Why no, I'm still not over the insanity that was "Mr. Scratch". Good lord, MGG and Thomas Gibson…

Rossi had seen "that look" only twice before.

The first time, he'd seen it when standing in a hospital room, determined to reassure his best friend, his teammate, his boss, that they'd get George Foyet. All he got in response was a tearful face as Hotch stared at the ceiling, his face the definition of total despair. He was covered in bandages and tubes, looking much more like a frightened victim instead of the commanding leader he'd always been.

Unspoken in Rossi's speech was his hope and plan to bring Haley and Jack back safe and sound. Haley could regain the stable life she longed for, and Jack would be back to having his biggest worries be which friend he would play with at the park and what story his dad would read to him at bedtime.

If he did that, "that look" would disappear. Hotch's eyes would be no longer haunted, his face wouldn't be so weathered and worn. He wouldn't lash out anymore. Maybe he'd even smile again. Banter with his team. Tell a lame joke with the most bone-dry delivery imaginable.

He'd wanted to tell Hotch of all his plans, but he hesitated to make promises he wasn't sure he could keep.

Rossi was right to hold off, too. Unfortunately, Hotch and his team did take a detour into tragedy on their path to stop Foyet. They'd lost Haley, and though any and every person present would argue that killing Foyet was entirely justified, it didn't take a profiler to see that Hotch was deeply affected by the realization he'd actually gone that far.

And that was the second time "that look" returned. Some days, it seemed Hotch sleepwalked through work. Sometimes, as he left for the night, Rossi would look up at Hotch's office, and know that Jessica would soon get a call asking if she could stay overnight with Jack again. And sometimes, Rossi would catch Hotch staring at pictures on his desk, tears in his eyes, only to quickly recover the moment anyone passed him by.

That look was lightened ever so slightly that time by the presence of Jack, thank goodness, but it was still there, and it still troubled Rossi, and he wondered then, as he did that day in the hospital, how much more of this his friend could take.

Now here he was again, standing next to an ambulance, looking down at the man sitting on the edge of the vehicle, and here was that look again.

This was the worst instance of it yet, Rossi was certain of that. Hotch had a thousand yard stare going on. The last time Rossi had ever seen a look fitting that description was during his days in Vietnam.

And he was…trembling? Yes! Trembling! Since when did Hotch tremble?

Perhaps Rossi could've chalked Hotch's expression up to shock. He may have even planned to do that.

Except Hotch wasn't speaking. At all. Okay, he's traumatized.

I don't think he even hears you, though. Rossi tried calling Hotch's name, and his panic rose with each call.

What was that old saying, "be careful what you wish for"? Hotch did eventually manage to speak. When he did, though, that's when Rossi's insides turned to ice.

He's speaking like a victim again.

Is he leaving anything out on purpose? Do I have to do a cognitive interview? I don't want to do an interview! It's me, Hotch! It's Rossi! Talk to me like normal!

Jack. Someone needs to call Jack. What are we gonna tell him? How do we explain what happened to his dad? What's Jessica's number again…?

After delegating those tasks and questions to the rest of the team, Rossi rode with Hotch to the hospital. More poking, more prodding, more questions…and more hollow-sounding answers. Has Hotch even blinked yet?

It was decided Hotch would be kept for further observation. Rossi watched as they settled Hotch into a bed, his eyes never leaving his friend. He took note of Hotch's eyes as they slowly fluttered shut. His gaze darted from Hotch's chest to the heart monitor and back multiple times. He searched for any sign of contortion in Hotch's face, any discomfort, pain, sadness…fear…

It's okay. It'll be okay. It has to be. He survived Foyet. He survived Haley's death. He can survive this. He will survive this.

You aren't going to leave us. We won't let you.

"Jack needs you, Hotch. Jessica needs you. This team needs you."

He stopped upon realizing he'd said those last words aloud.

Rossi took one last glance at Hotch, noting the cuts and bruises marking the man's face. He made a silent vow then and there that Lewis would never have a hope in hell of getting free ever again.

He pulled a chair up next to the bed, placing one hand atop his friend's.

"Don't worry, Hotch. I'm not going anywhere. None of us are."

One by one they all fell.

Spencer Reid.

He's too young. He's already been shot three times. He can't afford another bullet!

Derek Morgan.

He kicks down doors. Bullets only graze him.

David Rossi.

Still got stuff to do. Can't die like Gideon. Don't take him, Gideon…

JJ.

Screaming. So loud. So terrified. I'm sorry, JJ, please stop screaming…

Or was that Garcia? Can't tell…so loud…the guns are so loud…stop, please stop…

"Stop!"

Hotch blinked rapidly as he jolted awake. He sat up slightly, turning his head wildly.

What happened to the lights? I can't see! Where is everyone? They can't be dead, they can't be dead, they can't…

"Hotch. HOTCH! It's okay. It's okay, I'm here."

Hotch turned at the sound of his friend's soothing voice. Rossi was trying, and failing, to keep the fear out of both his eyes and his speech, but he still patted Hotch's back anyway, still kept his face in view yet not so close that it'd spook Hotch even more, and helped ease him back down into the bed.

"You're in the hospital. Not for long, but they wanted to hold you just in case."

"Where's Jack?"

"He's fine. Garcia called, she said Jessica's got him and they'll come by tomorrow if the doctors say it's okay." The potential side effects of the sage attack had left the doctors hesitant for too many visitors.

"And the others?"

"They're at Garcia's place. They kinda don't want to be alone right now." Rossi tried to make a joke out of it, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

Hotch took a few breaths. Okay. Okay, they're alive. Thank God. He swallowed hard before speaking again. "I'm so sorry – "

"No. No apologies, Hotch. I won't have it. It's not your fault."

"But – "

"Hotch. Go to sleep. Get some rest. We'll talk in the morning."

ooo

Hotch tried to sleep. He really did. He closed his eyes, tried to steady his breathing. Once he heard Rossi snoring, his eyes flew open again, his gaze fixated on the ceiling.

He knew. He figured out my worst fear.

Images flashed through Hotch's mind then. Hankel playing Russian Roulette with Reid. A beaten and bruised Morgan walking into a house to confront his attacker, Billy Flynn…alone. Garcia lying in a hospital bed with a gunshot wound. JJ in an intense rooftop chase, facing off with one of the men who'd kidnapped and tortured her.

Then there was Emily with a block of wood sticking out her side, Gideon lying dead in his cabin, and Elle… "The last time you sent me home, Hotch, you got me shot."

Obviously, of course, Peter Lewis had no intimate knowledge of those incidents in the team's history…at least, Hotch was fairly certain of that fact. He had hacked the building's computer system, after all, so who knew what information he gathered? The fact remained that he knew, on some level.

Hotch had made many a speech to his team over the years about the importance of trying to understand the unsubs, even identify with them, in order to better handle them.

But he'd never been all that good at explaining what happened when the situation reversed itself. Everyone on the team knew the old saying that unsubs made the best profilers – they had plenty of cases proving that to be true.

It was one thing to state that fact and read examples about it. It was another thing entirely to be witness to it firsthand.

Did Lewis know I wouldn't shoot at that door? That I'd turn and shoot at him instead? Did he want to engage me in that kind of fight? Would that vision have played out the same way in reality if I hadn't turned in time, if he'd shot first after that door opened?

What if I'd died in that house? Or been permanently injured? Who would keep them safe then?

They'd keep each other safe. You know that. They'll learn to get along without you. They've done it before.

Coming back had its own concerns, too. He'd probably have to do a psych evaluation. He hated those, but he was willing to sit through one if it meant he could come back to the team. Besides, he'd been through that once before, hell, they wrote those questions. He could come up with the answers in his sleep. It'd be a cinch.

The team would look at him strangely every now and again, though. He could hear the whispers now. Is he okay? Should he take some time off? Think Cruz will confront him, like Strauss did?

Come to think of it, how would he explain to Cruz what had happened? Course, then again, Cruz had been held captive and tortured, too. He'd probably be sympathetic and understanding. Hopefully.

He wanted to know all the answers. And yet he didn't. That "vision" was enough of an answer for him, and Hotch wasn't sure at this point whether it was the questions or the answers that were scaring him the most. People had always joked about Hotch being married to his job, and when Rossi once commented on being more married to the team than his ex-wives, Hotch silently sympathized. He needed to do for them what he had to do for Jack, what he couldn't do for Haley.

And yet, all those moments where one or more of his team were in danger…he'd failed. He'd failed them and he'd failed himself. He could've failed them tonight, again.

And what of Jack? He could've failed him, too. Fortunately, Jack had figured out how to handle his dad's nightmares over the years, the way Hotch always knew how to handle Jack's. He saw a lot of late nights with the two of them at a kitchen table sipping cocoa in his future.

That still wasn't enough to reassure him, though. Was this the day Jack wouldn't see him as a hero anymore? What if he had those hallucinations again? Christine was still mute when we met her, after all, and the others were deeply traumatized as well. How long are these effects supposed to last?

Roy was right. I can't afford to make "mistakes". My mistakes cost lives.

Lewis was right, too. It doesn't matter what happens to him or me now. He's winning.

The more his mind nagged at him, the more Hotch began gasping, trying to catch his breath. One look at Rossi, who stirred slightly, and he gripped the side of the bed, trying to still himself. He closed his eyes again, taking in slow, deep breaths. Fortunately, it worked, if the steadying beeping of the monitor was any indication.

After facing down every type of killer under the sun, after challenging Foyet, was this really going to be the thing to make him fall apart? A man referred to by his victims as a shadowy figure with "clawed hands"? A real life example of the notorious childhood "boogeyman"?

He shook his head, the weird urge to chuckle suddenly bubbling up within him. God, it all really would've been almost laughable if it weren't so horrifying. To think, when this all began, Hotch figured Larry Merrin was simply making things up. Or was delusional. Or was telling the truth, but that this "shadowy figure", whoever or whatever it was, would be easily explained away.

And on they'd have gone from there. Typical case, they'd do their profile, find the unsub, catch him, and then they'd all go home. Voila. Case closed.

Hotch should've known by now that this job was rarely ever that simple.

He tried one more time to close his eyes. Soon after, he finally fell asleep. It was pointless, he finally realized, to try and stop the nightmares from returning while he slept.

After all, they'd still be there when he woke.

Reviews/critiques/etc. appreciated, as always.