This, the Distant Dawn

by Illyria13

Sometimes the only path to healing is off the ledge of a very tall building.

This, the Distant Dawn

By Illyria13

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The characters, spoilers, names, etc are not my property. They belong to someone else. Someone richer. Someone with more power. But less creativity.

I do own the quote at the beginning of this fic, right below the summary. Please do not steal it. I'm rather proud of it.

Timeline: No specific episode or time. It is set after Rossi joins the team, so s3 and after. Few hints at the season 2 episode "Profiler, Profiled".

Warning: talk/hints of suicide, suicidal behavior and thoughts. Some mention of abuse and rape, nothing more detailed than what appears in the show. Swearing here and there.

Summary: Sometimes the only path to healing is off the ledge of a very tall building.

//

"The evil of mankind is not that they harm each other, but that they harm each other and do not care."

//

Heights had never been a problem for him.

It had never bothered him before; in fact, he'd always rather enjoyed being up high. He'd flown in many planes over the years, especially after joining the FBI, and he'd liked the feeling of weightlessness he'd felt. It'd been like floating, completely safe and alone, and a part of him knew that it was the freedom that he liked most of all. In Chicago, he'd grown up surrounded by tall buildings and massive skyscrapers, the glistening towers of secrets and power that filled him with awe whenever he glimpsed them. And though the majority of his childhood, and later life as a cop on the beat, was spent on the street, feet firmly planted to the solid ground, he'd always known that there was something out there, a job, a person, something, that offered that same sense of freedom, gave him that same feeling of awe. And he'd found it, in the FBI, in this team of profilers that knew how to glean a person's deepest, darkest demons and bring them churning to the surface. He'd found friends who cared, a team he cared about, and a family who needed him as much as he needed them. Hotch may believe that he didn't trust them, but Hotch was wrong.

Morgan trusted them to keep him safe. The problem was that he just wasn't sure he wanted to be safe.

Heights had never been a problem for him.

Until the image of a child lying twisted and broken on blood-spattered concrete, an innocent and too-young life stolen in a smear of red, had crossed his vision and refused to leave his mind.

Everyone said that child cases were the hardest. They were right, he knew that, but knowing it didn't help lessen the blow. He also knew the typical reasons dead children bothered people: they were too young, they were too innocent, they reflected society's failings at keeping its most helpless safe, he could come up with them all and it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't bring them back, put color into their bruised cheeks or life into their deadened eyes. Knowing the problem, knowing the reasons, didn't make the problem go away. It only made the complete and utter wrongness of the world clearer.

Some cases hit cops and agents harder for some than others and for different reasons. He could see that even when he looked at his own team. JJ was affected by those cases with dead mothers and orphaned children, seeing in them her own son. Emily hated the cases with abandoned children, absentee parents, and people who simply refused to see the danger in their midst. Reid, the youngest and most naïve, for all his knowledge couldn't seem to grasp the damage human beings brought upon each other. Hotch, though showed it very little, felt the most when it came to abused children and uncaring mothers, haunted by his own abusive childhood. Rossi, as the oldest and most experienced of the group, held both the least and the most demons, and it was a combination of them all that had driven him from what he'd created at the bureau long before Morgan himself was there. And Garcia, his bright and shining Goddess, was affected by it all, because the images that graced her screens stayed there, even when hidden by file numbers and document titles.

For him, it was always the child cases. His reason? They brought up his own personal demons, the ones he'd never fully faced, and laid them laughing at his feet for all to see. It was his own victory, on a deep and personal level, when he'd get a case such as this and he'd make it through intact, as intact as he could ever be. And then there were the ones that he wouldn't make it through, and he'd find himself drowning in a sea of emotions, unable to pull himself from the quagmire. In these cases, every victim statement, every photo, every new crime scene and all the old ones, would stick in his heart and his head and refuse to let him go.

This case was one of those, and he'd known it from the very beginning.

Heights had never been a problem for him.

It was going to be hell, he knew that, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to stop it.

He'd seen the looks on the other's faces when the details of the case had been revealed in the briefing. It was hard not to notice the side glances of Reid and Emily as they deferred (discreetly) to Hotch and Rossi, nor did he fail to feel the mile-long stare of the two older men that they made no attempts to hide. Even JJ had done it, pausing briefly after revealing the molestation and not allowing the crime scene photos to linger on the screen. He'd bristled inside at their apparent lack of confidence in his ability to handle both the case and his job, and felt bitter and exposed at such a low estimation. But another part of him had whispered the truth to him; that this was their way of protecting him, as was their right to do, from that which would harm or alter their close-knit little family. He'd felt both heartened and grateful that the team would acknowledge his pain and try to lessen it in whatever way they could. And the profiler in him knew that this was what they needed, to ease their undeserved guilt over not being there for him as a child, for being unable to stop his 13-year-old self from being forever altered by a monster with the face of a mentor in a cabin by a lake. And it was the little boy within that knew that this was what he'd needed as well, to be protected and cared for by those who knew his secret and didn't turn from him in pity or disgust.

So he'd ignored it all and told himself that he could do this, he could keep his focus on the case. He'd done it plenty of times before and now, when the entire team's attention was fixed on him, he didn't really have a choice. He couldn't let them see him like that, couldn't let them see just how much damage flitted beneath the surface and though he knew pushing his emotions, his terror, his fear, his pain, down would come back to haunt him later, he thought he'd be safe long enough for him to do what he always did. He'd thought he was prepared for what he would see and what he would hear. He'd thought he was ready.

He had been wrong, completely and utterly fucking wrong.

And he was nowhere near prepared for how far he was going to fall.

San Diego, California, home of the Chargers and Sea World and a population of over 1.2 million. About 60% of the child population was between the ages of 6-12, and the UnSub in the area was taking full advantage. The team had been called after the fourth victim by San Diego County PD and they had been quick to respond. The flight there had been uncomfortable, the tension obvious, but Morgan had been too disturbed by the case to address it.

This UnSub was a smart SOB, he'd thought, a classic pedophile with a victim type of 12-13 year old boys of very specific characteristics: white, black hair, and green-hazel eyes. All of them had been snatched from local city parks, spread out through the county, held for four days where they were assaulted repeatedly before being killed. What was the most disturbing was how he killed them: he made them kill themselves. All the bodies had been found after falling from the seventh story windows of a motel, and they'd been able to gather from the trajectories of the falls that the victims had all jumped. Morgan had speculated that murder for this UnSub was the ultimate form of rape: taking everything from the victims (their innocence, their virginity and their childhood) and then taking the last thing left, life, and making them do it themselves instead of pushing them only heightened the UnSub's power. The team had agreed with his assessment, but it hadn't made things better and the tension rose because somehow, something was still missing.

It wasn't until they'd found the identity of their suspect that the final pieces had slid into place.

They'd profiled the victims, knowing that other than their appearances, there would be some other connection between them all that would further connect them to their UnSub. All of the four victims had played Little League and all had played against each other on different teams. Furthermore, the Leagues all ran out of a single after school program in the county, and upon closer inspection, they'd found their UnSub: the man in charge of running the program and setting the game schedules. He'd used the program as his own hunting ground, and it'd made Morgan sick to think of the trust the victims must have had for their killer. What he didn't know, and would soon realize, was that their UnSub had more than four victims. The thing about the others was that they were still alive.

Their UnSub was in the wind, and they'd released his name and photo to the press, hoping that would both prevent another victim and possibly locate him. Their tip line was flooded and the team was in the process of helping out when they were distracted by a viable lead: their UnSub's son.

13-years-old, black hair and green-hazel eyes. Morgan had a bad feeling as soon as he laid eyes on their source of information and his fears had been confirmed. He sat in that room with that broken child and he'd tried not to think, tried not to feel, because he knew this story, knew this dance, knew it every time he closed his eyes and every time he woke screaming from a nightmare. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, this story was his: a young teenage boy with a father-figure that had betrayed his trust over and over, again and again; that had manipulated this boy into remaining quiet for years and though the guilt was undeserved, it was there. Because it didn't matter if they were the first victim or not, they had both kept their silence and in doing so, allowed others to feel the same pain. Derek looked at this teen and he'd looked back and in that moment, their pain (one hidden, one not) made them united.

And just like before, on a cold night in downtown Chicago, once the dam breaks, the flood comes.

Heights had never been a problem for him.

14 victims total.

4 dead.

10 alive.

And he wasn't sure which group was the better off.

They'd tracked their UnSub to a motel, only to realize that he had a new victim inside. Only it wasn't a new one, not really, because the final straw had been the realization that every single one of the dead victims had been molested by the UnSub on a previous occasion. A total of fourteen victims molested, and the last four had been killed. It seemed the UnSub was working his way back through his previous victims, killing them one by one. And now he'd barricaded himself in the motel with a hostage while the team tried to talk him down.

After two hours of negotiation, Hotch had given him and local SWAT the go-ahead to storm the room, and they had, successfully cuffing their UnSub and escorting him away. The rest of the team had joined him in the small room and they'd turned to the victim, preparing to get him medical assistance and then get him home. They hadn't been prepared to find him standing on the ledge of the open window. They hadn't been prepared for the depth of his pain, his shame and his despair. And they hadn't been prepared for the lack of hesitation on his part as he'd jumped.

14 victims total.

5 dead.

9 alive.

And Morgan wasn't sure which group was the better off.

Heights had never been a problem for him.

But you know what they say: there's a first time for everything.

//

He'd been completely numb for hours.

The others were worried, he could tell, and honestly, he couldn't blame them. They were profilers, they knew how to read people, and judging by how well he was not keeping it together, they knew that he wasn't doing too well. But there wasn't much they could do about it, not yet anyway, so for now, they were keeping a well-watched distance.

They were back at the local station, waiting for the mother of the latest victim to arrive. Local PD was all too happy to step back and allow the FBI team to break the bad news to her and he almost resented them. Almost, if it wasn't for the fact that he didn't want to do it either. He wasn't too sure he could keep himself together for much longer, and losing it completely in front of the victims' mother was not what he wanted. Nothing was completely registering, though, as if he was underwater and everything was moving around him at a slow speed. He felt trapped, helplessly at the mercy of the people around him, suffocating under their scrutiny.

He wanted to be alone, away from their piercing stares and their concerned glances and their mother-hen attitudes. Any other day he'd appreciate it, and even welcome it a little, but not today. Not now. Not after watching that kid (a child, really) willingly jump out of a seven story window. He remembered running to the window in a desperate hope but had seen all the blood and he'd known what he'd known before he'd looked and it was that nothing would be clean again. He'd never be able to wash this memory clean and all he could see was the blood and the smile (oh god) the smile on a dead kid's face and isn't that beyond fucked up, that a child would smile at death, even if it was what he'd willingly sought?

He hadn't realized he was outside until he registered the hard concrete under his knees and felt the afternoon breeze on his skin. He didn't know how long he'd knelt there, too drained, too broken, unable to breathe and too fucking tired to care, before he felt someone kneeling next to and slightly behind him, and heard the vibrations in his ear that could only signify speech. He opened eyes he hadn't known that he'd closed and tried to focus on pulling in air to his starving lungs and as he did, those vibrations became clearer along with the world around him.

With a final gasp, everything snapped back, and immediately he'd wished it hadn't. Because with clarity came emotion, and with emotion, came his own precarious mental state and Morgan knew that he was very close to snapping, to breaking in a million little ways that would be impossible to put back together. He laughed then, and it echoed madness, the kind of madness that comes from reaching the end of existence and realizing that there was absolutely nothing left. The madness of surviving, of being left behind with the horrors and hell of the living while the dead are given peace. And as he laughed, he wondered if this was how monsters were created: from into suffering and loss, out of pain and tragedy, to bring madness and chaos.

The world was shaking, and he realized that another person was now kneeling in front of him, hands gripping his shoulders tightly as they shook him, saying his name in a frantic yet demanding tone of voice that commanded obedience and attention. The world was shaking and he knew that he needed to get a hold of himself because if he didn't, bad things were going to happen but he couldn't seem to stop, and since bad things had already happened (the world was shaking, after all), he didn't know what else could be worse than this. Because, really, what could be worse than being surrounded by a group of people (his team, his family) as he slowly lost every last bit of sanity he had?

He stopped laughing then but the world continued shaking and as his focus sharpened, it settled on the face in front of him, and everything subsided, going back to churn under the surface. It was Hotch in front of him, cool, unflappable Hotch, and the look of distress on his face made his own heart twist in response. It was a look of despair and agony, anguish and fear, because everything that was always hidden behind a mask was written all over his face in flashing neon lights, and Morgan almost started laughing again because the only reason he'd be able to read Hotch was if the world was ending. But it wasn't, even though it'd felt like it, and staring into Hotch's face made him feel like he was looking in a mirror. And Morgan felt a stirring of guilt, because the only reason Hotch would be this terrified and concerned would be if one of his team was in danger, and somehow, it felt like Morgan had been the one at fault.

Raising arms that felt heavy and dead was a task but he managed, and placed his hands on the other man's forearms just under the elbows. The action made his skin crawl and his stomach clench and briefly, he lost his focus, because more than anything he did not want to be touched right now. But he knew there was no other option, if he wanted to gain control of himself and the whole situation, and a few moments of discomfort would be worth it. He owed him that much; hell, he owed the whole team a lot more than just a little bit. So he makes himself touch, holding tightly to the man that is holding him just as tight, and tries to bring his own unraveling control back in, and he succeeds for the most part, using the other man's pain as a focus. Because if there is one thing that he is good at, it is sensing others' pain, and he'd much rather focus on theirs than have to deal with his own. And it's Hotch in front of him and his team around him (he can sense them there even though he hasn't directly looked up yet) and he knows their pain as intimately as if it was his, and his job is to take care of them, to take away their pain and bring it into him, because it has been his self-appointed duty for years. When it comes to his loved ones, he'll do anything for them, and if that means he has to force away his pain to take care of theirs, then it is what he will do. It is what he will always do.

So he does, with a slight shake of his head, and he presses down lightly on the other mans' arms with his hands and says his name in a quiet, soothing tone, as if it is the other man on the edge of a breakdown and not himself. He has to do it twice before he gets a reaction, but he finally sees one in the eyes in front of him and knows that Hotch is back in control. And it is enough for him, and he can barely hold on anymore, shouldn't have to hold on but he will, for their sakes'. He relinquishes control that he'd been losing for days and never really had a handle on to begin with, and watches as understanding passes through his boss's dark eyes. Hotch and Morgan have always been alike, too alike at times, and it is their similarities that make them rub each other wrongly in different situations. Because Hotch believes that Morgan doesn't trust enough, and Morgan believes that Hotch has never trusted them enough either, but they are working on it together, them and their team, because they are all family, the only family any of them really has, and somehow they believe that together they can make the world okay again, if only for themselves. And it doesn't matter if it's false hope, because any kind of hope is better than none, and they see so much bad stuff that this blind, false, phony, artificial hope is enough to get them through the days.

He lets his hands drop to hang uselessly at his sides and sits back on his heels, letting Hotch have control over the situation, because Morgan honestly can't bring himself to care right now. He looks like hell and feels like it and knows in a small part of his brain that he isn't in a fit enough state to take care of himself, let alone the others. There is only too much pain he can handle on his own and he has definitely reached his quota for a good long while. And now his head is too heavy to balance on his neck so it drops, chin to chest, and his eyes are barely slits, trying desperately to focus but only getting shadows.

Hands from behind reach under his arms to lock around his chest as they raise him to his feet, while other hands reach from all sides to steady him, and though the act feels almost dominating, almost controlling, almost restricting enough to send him into a frenzy of panic, he is grateful for the support. He has too much noise in his head and pain in his heart and fatigue in his body that he hadn't known how to get up on his own, let alone remain standing. So the support is nice and the care is apparent and even though he is floating in his own empty space and everything feels muted and thick, the last little presence of mind he has left can understand the gesture and appreciate what it means. The caring of his team is almost enough to keep the demons at bays, almost loud enough to drown out the sound of hell's bells ringing in the distance, and it is a pleasant sensation. But like all good things, it too ends, and he is drowning again in this chasm of emotions. And as the last shred of himself is washed away in the tide, he spares his last coherent thought to wonder if he will even be able to surface from the ocean this time.

And then he is gone again, knee's unlocking as every muscle, tendon and ligament goes loose in his body, and his frame folds as he begins a steady fall to the moving ground beneath his feet. He is caught by the circle of figures around him even as they make loud noises of protest, concern, worry and fear. Names are said, thrown about upon the wind, but names have no meaning here; not when he is floating and safe and secure in his own head. He is not unconscious, his body is still awake despite its' lack of energy or ability to support itself, but his mind, his conscious self, the part of him that is Derek Morgan is hiding in order to remain intact. His brain is still active, like a computer whose screen has died but the main processor unit is still functioning, and snatches of "hospital" and "shock" and "protection" are filed away for reviewing later. And later can be a long time, or even a brief respite, but what matters is that it isn't now, not right this second or minute or even within ten. Later is a distant time, an existence beyond this point, and right now, his shell-shocked mind would much rather prefer to bury everything and deal with it all later.

But the treacherous little voice in the back of his head that never shuts up, no matter how much he wants it, despite his attempts to suppress it, whispers a warning, a siren scream that floated inside his head and resonated through his heart, and it is a warning that he cannot seem to shake even in his unaware state. Because sometimes, no matter what, things cannot be pushed down and locked away. Sooner or later, demons break free. And demons, once they've experienced the act of being caged, will do whatever it takes to never be imprisoned again.

And darkness will always come where demons go.

His body is moving now, arms wrapped around two sets of shoulders with feet dragging beneath him, and manipulated into the back of a vehicle. Hands hold him carefully, supporting and gentle, and he is laid lengthwise in the seat, his head resting on something soft someone's lap and doors are shut carefully, silently, in an attempt to reassure and unalarm. Then the world is moving again, causing his fear to spike in an instinctual response, because this is how he lost his mind, with solid hands on shoulders as the world shakes around him, and in his distress, a sound not unlike a whimper escapes his throat. But soothing hands are there, moving cautiously, lightly over his forehead and cheeks, smoothing the lines that have formed, and the tightness around his eyes and mouth fades. The momentary calm brought upon him sparks a light amount of awareness, and he turns his head slightly as his mind focuses on his surroundings. He has enough presence of mind to realize that his head is in JJ's lap, the blonde running her hands along his arms in what was actually a relaxing motion and he thinks that this must be the mother in her. Rossi is in the front passenger seat, his voice a soft yet soothing balm for the other's in the vehicle. But darkness is creeping back on him and as everything begins to fade again, he spares a last thought to the person driving the vehicle, because he hadn't known that Aaron Hotchner was capable of driving that fast.

He doesn't remember the ride to their hotel, or the elevator ride up to their rooms on the seventh floor (and he thinks he could forever ban that number from his vocabulary for the rest of his life) or even entering the darkened suite. He doesn't remember being led to sit on the nearest bed or the gentle, helping hands on his leather jacket that softly brushed skin as they removed the coat. He flinches then, a reflexive motion, but the hands sense it and still; and the small part of him that isn't numb is almost grateful at the care and comfort coiled in those hands. But they are still hands and right now, touch is too goddamned painful, too much to accept at the moment, not when the emotions and memories are rippling so close to the surface and dying to break free. He hears the soft hum of voices, both close to him (one almost directly next to him, probably the owner of the hands) and by the door of the room, but can't clear the haze around him enough to focus on what they are saying. The sharp click of the door shutting makes him flinch again, jumping with the tension that is suddenly thrumming under his skin, and his muscles are rigid in response. He still feels numb though, and he is vaguely reminded of other times where he has been in shock (blowing out his knee in college, as an example) and wonders if this is now another one of those times, but the thought also puzzles him because he can't think of a clear reason for why he would be in shock. And then he stops trying to think of one because a sea of red washes across his vision and he pictures cold concrete painted in the shade of rose petals and wine, and now he is glad that he seems to be in shock (since he is, after all, displaying all the symptoms) because the shock will help lessen the emotional beating he is taking at the moment. He has returned to awareness, but awareness is not coherency and his thoughts are jumbled and his vision is sketchy and everything is too hot, too cold, too rough and too smooth.

The silence in the room appears deafening and he feels another presence close to him, one that has joined the previous one, and a hand lights gently on his left knee. He tenses under the hand (no no nononono), his body flinching violently yet again, and the hand retracts with a silent apology in the motion. He realizes that he is shaking and he doesn't know whether it is from the shock or that he is actually cold, but it is making it difficult for him to focus. There are two people in the room with him, two men that he knows and trusts, but his body doesn't trust them while his mind is so out of control and he is both ashamed and angered at his weakness. He knows that they would never hurt him and will not touch him without his permission but knowing something doesn't make the instincts go away. And he hates it, with deep and utter loathing, because these are his demons, his personal devils, and it isn't fair to these two men that he is taking it out on them. He'd never had a problem with them before; in fact, he probably trusts these two more than any other men in his life because they know his secret and do not care. They know his shame; they know his pain, fear and disgust, not just because they are the best profilers in the whole FBI but because they know him. And though he had fought that, fought them to keep them from knowing both his secret and himself (though the two are one and the same and there has never been a distinction between them), they know. And it is both comforting and agonizing, because now he is not alone, they will never let him be alone, and whether they know it or not, they have saved him from himself more times than he can count.

It is because they know him, and he knows them, that his body begins to relax gradually, the tension bleeding slightly away. It leaves behind a deep-seated lethargy, but it is not enough to combat the shock his body is still feeling. He is still cold, still shaking, but his mind has calmed enough for him to realize that the two men are still near him, one sitting next to him on the bed, the other in a chair facing him, and he feels a slight recognition at the familiarity in the scene. It is like before, outside the police station, (though how much time has passed since then he isn't sure) and he almost feels comforted by their support and concern. They are silent and patient, waiting for him to calm, attentive to his needs and his precarious mental state. They are not forcing him to do something he doesn't want, they are not making him talk or making him calm down; they are simply waiting, waiting for him to allow them to help. And he isn't sure, really, what help they want to offer, but he thinks it doesn't really matter at the moment, because they appear to be willing to wait for him to feel secure, to feel safe enough in their presence, and the thought behind the action is foreign in its' comfort. Nobody has ever waited for him to feel safe before because nobody has ever noticed that he hadn't felt safe to begin with.

He didn't truly realize until that moment (he has been in shock, though, probably still is) how uncomfortable he'd been feeling, locked in a room with two men, both of whom were older than him. And though he has told himself that he trusts them, knows that they will not do anything, knowing something is a very different to doing it. His body is in too much shock, too off-kilter and out of synch with his mind that it is conflicted; the phantom pains of an ordeal long past is mixing with the haunting images of today (is it still the same day?) and he is too out of it to fight the confusion. And while he wishes that he had control over his body, to make it listen to his mind, he knows that wishing it to happen will not make the act come true. Then he has to stop himself, because didn't he just have this conversation in his head? And it is confusing and spinning and the world suddenly seems a lot farther away and the last time he checked, the ceiling hadn't been the item within his line of sight. His thoughts are edged in tiredness and his face is etched with pain, emotional and physical lines splattered like oil on a canvas, like red on concrete and he feels puzzlement wash through him. Why is he picturing the events of the day when the day has already past, but he feels like he's still there, still standing at an open window with a hand thrown out to catch a falling child; a falling star that has burned out and died hundreds of seconds before its' descent, and nothing can stop fire from falling from the sky, not him, not Rossi or Hotch, nor anybody else on his team. Because sometimes, running with every emotion or feeling locked inside a mind or trapped under tightly stretched skin isn't enough to stop the apocalypse from coming or the world from ending in fire and ash and diamond dust.

So he gives in, to the pain and the heartache and the confusion and the despair, and lets it all sweep him away. He is done being the strong one, done holding it together, and completely fucking sick of pushing everything back; of feeling unsafe in his very own skin, trapped in memories and feelings that he never had the courage to face and doesn't want to admit even exist. He lets it all wash over him and falls into the silence, into blissful darkness that welcomes his arrival, and slips into relentless shadow. He doesn't sleep because the realm of dreams holds too many horrors for him this night.

//

The next thing he sees is the ceiling above him and the cooling warmth of fading sunlight from the window across the room. He isn't sure how much time has past but feels it couldn't have been very long because nobody had tried to wake him or talk to him or interact with him at all. There is an unsettling feeling though, that he might be wrong about that; maybe it isn't that they have left him alone abandoned but it is that he has simply been so out of it that he didn't notice their attempts. And ice grows in his stomach, a heavy block that almost hurts, and he knows deep down on a visceral level that the second option is far more likely; knows that they would never have left him in the state that he was in. As fuzzy and blurred as his memory is, he has snatches of sound and glimpses of sight and the puzzle the pieces are forming worries him, because the last coherent memory of the day, or days, is standing outside a hotel with their latest UnSub barricaded inside. He frowns in concentration, desperately trying to remember what happened next, because he has never lost this much time before. Obviously, something had happened because they were back at their hotel, but the details are escaping him and he doesn't like being unable to remember.

A door opening catches his attention and his focus shifts, automatically going to the figure entering the room. They stop as they see him sitting on the edge of the bed, and Morgan wonders why they appear surprised, but dismisses it as he looks the other man over critically, and he frowns again, because he doesn't think he has seen Dave Rossi this unkempt and disheveled. The man looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks, worry lines deep on his face and clothes wrinkled from use and Morgan spares the thought that Rossi looks like he is getting old. He is brought out of his thoughts when the other man steps closer, clearing his throat, before saying his name softly, almost in a whisper.

Derek glances up, surprised at the tone, because he's only heard that tone a few times, all of which were cases involving children that required a delicate approach. And he is confused, and the feeling of unease is back, because Rossi is using that voice on him, that tone on him, and for some reason that is escaping him, it unsettles him. He hears his name repeated and he looks at the man again, shaking his head to clear his mind because, really, why does he keep drifting like that? But more important things are going on and he needs to pay attention because something has happened, maybe even something bad, and the only way to find out was standing in front of him with a slightly worried look creasing his brow.

"Rossi."

His throat is dry and his voice sounds unused, rough and harsh in the surrounding silence. He swallows hard and coughs, trying to moisten his mouth enough to talk coherently. It is uncomfortable but he needs his voice to find out what exactly is going on. The panic inside him is starting to rise up and he knows this is his only chance to remember the truth before his fear overwhelms him. So he forces away his discomfort and speaks again, desperately trying to connect to the man in front of him.

"Ros-Dave. What happened?"

At the look on the other's face, Morgan feels that same tinge of fear and has to fight with everything to stop it from washing over him. The look on Rossi's face is both surprise and discomfort, but the most disturbing emotion is the slight edge of panic, and he appears lost at words.

"I remember being outside the motel where the UnSub was. He had a kid inside. But nothing after that; it's all blank. What happened out there? Why can't I remember?"

Rossi says nothing, still staring at him, searching his face for something, and Morgan isn't sure what. The older man is studying him intently, like a specimen in a lab, and the feeling is both intrusive and uncomfortable. Then he moves, grabbing a chair and setting it in front of Morgan. He sits down and leans forward slightly, catching Morgan's eyes, and the younger of the two can practically feel the intensity of the moment. It shoots through him sharply, and he can't help but feel that he's about to find out more than he wants to know.

"Morgan, I need you to concentrate. Focus right on me and think hard. Think back to the last thing you remember. What are you doing?"

Morgan knows what Rossi is doing. It's a technique they use on witnesses all the time, to jog their memories and uncover the tiny details that are often forgotten by the conscious mind. He goes along with it, however, and closes his eyes, allowing the deep tenor of the others' voice to lull him into his memories.

"What are you doing?"

He is standing outside the motel, Hotch on one side and SWAT on the other. He's wearing his vest, the material of his shirt sticking to his skin in the heat, and his sunglasses are protecting his eyes from the sun's rays. He can feel it beating down on him, heavy and bright, but it doesn't compare to the tense atmosphere surrounding him. The air is thick with more than humidity, and his palms are itching with frustration and pent-up adrenaline. He feels caged, trapped, threatened by something just out of reach. It makes his breathing pick up and his pulse begin to pound rapidly. Run, it seems to whisper. Hunt and trap your prey.

Remember, all the fun is in the chase.

"Look around you. Where are the others? What are they doing?"

Prentiss and Reid are off to the side, eyes fixed upon the seventh floor window in the far east corner. They appear to be keeping an eye out for their UnSub or his hostage, looking for even the slightest hint of movement. He imagines that they are hoping deep down that they are not too late for the teenager inside. The thought makes his head hurt and he quickly averts his eyes from the pair, seeking another member of his team, and lands on JJ a few feet away. The media liaison is doing just that, dealing with various members of the press as they attempt to cross the secure police tape. Their voices are a loud cacophony of noise, hummingbirds drowning each other out in their attempts to be heard, and he feels a pang of sympathy for the blonde woman even as he knows that she can handle them with little difficulty. For a moment, he can picture her handling her son in the same manner, firm command mixed with unyielding resolve, and he knows that she is a good mother. And briefly he wonders if they should put her on the phone with their UnSub, because no person in their right mind would ignore JJ when she is in her element.

He shakes his head to rid himself of the inappropriate thought and focuses instead on locating the remaining members present. He isn't surprised to find Rossi next to Hotch, hovering almost imperceptibly over his boss's shoulder. Rossi and Hotch are a good team, unconsciously knowing how to bring the best out of the other and oftentimes, it is almost like they are one person. But Morgan is a good observer and he can see that both men are struggling in this situation, because for some unknown reason, something is different. Something is wrong.

And he can practically feel the unrest roiling through the breeze.

Because something is coming, and he isn't sure if it's good or bad.

"Good. Okay, Morgan, I want you to tell me briefly what you see so I know where exactly you are."

"I see the team. Prentiss and Reid are observing, JJ is dealing with reporters, and Hotch is on the phone with you nearby. He's talking now, but I'm too far away to hear what he's saying."

"I want you to move closer. Listen to what he's saying, let it wash over you, and then let everything play like a video. Don't try to stop anything and don't try to do anything except watch. You are an observer in the scene; you can look, but you cannot touch. Keep calm and let the memories come to you."

He is standing next to Hotch now, forming a similarity between himself and Rossi as they hover like knights at their king's shoulder. But his job is not to interfere, only to observe, and he does just that, sharpening his hearing to the conversation occurring between Hotch and the UnSub. It is the typical negotiations of law enforcement and criminal, as the two men talk themselves around in circles. No, we will not leave. Let the boy go. We can't give you a chopper. Don't hurt the boy. Give up, you're surrounded. We have no choice then. You aren't giving us one.

Go.

It takes a moment for the command to filter in, and he realizes that it is directed towards him and not the phone. He acknowledges it with a brief nod and falls into the mode that comes naturally for him.

The next thing he sees is himself climbing stairs, flight after flight with his entourage of SWAT, and then they are outside the room containing their target. He pauses, the others robotically following suit, and braces for what is coming next.

He is in the room now, door long since off the hinges, and cuffs are out, being snapped harshly over wrists. Restrain the monster. Harness the demon. Leash the snarling beast.

"Calm down, Morgan. Slow your breathing before you hyperventilate. Morgan?"

The memories are coming now, flashing by quickly and yet they are distinct enough that he can still see them.

His team is there. Hotch. UnSub is gone. Rossi. Find the victim. Prentiss. Look at the window. Reid. Afraid to see. JJ. Don't look.

Across the room, framed in the window, reflected in glass that isn't there. Breeze shifts through. Ruffles black hair, ghosts across pale skin. As one, they call out to him, soothing and calming and taming.

He turns to them, and green-hazel eyes reflect all the pain and misery of the world. He is frozen in the orbs, lost in their agony, tormented by the animal caged within. Ferality shines out from the blown wide pupils and he knows in that instant that the teen is gone.

Heart is strangled in his throat. Please don't. Teen stares at them, silent and mute. Move from the window. Please. Too high up. Kid, please, it's not worth it.

You can't save me. Whispered in the stale air, full of certainty and acceptance. You can't save me.

I don't want you to save me.

He rushes forward but far too late. Looks down from the dizzying height and all he can feel is failure. He moves back from the window and slides down the wall but the image is there behind his eyelids. Burned into his retinas and taunting him from within. There is a roaring in his ears, a screaming mess of white noise that is causing him to sink until he hits bottom. Everything stills even as the world continues to turn but he doesn't care. He can't feel. Can't hear. Can't see anything except his failure and slowly pooling red on hard concrete below. Shutting down. Too hard.

He doesn't want to save the world-

Too much. All too much.

-not when he cannot save himself.

"Morgan, can you hear me? Talk to me. I need you to tell me what's happening."

Pause. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

"Shit. Hotch is going to kill me."

Pause. In. Out. Out. A hitch in the pattern. No.

Help me.

A hand touches his lightly, trying to use the connection to ground him back in reality. It doesn't work, despite the desperate sincerity behind the gesture, because he is too far gone and too far out to do anything other than drown. He is spinning in a whirlwind of emotion and thought and feeling, and everything is fading except for a single image. And it hurts him, deep down, because it rips away all that he knows, crushes his nearly non-existent faith because despite everything he has seen and been through, he'd still hoped that some things could last. He'd still wanted to believe that some things in the world could be untarnished and bright, but that, too, has been taken away and now he knows that death comes for all nothing is untouchable.

"Focus on me, on my voice. Listen to the sound and try to focus only on that. Clear your mind of everything it's seeing. Stop trying to remember."

A snapshot of loss, of a child lying in a pool of blood, is slowly and steadily becoming all he can see, and the world is now white except for the colors in this picture.

"Morgan, please. Don't do this again."

Red on grey. Grey under red. Black and white mixed together under the tint of blue and purple. Silvery metal coated in darkness, smooth and slowly flowing liquid painted with color; heated steel glowing angrily like molten lava.

"Damn it, Morgan! Snap out of it!"

Amaranth. Xanadu. Scarlet. Silver. Mahogany. Arsenic. Sangria. Taupe. Venetian. Payne's. Tyrian Purple. Feldgrau. Alizarin. Charcoal. Cerise. Slate. Burgundy. Rose Quartz.

Shades of grey tinged with red; so many of them for such a simple combination of two colors. But they are inseparable in his mind now, just as there is no joy without pain, success without loss, or death without life. There is no innocence without destruction, no distinction between blood and concrete, rose petals and marble, wine and granite. To see one is to see the other, overlapped and entwined so tightly that to separate one is to break them entirely.

And he laughs in his head, at the thought of breaking, because sticks and stones may break bones but people can break souls.

"Derek!"

The voice is persistent and loud, accompanied by a harsh shake from hands on shoulders and idly, he wonders why everybody seems to think that shaking him is the best way of getting his attention. But the sensation slowly fades and he is faced with his hotel room and the worried countenance of the older profile, and déjà vu washes over him for the second time in a day. The hands drop from his shoulders slowly, as if they are afraid that without the support, he will fall and break, shatter like a broken mirror as shards of glass rain around him, like a skull hitting concrete, bone fragments splintering with the concussive force, and he forces himself to swallow hard at the image it invokes in his memories. He doesn't know what made him come back to reality but whatever it was, it's saved what's left of his sanity for the moment, and he stops himself from thinking. He can't allow himself to fall again. He won't want to come up.

"You remember."

"Yes."

Such a simple exchange of words, but they could never convey the damage within them.

Rossi is staring at him now, and Morgan knows that the other is waiting for him to react again. He is waiting for the anger, waiting for the rage-covered pain, waiting for the violence. And he doesn't blame him, because Morgan is all about the rage, all about the violence, and he'd give anything to let it all loose, on a wall or a punching bag or even a goddamned pillow. Because for Morgan, violence isn't about the act, it's about the pain, inflicted on broken down doors and adrenaline-racing situations to cover the damage he inflicts upon himself. And the only logical reaction to what he has heard and what he has remembered is violence. Incoherent, unstoppable, destructively chaotic violence.

He stays silent.

Morgan has never really been a person of logical reactions.

After a few uncomfortable moments, air thick with tension and ticking apprehension, Morgan stands, looking Rossi in the eye, and the other man shifts at the expression in the dark eyes, wanting to say something. But there is nothing he can say or do to ease the hidden agony in the others' soul, and so he doesn't, maintaining his silence, and Morgan could almost laugh because he doesn't think he's seen Rossi at a loss for words. A wave of detached pity washes over him, and Morgan does what the other couldn't: he breaks the silence.

"I'm gonna go take a shower. Is that fine?"

Rossi can only nod numbly, thrown off by the statement, and Morgan takes advantage, using the opportunity to escape. The numbness is starting to overcome him again and the walls are closing in. He doesn't need an audience. His pain is his own.

//

He sits in the shower under a spray long grown cold and stares at red on mocha skin, wondering if anything will ever be okay again. But truth is a painful thing, a harsh reality that allows for no deceit and permits only acceptance, and acknowledgment is the key to truth.

There is blood on his hands now; sticky and sweet and copper and iron, and the thing about blood is that it never comes off, never washes away no matter how hard you scrub, and the only thing you find under blood is more blood. He touches his skin, and fingers come away red and he watches it rinse away in the water, crimson ribbons that twist into waves with the flow of the shower. They start as red and fade to pink then flow again as red in a steady cycle of beginning and end, of life and death. He looks at the cycle, a wheel of fortune personified, then back at his own skin, and the act is a revelation. He knows something now, and it is that he is forever a marked man, damned with a river of blood on his soul.

And if there is one thing that he knows better than anyone, it is that nothing he can do will ever make him clean.

No matter how many people he saves, how many children he helps or how many monsters he puts behind bars, he will never wash away his own guilt, his own shame. He will never be able to forget this most recent sin because it only reinforces all his others. Because he has never forgiven himself for what happened all those years ago; he has never stopped hating himself. He hates himself for trusting, for believing that he was loved, for not turning the bastard in, or for realizing that what had been done to him was wrong. And the problem with hate and self-loathing is that it leaves no room for love, because sooner or later, everything will be washed away, and that hate will be all that he knows.

Hate is a powerful emotion, capable of turning even the best and most decent of people into monsters. It rips through everything that is good and shades it gray, crashes through the strongest of barriers and leaves behind only emptiness. There is no limit to its intensity, no boundaries that it will not cross, and it does not dissipate over time. The souls it touches are forever damaged by its taint, left in a ruinous cycle that soon spreads to others. No one is safe from its pull.

Hate is destruction, total and absolute. He knows this.

Because he has been destroying himself for years, a little bit at a time, taking up where Carl Buford (and the name tastes like ashes in his throat, ashes and dust and salt and sand) left off, because it is all that he knows and all he can seem to do. All he has had to rely on is himself, (he, himself and him) and he doesn't know any different. It isn't an excuse, he knows that, but there is no excuse for anything in the world, just as there are no reasons. Reasons are the twisted truths that people make up to feel some bit of comfort in a situation, but they don't actually make it better. Sometimes, however, thinking of the false reasons is much better than focusing on the real ones.

Everybody lies. And the most convincing lies are the ones people tell themselves.

A knock on the door brings reality back and though he doesn't want to face it, he has no choice. With a sigh that resonates from deep within himself, he reaches up and turns off the pounding stream of water, and feels the safety he'd temporarily found fade away, leaving him bereft and cold.

When he opens the door a few minutes later, it is to the sight of Hotch and Rossi talking quietly at the small table in the corner of the room. They stop as soon as they see him and Morgan knows immediately that they were discussing him. He says nothing however, instead crossing the room to his duffel and waits for one or both of them to speak. He isn't disappointed and he is unsurprised at the man that chooses to break the silence. Letting out an almost imperceptible sigh, he turns to face the others as they get up from the table.

"Morgan."

"Hotch."

"How are you?"

"Fine. You?"

"Never better."

Pause. Silence.

"Right. Okay. Good night."

He suddenly feels inescapably tired, exhausted to the edges of even his endurance. He isn't really up to a verbal spar right now, let alone one with his formidable boss. Hotch, however, clearly isn't going to let the matter go.

"What happened, Morgan?"

He stops. His back isn't fully turned and he can see them out of the corner of his eye. Something in both stance and tone hints of a challenge, and despite himself, he can feel a snarl forming in his throat.

"I don't know."

"That's not good enough."

"Well, it's going to have to be."

The air is tense, two alpha males circling each other with predatory eyes. Neither is willing to budge. Neither is willing to give in. It's been a while since they've clashed so harshly, and a slow smirk curls his lips as he thinks that if he wasn't so tired, this might actually be fun.

He'll just have to settle for coming out on top.

He lifts his chin to the other in silent defiance, issuing his own challenge.

Let the games begin.

"I'm not going to ask again, Morgan." A command. Instinct almost makes him obey. But he doesn't.

"And I'm only going to say it once more: I. don't. know." Liar. Lies like worms writhing under your skin. No one believes you. You don't even believe you.

"You're lying." Don't lie to me. Don't lie to us.

"Prove it." Sorry, Hotch. No can do.

"For God's sakes, what are you two, five? Come on, this is ridiculous. Both of you, shut up and calm down."

The look on Rossi's face is funny as he is ignored. Morgan isn't sure that's happened before. First time for everything. But the man doesn't give up.

"Look, why don't we all just relax and think about this for a minute. It's been a long day, we're all tired, and none of us have the energy for anything else but sleep right now. Let's call it a night and talk about this in the morning, all right?"

Hmmm. He's never thought of Rossi as a mediator before. It's a good look on him.

"Especially before you two decide to start swinging, because I'm definitely not going to be pulling you apart. You can beat the hell out of each other later; maybe when you're actually rational enough to think like adults."

The attempts to appease only infuriate Hotch, as a flash of something akin to irritation and betrayal skims across his face, before exploding into his words. His anger is turned onto Rossi, and now it is Morgan who is suddenly the spectator.

"No, Rossi, I'm not going to let this go! Isn't this what we just talked about? Clearly everything isn't okay and I need to know exactly what happened out there. I can't let him be out in the field like this. What if it happens on an interview, or in the middle of a raid? I can't risk his safety or anyone else's!"

"And I already told you what happened when he woke up earlier. Hotch, he couldn't remember anything that'd happened in the past day and a half; I had to walk him through a cognitive interview and it nearly made him go catatonic again!" His voice softens to something more like his normal tone and the haunting plea is nearly indistinguishable. "You weren't there, Aaron, he was completely out of it. When I finally snapped him back, it was like he'd have given anything to forget again."

"And that's exactly my point, Dave. If something really is wrong with him, we need to get him help before it gets any worse. We're profilers, not doctors, and none of us are equipped to handle this. We both know that this case hit far too close to home, what with his past, and things got ugly real quick. These breaks from reality and memory loss could be serious, like a psychotic break or PTSD."

"Hotch, we know him better than any doctors. We saw he was crashing and did nothing to stop it. I think this is something we can help him through. We owe him that."

As they both argue, completely ignoring him as they turn to each other, Morgan feels the tiredness edging back in even as his ire flares. He's never appreciated being talked about as if he isn't present. His head is beginning to pound in time with his pulse and he can practically see the headache forming behind his eyes.

"I don't need you to fix me."

His statement, delivered quietly and yet no less powerfully, breaks the other two out of their argument and into stunned silence.

Lost little boy. Broken victim. Trampled set of toys, discarded and worn. Humpty-Dumpty that was shoved off a wall with only super glue and duct tape to put the pieces back together in the darkness of his room.

Shattered. Alone. Breakable plaything all used up.

This is how they are seeing him; he knows it as surely as he knows the truth in it. Because he is broken, he is damaged, and nobody had been capable of putting him back together. Only he had managed to assemble together the shreds of his tattered soul and blood-taken innocence, knowing even as he did that it wouldn't last. He hadn't healed the cuts, hadn't banished the scars, only held them closed with too-small hands and hollow promises in his soul. And now they are being ripped apart, torn open with more viciousness than the one who marked him in the first place. It is cruelty at its worst; malicious in its creation, well-meaning in its false healing and he doesn't know if he will survive this assault. More importantly, he doesn't really care if he does.

And the very thought of them trying to help makes his skin itch because it means that they can see it too. But as shattered as he is, he knows deep down that no amount of fixing in the world will ever heal what's wrong with him.

Rossi steps in, obviously trying to placate him even as Hotch stands still, dark eyes burning and hands tightened into fists.

"It's not about fixing you. That's not what we're saying. But you need help, Morgan, and some time to sort through this. It's not going to just go away because you want it to."

He throws his head back in a burst of laughter, scorn and pain and pulsing rage echoing around the room, and he sees the other two shift uneasily at the sound. It hints of an earlier madness, one that had taken him over entirely, and he knows that if he gives in to it, he will only prove them right. But he cannot help it because the entire situation has moved from an unwelcome confrontation to a desperate attempt to force his hand, to tip him into spilling out his darkest secrets, and he finds it laughable. They'd miscalculated, though, because they'd assumed that pushing him would tempt his hot temper into releasing the control over his feelings.

Morgan reigns in his laughter, and when he speaks, his voice is filled with bitterness and contempt.

"You think I don't know that? I've lived with the knowledge my entire life that it will never go away. But I don't need help. What's happened in the past, today, or even what's going to come isn't going to change. The world's going to keep on turning, Rossi, and we're going to keep on falling as it does."

They want him to talk, to share his pain in the hopes of knocking him back in his right mind, but what they have forgotten is that he has never been sane, never been right, because his demons and his pain have always been hidden right beneath the surface.

He is more than just a victim, he is a professional, because he has kept it all locked away for a very long time and even though cracks are starting to form, he does not care. He can't remember the last time he did.

"I'm done, you hear me? Done. This conversation is over."

The tone switches suddenly, almost apologetic and sincere; one last attempt to draw him into their web.

"Morgan, please. We only want to help you. Maybe talking about it is what you need."

"What I need is to get some sleep. That's it. I don't need to talk, I don't need to share, and I definitely don't need you profiling me!"

"Too bad."

Hotch stares back at him steadily, firm with resolve and adamant determination. He will not budge from his steady stance and something almost protective and fierce radiates from him. On any other day, the sight would touch Morgan and warm him in a way that would make everything seem less damaged. But this is not any other day.

"I will if I have to, Morgan. If that's what it takes to help you."

Help. That same word, again and again from these two, and sadness briefly wells in him alongside his anger, and he wonders if they'll ever stop trying.

As quickly as the rush of emotion had come, it left, leaving Morgan feeling drained and at the very end of his rope. They weren't listening and he knew they were only going to keep pushing. It's what they do, what they are good at, but unfortunately, they handle everything the way they handle their Unsub's, with profiles and boxes and sketches of souls. But when people didn't fit into their rigid way of looking at things, they poke and they prod and they make it fit, all in the name of healing and protection and good.

The road to hell is ordered by the righteous, planned by the well-meaning, and paved with their good intentions.

He understood where they were coming from, he really did, but he couldn't handle this. He couldn't take where those memories were going to take him; that road was one he'd been avoiding for years, with only an occasional foray into their darkness. He stood there and knew that he was heading down a dangerous path, one that was only going to bring pain, but he had started down it a very long time ago and the only choice he had was to follow it through. With his last reserve of strength, he forced out one final statement; it was a collection of words aimed to hurt, to dispel any further conversation, to bring pain to the people that only wanted to help him, but it was the only option they'd left available for him.

"Yeah, well, good luck with that. The last time you profiled me, it didn't end so well, did it."

It is a statement, not a question, and everybody in the room knows it. There is no anger in it, but there is also no satisfaction, and it is painfully evident what Morgan is trying to do. But the words sting nevertheless, and Hotch flinches away from them as if they were a physical blow. Morgan feels a pang of guilt at the act and for a moment, he wishes that he could take it back. It passes though, and he steels himself, because this is what he must do. It is too late for him, but it isn't for them.

So he pushes them away the only way he knows how because he will do whatever is necessary to keep them safe. He cannot allow them to be tainted by his darkness. They are good people, strong people that simply try to make the world a safe place to live in, and it would be disastrous to let them fall as he does. They don't deserve to be punished for his sins. He is the only one with that burden.

//

He tries to sleep that night, but it doesn't really work because all he can see is red on concrete and empty eyes and the dead that they failed to save. Because it's not worth it, nothing is, if he can't save the souls that are so much like him. If he can't get them through their pain, how can he expect to get through his? Even though he hasn't tried, not really, to face his demons, he knows they are there and isn't that enough? After all, the first step to solving your problems is admitting you have them, and he's done that, hasn't he? But that little voice is back, whispering in his ear, an angel and demon wrapped in leather and lace, calling him a coward, because he hasn't admitted his problems, only danced along the edges of them.

Like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, up is down and down is up; tall is short and short is tall. There is no time without an end, but there cannot be an end without the cessation of time. That is the way of life; circle after circle that only leads back to a single starting point.

Cold metal that is both heavy and light at the same time is suddenly in his hands, and he looks down to see his service weapon resting in his palms. He doesn't know how it got there, but finds that he doesn't care as he gazes at the sleek gun. Perhaps this is his salvation; freedom in the palm of his hand lined with all the calmness and serenity of peace. One twitch of his finger and everything could end. Deliberate. Intentional.

Forbidden.

He slides the gun back into its leather holster, placing it on the nearby nightstand. His motions are calm and silent, betraying none of the swirling thoughts and emotions that have been choking him over the past hours. There is no sign of the tenuous control he holds on his world.

Morgan knows that something is wrong, something big, because his grasp on reality is slipping steadily, again and again over the span of hours, and with it goes his sanity. It is a devastating feeling, he thinks, to realize that you are losing your mind, and with everything in him, he grabs onto it, knowing that the clarity he will gain is only a brief respite from the encroaching insanity. But that is ok; sooner or later, every bit of his mind will go, and he will use this temporary awareness to ensure that nobody is around to get caught in the crossfire.

He creeps from the bed like a child afraid to get caught by the monster in the closet and goes to the door, knowing that he cannot stay here one second longer. He turns the knob quietly, wincing as it squeaks in quiet protest, and glances back at the occupants, hoping against hope that he has not awoken them. He sees the one in the other bed shift, Rossi he thinks, and the one in the recliner doesn't move and something about the entire scene causes him to pause. He feels a tug at his heart and the siren whisper is back, no longer whispering in his ear but screaming full blast in his head, telling him how much he is going to regret this, regret hurting them, these two men who have done nothing but support him, nothing but help him even though he hasn't done a thing to deserve it. And it isn't just them, Hotch and Rossi, but the entire team, and he flinches slightly at the shame the thought of them brings, doubt and hesitation rising within him.

Because he is going to hurt them, hurt them all with his actions, Reid and Emily and JJ and Penelope, and it makes him no better than the UnSub's they catch. And the self-hate is back, greater than ever, because he's hurting his family and he's such a fucking hypocrite that he thinks that he never had the right to call them family to begin with; he never deserved to protect them, never deserved to look out for them in that older-brother kind of way. But that's the thing about family, he thinks; it's not about what you deserve, it's about what's given freely to you. Now that he has finally broken, well-and-truly lost his mind, he will do one last thing to protect them, one final act of the Derek Morgan they knew: he will save them from himself.

And as much as he is trying to convince himself to stop before he goes too far, he knows that he has already made his decision. He'd made it the second he went for the door, in the moment he'd seen the breathing corpse of a son, during the span of time it took for his brain to process that nobody could survive a willing jump off seven stories. He has made his decision and there is no going back, no saving what doesn't want to be saved or stopping what has already been set in motion. He is both the unstoppable force and the equal reaction and what goes up must always come down and this is the way the world ends, with the best minds of a generation destroyed by madness. Because in the beginning, there was nothing, and in the end, there, too, will be nothing, because human beings are unable to create anything but destruction.

He slips out a door with a silent click of an unbroken lock and stumbles down a deserted hallway. Ignores the elevator because he really can't afford a panic attack at the small, enclosed space and it would be just his luck that the damn thing would break with him in it and it'd take forever to get him out, and forever is a really long time, when you can't breathe; ignores the elevator and heads for the stairs at the far end of the hall. And he ignores how he stumbles slightly and has to throw a hand out for balance, or how the corridor is starting to list gently from side to side, the gentle rocking motion of a ship at sea. He reaches a staircase and starts to climb, ignoring the hand he trails on the wall as he rises, ignores the few times he trips and falls, banging his knees on the hard stairs. He ignores the effort it takes to keep going, ignores the fatigue and pain, and focuses simply on placing one foot in front of the other. Because ignorance really is bliss and he'd much rather not think about the pain of the present when peace is simply a few moments away.

A door is in front of him, shadowed and silent, and he pushes against it; it opens with no resistance, no lock or alarm and briefly he spares a thought to the lack of security that the hotel has, if the access door to the rooftop of an 11-story tall building doesn't seem important enough to block. He can't believe that he is the first person to come up here, even if others didn't have the same purpose in mind, but then realizes that it doesn't matter. Here there is peace and solitude and calm, a soothing balm of security that he has missed feeling, because heights have always comforted him, and apparently that feeling hasn't changed over the years. He closes his eyes and he can picture the sky, brightly lit by a burning orb of gases, and for a moment, he is flying. Then eyes slit open, and he is staring up, into the darkness of a painting of a burdened soul, one that has seen of evil and tasted its' soullessness and been left marked and tainted by the essence of it.

This was clarity; a freedom of self that he hadn't had in years, lost as a 13-year-old boy with the last of his innocence, and a pang of longing hits him.

When you've looked into the abyss as long as he has, you start to wonder if there is anything other than that, anything better or good or even safe. You start to forget about the times of laughter and joy, the sleeping moments of peace and the encompassing emotion of being loved. They start to fade, the memories, turning grey and cold and lifeless; colors bleeding away slowly as if they were never there, and suddenly, it's difficult to remember a time where they looked any different. And when you pull out a photo of something that was once happy, it has been irreparably changed in your eyes.

Memories are what define people. Time passes, decaying and dying as a person grows older, but memory does not. The emotions, the sights, and the smells of the memory are all linked to the images that create it. They grow brighter and stronger, darker and weaker, but the feelings behind it do not fade. And it is these feelings that color in the lines of your life.

What are the events of a lifetime without the feelings that go with them?

Pain. The searing red heat of the stove makes the burner red and orange, bright against the black top, and you're mesmerized by the colors. Mama tells you not to touch, it's dangerous, but you reach out anyway, compelled by instinctual curiosity. You burn your hand, but not too bad, and when you look back on this, it isn't the picture of the stove you remember, it is the pain you felt that resulted from touching it.

Fear. The sound of gunshots shattering the gentle lull of a store as a kid barely out of his teens riddles the air with bullets. Casings hit the floor, loud in your ears, and the falling of the person next to you catches your attention. You turn to look and the image of your father surrounded by blood cannot compare to the fear you feel when you see his open eyes.

Sadness. Rain comes down in sheets, blanketing the air in a heavy mist. Red and white and blue cloth laid across a wooden coffin placed on a pedestal while drops of rain bounce off the material to hit the ground even as you watch. People surround you, the dark blue of their uniforms cold against the grey atmosphere and the gold of their badges mock you with the familiar glint. Those closest to the wooden tomb pull firmly on the covering, folding it tautly into that familiar triangle before presenting it to your sobbing mother. As the sharp crack of the 21 gun salute rings through your ears, you watch as your father is lowered into the unforgiving ground, salty tears mixing with the falling rain.

Despair. You are your mothers' pride and your sisters' only hope because you can make something of yourself. You've had your share of bad behavior, your juvie record can attest to that, but someone has given you a second chance. All you have to do is practice your football because it is the key to college, and you think that you are fortunate because there is a man who wants to help you succeed. He runs a youth center, a shelter from the streets, and he cares for you, becoming the father you lost. But you are too young to notice the glint in his eyes that speaks of a deeper desire and when it spreads from desire to action, you realize that you have become the rabbit caught in the fox's trap, struggling to get free. You know you should tell, and you are afraid, because this is your second chance and telling might take this away from you. And you despair, because this man that you trusted has hurt you, over and over, and you can't stop him because you need the opportunities he is helping you get. But someday you will escape him, you vow, and until then, you must endure, even as you lose all the faith you ever had.

Joy. All good things come to those who wait. Even though you've been a cop, it doesn't compare to the feeling of victory when you were accepted into the FBI academy, and when you are recruited to the BAU. This is what you have wanted; your ultimate goal, and now you can do what nobody did for you. The teenage boy in you revels in the opportunity to kick down doors and catch evil, to lock monsters away in the darkness that they deserve. And as you settle into your job and become comfortable with your team, you realize that you are happy because you have fulfilled your vow and now, you are free.

Love. There are many different memories that have love attached to them, but it isn't the memories, but the people that separate them. Your mother, father and sisters, the family you have by blood, and your team, the family you have by choice. There have been losses on both sides (father, Elle, and Gideon) but there have also been gains (Emily and Rossi) and you think that this is where you are truly lucky. Because not only do you have people that you love, you have people that love you, and it helps make the scars on your soul a little easier to bear.

He is standing on the edge now, having moved to the narrow ledge sometime during his reverie, and realization strikes. It is an epiphany, one that cuts through the haze of hurt and hopelessness that had been slowly engulfing him all day, and makes doubt rise in him again as he wonders if this is truly the right thing to do. He'd come up here, to this rooftop, because it offered him freedom and it offered him peace, from memories and feelings and everything that had happened in his life. But now that he is here, every doubt he'd ever had that'd prevented him from doing this before is rising to the surface.

Could he do this? Could he actually step off of this roof and justify it to himself on the way down? He wants to, he knows that much, but wanting is a lot different than actually doing. And he wonders if he has that right; to walk away from everyone and everything he's ever loved, and in the process, tell them that their love and their care was not enough for him to keep going. Could he go through with this and spit in their faces that they were not enough?

He doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want to hurt them in order to save them.

But if he didn't, what else was he to do? He didn't have enough left in him to keep on, to force a fake smile and pretend everything was okay when he'd been dying inside for the better part of his life. Catching the bad guys was no longer enough to keep the nightmares away. Saving the potential victims and serving justice in the names of those they couldn't save was not able to fill that hole inside of him. Protecting his team was becoming too difficult when he had no desire to protect himself because if something happened to him, then they too would be harmed.

If he wasn't able to leave but didn't want to stay, what was left for him?

And that's the key to living, isn't it? Finding something, someone, anything, to make it worthwhile to carry on. Whether it's a lover or a job, vengeance or justice, having a reason to live for is the only way to stay in this world.

And he wondered why he couldn't do that. Couldn't he find something to cling to, something that would make it easy to forget the past, to erase the memories, the blood, the pain that cloaks his soul? Is it a betrayal of himself to take the experiences of a lifetime and wipe them away, to separate what has happened in the past from what could be in the future? Was there really a difference between what has been done to him by others and who he is as a person when everyone else's sins are what made him who he is?

And the answer is no. Who he is is a direct result of others' actions and to try and forget, to try and ignore it, is unforgiveable. But maybe what he needs to do is stop trying to reconcile everyone else's faults and instead simply try to live with himself. All he has to do is find the way to do it. And wouldn't that be a different kind of peace, a kind that could also work for him? Couldn't that be his reason? He'd come up here to find peace, after all, so why couldn't he be happy with that kind?

"Morgan, don't do it."

He isn't surprised by the voice and doesn't turn around at the interruption. Though he'd known it was only a matter of time before the others found him, he is still disappointed that they had. He hears the clang of the door again and curses silently to himself because now two people other than him are standing on this rooftop, and his chances of making a decision without interference has been severely decreased. He knows the first person is Hotch because he'd spoken and decides that the second is more than likely Rossi because he can't see Hotch allowing anyone else from the team up here to see this.

"Morgan, back away from the edge. We can talk about this."

He wonders if that line has ever worked on other jumpers and then decides that maybe this isn't the right time for idle thoughts. Then the sentence sinks in and he feels a pang of anger. If they want to treat him like the typical jumper, and he ignores the voice that says that's what he is, then he'll act like it.

"Don't come any closer, Hotch, or I really will step off. That goes for you too, Rossi."

By the sharp intake of breath behind him, he knows that he was right on the identity of the second person. He smiles, though they can't see it, because they keep forgetting that he is a profiler also. All amusement leaves him when they tempt fate, taking a step forward to test his resolve, and Morgan reacts accordingly.

He turns quickly to face them, gaining eye contact with them both. Keeping it, he slowly steps back and allows one foot to dangle over the edge. By their looks, they hadn't been expecting that, and Morgan feels slightly guilty for doing it. He'd had to though, because he'd needed them to realize that he was serious. He needs some space to think and they were too close for him to do that.

"I'm warning you. Back. Off."

They both nod, Rossi reaching forward to grab Hotch's arm, and step back about a foot. It's not much, but it's enough for Morgan to trust that they won't be doing that again. He gives a slight nod in acknowledgement and brings his foot back to a stable position, still maintaining eye contact. He wants to turn his back again and ignore them, but it'd be harder to keep an eye on them that way and he isn't sure that they won't try any stupid stunts to get him off. And he isn't naïve enough to believe that they won't stop trying.

It is Rossi that breaks the silence, since Hotch appears to be too shaken by Morgan's threat.

"Why are you doing this, Derek? Whatever it is, we can fix it. Is it worth throwing the rest of your life away?"

Typical questions, designed to rattle the jumper into thinking. Morgan isn't buying it.

"I have my reasons, Dave. Isn't that enough?"

"But what are you trying to accomplish? You didn't kill that kid, Morgan. You are not responsible for him, even if you think you are. Is that why you're here?"

"Stop fishing, Rossi. I'm not giving up that easy."

At this, Hotch speaks up, unable to remain silent.

"But isn't that what you are doing, giving up? What is your death going to accomplish?"

"What makes you think I'm trying to accomplish anything? Did the thought cross your minds that maybe I just want to die?"

Again, they blanch, unable and unwilling to hear what he's saying. He sees this, and continues on, a hint of desperation bleeding into his voice.

"Is that what you want to hear? I'm tired of doing this, of trying to believe that anything we do makes a difference. I'm sick of only finding pain and death and guilt every time we get a case, of having to look into the faces of children and see them shattered inside. I'm tired of nightmares every night, of waking up with the memory of hands on me that have no right and no place being there. And I'm done trying to think that there are good people in the world and that everything is going to be fucking fantastic!"

There is a moment of silence broken only by Morgan's heavy breathing. His hands are shaking slightly in anger and fear because this is exactly what he'd hoped to avoid.

"Derek," Hotch begins softly, compassion and empathy reaching out to his agent, "as horrible as things can be, what we see every day is just a glimpse of what's out there. Not everything is deep. Not everything is dark. Some things are still untainted. That's why we do what we do. To keep those things safe and intact."

"And what if we can't? What do we do when we fail, Hotch? When we can't protect the things that matter most?"

"People die. You can't change that; it's the way of the world. You can't stop it from happening anymore than you can stop the sun from rising!"

"I may not be able to stop the sun from coming up, but if I want, I can stop it from coming up for me."

He says it simply, so matter of fact that he can tell that Hotch is caught off guard. It is a statement, a wish, a desire, a truth, a reality that not many are able to face. Humans have some of the strongest survival instincts and acknowledging their own mortality is oftentimes too difficult to do. But Morgan has done more than acknowledge it. He has embraced it, accepted it, even welcomed it, and he is both stronger and weaker for it. Destruction comes for those who seek it and for those who don't, but it comes swifter and easier for those that let it in.

Despair is starting to come off of the two men, mixing with the fear and anxiety that is already in the air, and both know that things are about to come to an end. Unfortunately, despite all their training and all their skill, nothing could have prepared them for this. And inwardly they were cursing themselves, because neither of them had seen this coming even though the signs had been there. They can say all the lines and they can do all the acts but the bottom line was that they were dealing with a person who'd memorized the same playbook. The only thing they really could do now was wait, and see what Morgan was going to do.

Morgan shifts his attention back to the view, looking over his shoulder and ignoring Hotch and Rossi as he breathes in deeply, knowing that it was time to make a decision.

Dawn was coming. He could smell it on the air, feel it in the wind, and see it breaking in the distance. He knows because this is how the cycle of dark into light always ends and how it always begins.

He hates cycles. As much as they are intrinsic to everything, he cannot help but want to escape them. They are confining, restricting; they trap him in an unyielding ring of power and willfulness, but it is not his power, it is not his will and the helplessness invoked makes him want to rail to the skies. He doesn't like being told what to do, nor does he like to be forced into compliance. That is the way of cycles.

The biggest problem with cycles is that there is no room for choice. The sun rises and the sun sets. The sky is blue and then turns black. A child is born and eventually, that child dies. Fire burns fierce and bright, searing the air with heat, before consuming its own embers and blowing away as ash. The world turning is, in and of itself, a cycle, one that exists within the cycle of time. The act of flipping a coin, heads to tails to heads again, probability and chance so long as the cycle continues. Cycle to cycle within cycle upon cycle and it does not end. It never will. And because of this, because of the cyclical nature of life, there are only opposites and sides, dichotomized and split, restriction and limits.

People do not like limits. Because the one thing human beings treasure above all else is free will, and in the act of free will lies the property of choice. Where there is a will, there is a way.

There are no choices in cycles, but there are loopholes.

And as dawn breaks and the slightly warming rays just breach the clouds, Morgan steps off the ledge, backs away from the edge of the rooftop and walks slowly towards the waiting men. They relax tense muscles, inwardly exhaling a breath they refused to admit they'd held, and feel only relief at his choice. And they think that this is a good sign, because with life there is hope and the chance to outweigh the desire for death.

But they are wrong. And eventually, they will learn how wrong. They will see it in motion, in action and reaction, in cause and effect, because Morgan has found his loophole, the single thing that will keep him free, and he has perpetuated the cycle, the endless ring of life and death, in making it. His will has carved his way, breaking the limits forced upon him, and sooner or later, he will succeed. All he must do now is simply bide his time.

He takes a final look back, searing the image into his memory. A solid slab of concrete and brick grey and red against the backdrop of a sunrise, the slowly lightening sky laced with ribbons of crimson and orange. It is a beautiful image, the perfect interplay of light and dark, of death and innocence. A soft smile graces his lips because now he doesn't see blood on asphalt or the twisted and broken body of a child lost before he could even live. Now he sees what he has always seen. Peace. Freedom. Safety.

Heights had never been a problem for him.

A hand and slight tug on his arm regains his attention, and he turns back to what is in front of him, placing his feet one in front of the other, as Hotch leads the way and Rossi follows behind Morgan, keeping a close eye on him. Morgan almost wants to break away from them in sheer spite, but he doesn't. Instead, he allows himself to be led away from the ledge, through the entrance to the rooftop, down the stairs he'd climbed just a couple hours ago, down a hallway and into their room. The rest of their team is there, clearly waiting on the three men, all with confused and anxious expressions. Rossi guides him to the nearest bed, sitting on his left, and though Morgan does not remember it, the others in the room shudder at the familiarity of the act. JJ moves to sit on his other side while Hotch, Reid and Prentiss look at him from the center of the room in front of him, unconsciously forming a protective ring around him. Hotch begins to explain to the others in low tones, and Morgan tunes him out. He doesn't need to hear what happened. He was there. His eyes roam around and light upon a familiar object resting on the nearby nightstand.

He has chosen to live even if he isn't sure how. He doesn't know if this is the right choice, doesn't care if it isn't, and doesn't stop to dwell on what might have been. Instead, he smiles to himself, because maybe he has found something to cling to. His own silent bargain made with himself against the canvas of a coming dawn, on the backdrop of a rising sun, and the terms of the deal tell him to wait. Patience is, after all, a virtue.

One more day. Another week. A couple of months. Maybe even a year.

Perhaps if he lets enough time go by, he might even find himself with a reason to live in this world.

This, the distant dawn.

And if he changes his mind about living, he always has another option.

Heights had never been a problem for him.

Guns had never been a problem either.

// End.