The night was a heavy one. They'd gotten back from interviewing Foyet for one last time before he got the electric chair. Reid had gone with him, of course. There were other people in the room, policemen and guards to make sure nothing went wrong. And nothing did. They asked questions, and Foyet answered them. It was a fairly easy interrogation, they got everything they wanted. Yet Hotch was still hurting.

Foyet would be dead in a matter of hours, and so was his proof that Haley was gone. He'd be absolutely empty without them. Even though people had been there in the room with him, and the man who killed his heart was handcuffed, he still felt vulnerable. Like he could be killed just by how fast his heart was beating. Every smug blink of Foyet was a silent reminder of what he'd done, rubbing his victory in like salt in a wound that would never heal.

The night was heavy because it was humid on top of the bridge in between highway I-90 and I-80, the semi-trucks that passed messing with his balance, almost toppling him over if it hadn't been for his grip on the railing. Twelve at night was the time that only insomniacs looking for distractions and truck drivers were out in their vehicles. Hotch was an outlier. He wasn't sure what his purpose was, but he definitely wanted to be on that bridge, no matter what the outcome would be. If he was supposed to survive, then he'd survive the fall. Whenever that would happen.

A sputtering engine jerked him out of his thoughts. Hotch spun his torso, throwing one of his legs back over the closer slab of concrete, and he looked up through half-closed eyelids just in time to see Reid's busted Volvo Amazon pull up, its front plate bent and its chrome bender dulled by years of neglect and lack of care for appearance. Its owner jumped out of the car, leaving the engine running and stood on the other side of the car like a barrier.

"Hotch."

"I'm not planning on doing anything," the older man said carefully, "I'm just watching."

"Bad decisions often don't require a plan," Reid carefully walked around the car hood with his arms out. "Please don't make me."

"Make you what?" Hotch asked, turning his head back to the road. The light posts flickered, illuminating the fluorescent yellow paint that split the highway below in two.

"Don't make me talk you away from this terrible situation like I'd do with an unsub," he whispered. A semi truck flew past, knocking Reid forward, with a grunt. "Please, Hotch. It doesn't feel right."

Hotch sighed and turned back to look at the scrawny man, half-kneeling on the ground with sad eyes looking upward. "I wasn't going to..."

"You know that wasn't true," Reid pushed himself up, clearing his throat.

The older man shook his head, twisting his body back toward the road twenty feet below. "It didn't really matter." He stared downward, imagining what it would feel like. He knew it wouldn't feel good, most likely hurt a lot unless he dove headfirst. Maybe he'd dive headfirst.

"Corey Smith-Helden," Reid said, his voice breaking as he tried his best to switch into a mode he'd use with psychotic men that saw a way out in suicide. It was hard. But he did it. "He had a history of suicidal thoughts and actions. He dove off of a cliff, drove his car into oncoming traffic and came out both times with minor injuries, and he once walked down into the ocean unaccompanied and tried to drown himself. He knew it wouldn't be possible, but he tried. The pain was too much, and he resorted to using any and all opportunities that had even the slightest probability of death. He was twenty-seven years old. As old as I am now."

Hotch took a deep breath. He couldn't make himself turn around. He knew Reid was crying, and he could feel his own tears threatening to fall. How he had gotten himself into this situation was boggling him.

"On, um... March 31st, 2005, at 5:34 in the afternoon, Corey arrived at the Golden Gate Bridge," Reid said, his voice was rough, now. Full of emotions that Hotch had never heard him express firsthand. "He had no car, and probably took a cab. No one stopped him, he didn't even stop himself. No one stopped him because he never stopped moving. He had a place to be. He had confidence."

The first tear fell, rolling down Hotch's cheek and dropping onto his slacks. The second quickly followed.

"A witness saw him. She reported seeing a man walking on the sidewalk nearest to the traffic lane, who then... who then suddenly turned toward the railing and jumped off. He was dead. He watched the water come nearer and nearer, and he knew he was going to die," Reid stepped closer, his voice growing less consistent as his throat began to close with worry. "He landed feet first. He was bruised over his entire abdomen and midsection, and there were indications of massive internal hemorrhaging and several broken bones. He wasn't dead when the impact came, and he was alive for two minutes and thirteen seconds, bobbing in the water, before his brain gave out from an aneurysm."

Hotch let out a shaky breath. Reid knew his resolve was deteriorating. He wasn't a psychopath. He was a man that was having a bad week. No one was meant to die forever because of a bad week.

"When a person jumps from the Golden Gate Bridge, their body plummets 240 to 250 feet in four seconds, traveling 75 miles per hour, and they hit the water with force enough to equate to two car collisions," Reid gently placed his hand on Hotch's shoulder. "This isn't the Golden Gate bridge. You aren't Corey Smith-Helden. If you do this, you risk paralysis, fractured bones, a functionless digestive system, possible brain damage. You risk your job. And most importantly, you let Foyet win."

That was it. Hotch spun around and tumbled off of the railing as Reid pulled him away, noticing the vulnerability and want to stay alive. Hotch grunted as he hit the ground, landing on the hard ground next to Reid. Another semi zoomed past, blowing Reid's hair from his face.

"He'll never win," Hotch breathed, his hands resting on his stomach as his chest heaved up and down. "I won't let him."

Reid nodded slowly and pushed himself up from the ground. "I'm taking you to Rossi's. He has coffee and alcohol for you."

"Are you going?" The older man mumbled, letting the younger man pull him to his feet.

"No, I don't think so," Reid shrugged and pushed Hotch's shoulders toward his Volvo. "That would be unprofessional. I'm going home."

"But..."

"Get in the car, Hotch," the younger man smiled. "We can talk about this another time, once the words I've thrown at you sink in. Call me in the morning."

Hotch nodded and settled into the passenger seat, closing his eyes. He survived.