Did you pick that up from the FBI handbook?"

"Works surprisingly well during hostage negotiations."

Julie smoothed the hair at his temple, and then caressed his cheek. Worry furrowed her brows and he hated the fact that he was the cause of that worry.

"I'm okay, Julie," he said, trying to reassure them both.

"I'm going to pretend to believe you," she softly said, allowing him to pull her back into his arms.

He held her close, resting his chin on the top of her head and closing his eyes. After a few moments of silence, she spoke.

"So, what do you say we just abandon the real world and move out here permanently?"

He smiled, recognizing the conversation they'd had many times in the four years that they'd known each other. "Do you think we could live off of investments and royalties, or would we need to keep writing?" he asked, playing along.

"I'd need to keep writing," she replied, "And I could really do it well out here."

"Could you, now?"

"Some of my best ideas have come to me while I'm sitting out back on the porch, waiting for you and Roscoe to get done killing birds."

"Hunting," he corrected.

"Hunting," she repeated.

"Tell me that wasn't the best duck you've ever had," he went on, feeling himself relaxing slightly.

"It's the only duck I've ever had," she returned, looking up at him, "You do know that I love you, don't you?"

Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead, "I love you, too."

"Now, think we can go back to sleep for a while? I know we need to go back to reality in a few hours, but I'm just not ready yet."

"Neither am I," he replied, kissing her softly. "Go ahead, go back to sleep."

She settled herself, so that her head rested on his chest. Within minutes, her body relaxed and her breathing slowed, telling him that she'd fallen back to sleep. Despite the fact that his body was calling out for more rest, his mind would not shut down. He knew he wouldn't be getting any more sleep this morning. Instead, he would lie, holding her in his arms and watching the sunrise.